Soothed by the sound, and by the moonlight, and by the summer breeze, they were just in mood to welcome the first interruption which broke the quiet of the night.  It was the approach of one of their company, who had been detached to Accho a day or two before; and who came hurrying in to announce the speedy arrival of companions, for whom he bespoke a welcome.  Just as they were to leave Accho, he said, that day, on their return to camp, an Ionian trading-vessel had entered port.  He and his fellow-soldiers had waited to help her moor, and had been chatting with her seamen.  They had told them of the chance of battle to which they were returning; and two or three of the younger Ionians, enchanted at the relief from the sea’s imprisonment, had begged them to let them volunteer in company with them.  These men had come up into the country with the soldiers, therefore; and he who had broken the silence of the listeners to the distant serenade had hurried on to tell his comrades that such visitors were on their way.

They soon appeared on foot, but hardly burdened by the light packs they bore.

A soldier’s welcome soon made the Ionian sailors as much at home with the men of the bivouac, as they had been through the day with the detachment from the sea-board.  A few minutes were enough to draw out sheep-skins for them to lie upon, a skin of wine for their thirst, a bunch of raisins and some oat-cakes for their hunger; a few minutes more had told the news which each party asked from the other; and then these sons of the sea and these war-bronzed Philistines were as much at ease with each other as if they had served under the same sky for years.

“We were listening to music,” said the old chief, “when you came up.  Some of our young men have gone up, indeed, to the picket yonder, to hear the harper sing, whose voice you catch sometimes, when we are not speaking.”

“You find the Muses in the midst of arms, then,” said one of the young Ionians.

“Muses?” said the old Philistine, laughing.  “That sounds like you Greeks.  Ah! sir, in our rocks here we have few enough Muses, but those who carry these lances, or teach us how to trade with the islands for tin.”

“That’s not quite fair,” cried another.  “The youngsters who are gone sing well; and one of them has a harp I should be glad you should see.  He made it himself from a gnarled olive-root.”  And he turned to look for it.

“You’ll not find it in the tent:  the boy took it with him.  They hoped the Ziklag minstrel might ask them to sing, I suppose.”

“A harp of olive-wood,” said the Ionian, “seems Muse-born and Pallas-blessed.”

And, as he spoke, one of the new-comers of the Philistines leaned over, and whispered to the chief:  “He is a bard himself, and we made him promise to sing to us.  I brought his harp with me that he might cheer up our bivouac.  Pray, do you ask him.”

The old chief needed no persuasion; and the eyes of the whole force brightened as they found they had a minstrel “of their own” now, when the old man pressed the young Ionian courteously to let them hear him:  “I told you, sir, that we had no Muses of our own; but we welcome all the more those who come to us from over seas.”