And now in this season of perplexity, he too, with the rest, was in sore distress, and could not sleep; but anon, getting a snatch of sleep, he had a dream.  It seemed to him in a vision that there was a storm of thunder and lightning, and a bolt fell on his father’s house, and thereupon the house was all in a blaze.  He sprung up in terror, and pondering the matter, decided that in part the dream was good:  in that he had seen a great light from Zeus, whilst in the midst of toil and danger.  But partly too he feared it, for evidently it had come from Zeus the king.  And the fire kindled all around—­what could that mean but that he was hemmed in by various perplexities, and so could not escape from the country of the king?  The full meaning, however, is to be discovered from what happened after the dream.

This is what took place.  As soon as he was fully awake, the first clear thought which came into his head was, Why am I lying here?  The night advances; with the day, it is like enough, the enemy will be upon us.  If we are to fall into the hands of the king, what is left us but to face the most horrible of sights, and to suffer the most 13 fearful pains, and then to die, insulted, an ignominious death?  To defend ourselves—­to ward off that fate—­not a hand stirs:  no one is preparing, none cares; but here we lie, as though it were time to rest and take our ease.  I too! what am I waiting for? a general to undertake the work? and from what city? am I waiting till I am older mysef and of riper age? older I shall never be, if to-day I betray myself to my enemies.

Thereupon he got up, and called together first Proxenus’s officers; and when they were met, he said:  “Sleep, sirs, I cannot, nor can you, I fancy, nor lie here longer, when I see in what straits we are.  Our enemy, we may be sure, did not open war upon us till he felt he had everything amply ready; yet none of us shows a corresponding anxiety to enter the lists of battle in the bravest style.

“And yet, if we yield ourselves and fall into the king’s power, need we ask what our fate will be?  This man, who, when his own brother, the son of the same parents, was dead, was not content with that, but severed head and hand from the body, and nailed them to a cross.  We, then, who have not even the tie of blood in our favour, but who marched against him, meaning to make a slave of him instead of a king—­and to slay him if we could:  what is likely to be our fate at his hands?  Will he not go all lengths so that, by inflicting on us the extreme of ignominy and torture, he may rouse in the rest of mankind a terror of ever marching against him any more?  There is no question but that our business is to avoid by all means getting into his clutches.