Here Kallias stopped a moment in his narrative.  During his animated description of these events, so precious to every Greek heart, he had forgotten his listeners, and, gazing into vacancy, had seen only the figures of the wrestlers as they rose before his remembrance.  Now, on looking round, he perceived, to his astonishment, that the grey-haired man with the wooden leg, whom he had already noticed, though without recognizing him, had hidden his face in his hands and was weeping.  Rhodopis was standing at his right hand.  Phanes at his left, and the other guests were gazing at the Spartan, as if he had been the hero of Kallias’s tale.  In a moment the quick Athenian perceived that the aged man must stand in some very near relation to one or other of the victors at Olympia; but when he heard that he was Aristomachus-the father of that glorious pair of brothers, whose wondrous forms were constantly hovering before his eyes like visions sent down from the abodes of the gods, then he too gazed on the sobbing old man with mingled envy and admiration, and made no effort to restrain the tears which rushed into his own eyes, usually so clear and keen.  In those days men wept, as well as women, hoping to gain relief from the balm of their own tears.  In wrath, in ecstasy of delight, in every deep inward anguish, we find the mighty heroes weeping, while, on the other hand, the Spartan boys would submit to be scourged at the altar of Artemis Orthia, and would bleed and even die under the lash without uttering a moan, in order to obtain the praise of the men.

For a time every one remained silent, out of respect to the old man’s emotion.  But at last the stillness was broken by Joshua the Jew, who began thus, in broken Greek: 

“Weep thy fill, O man of Sparta!  I also have known what it is to lose a son.  Eleven years have passed since I buried him in the land of strangers, by the waters of Babylon, where my people pined in captivity.  Had yet one year been added unto the life of the beautiful child, he had died in his own land, and had been buried in the sepulchres of his fathers.  But Cyrus the Persian (Jehovah bless his posterity!) released us from bondage one year too late, and therefore do I weep doubly for this my son, in that he is buried among the enemies of my people Israel.  Can there be an evil greater than to behold our children, who are unto us as most precious treasure, go down into the grave before us?  And, may the Lord be gracious unto me, to lose so noble a son, in the dawn of his early manhood, just at the moment he had won such brilliant renown, must indeed be a bitter grief, a grief beyond all others!”

Then the Spartan took away his hands from before his face; he was looking stern, but smiled through his tears, and answered: 

“Phoenician, you err!  I weep not for anguish, but for joy, and would have gladly lost my other son, if he could have died like my Lysander.”