To those of rank and character he spoke courteously, urging them to use their influence among their followers, and check the general flight; while with the baser sort he used rougher means of persuasion, striking them with the sceptre and rebuking them fiercely. Others among the chiefs followed his example, and at length the tumult was stayed, and the fickle mob swept back into the camp with a roar like the billows breaking on a long line of rocky shore. [Illustration: Paris. Vatican, Rome. Photo Anderson] At length that vast audience was seated, and waiting attentively to hear the counsels of the King. But one unruly knave remained standing, and poured out a torrent of abuse against Agamemnon and the other chiefs. This fellow's name was Thersites, and of all the Greeks who came up against Troy he was the foulest, both in aspect and in speech. His huge misshapen head, sparsely covered with thin, downy hair, sat awry on his stooping shoulders. He was bandy-legged, and lame of one foot. And he was the sworn enemy of the valiant, the noble, and the wise. This low-born railer now began to shriek out insults in a hideous voice against Agamemnon, his sovereign lord. "Son of Atreus," he bawled, "what lackest thou yet? Thy tents are full of gold, and crowded with slaves, which we have won for thee with our swords and our spears. Lustest thou yet after more gold, the ransom of Trojan captives? Or dost thou want more Trojan dames to be thy handmaids? Up, sirs, let us be gone, lest we be called women, and not men, if we remain here to heap up riches for this greedy tyrant. Have we not seen him put public dishonour on our bravest warrior, taking from him his lawful prize? Surely Achilles lacks gall to make oppression bitter, seeing that he has suffered this bitter wrong to go unavenged. Were he of like mind with me, the ruffian king would not have survived to commit further outrages." A stern voice here broke in upon the seditious harangue, and Thersites perceived with alarm that Odysseus was standing by him, staff in hand. "Peace, saucy knave!" said the Prince of Ithaca, in threatening tones. "How darest thou, the very scum and refuse of the army, to hold such language against our exalted leader? If I find thee uttering thy mad folly again, may my head be smitten from my shoulders, and may I never more be called the father of Telemachus, if I do not strip thee naked and drive thee forth from among the people with blows like this." And suiting the action to the word he laid the heavy staff with no gentle hand across the deformed shoulders of Thersites. The wretch shrank beneath the blow with a cry of pain, and the golden staff left its print in a crimson weal on his back. So he sat huddled together, with distorted face, wiping away his tears, and spoke not another word.