But Hermione shook her shining brown head and repeated, many times:—

"No dream! No dream! I have seen Glaucon face to face. In that instant he spoke and looked on me I knew him. He lives. He saved me. Ah! why does he stay away?"

Lysistra, whose husband had not deemed it prudent to inform her of Themistocles's revelations, was infinitely distressed. She sent for the best physicians of the city, and despatched a slave to the temple of Asclepius at Epidaurus—not distant—to sacrifice two cocks for her daughter's recovery. The doctors looked wise and recommended heavy doses of spiced wine, and if those did not suffice, said that the patient might spend a night in the temple of the Healer, who would no doubt explain the true remedy in a dream. A "wise woman" who had great following among the slaves advised that a young puppy be tied upon Hermione's temples to absorb the disaffection of her brain. Lysistra was barely persuaded not to follow her admonitions. After a few days the patient grew better, recovered strength, took an interest in her child. Yet ever and anon she would repeat over Phoenix's cradle:—

"Your father lives! I have seen him! I have seen him!"

What, however, puzzled Lysistra most, was the fact that Cleopis did not contradict her young mistress in the least, but maintained a mysterious silence about the whole adventure.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LOYALTY OF LAMPAXO

The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phoenician had been several days in Troezene, occupied in a manner he and his superior discreetly kept to themselves. The orator had a bandage above one eye, where a heavy sandal had kicked him. He was exceedingly pale, and sat in the arm-chair propped with pillows. That he had awaited Hiram eagerly, betrayed itself by the promptness with which he cut short the inevitable salaam.

"Well, my dear rascal, have you found him?"

"May it please your Excellency to hearken to even the least of your slaves?"

"Do you hear, fox?—have you found him?"

"My Lord shall judge for himself."

"Cerberus eat you, fellow,—though you'd be a poisonous mouthful,—tell your story in as few words as possible. I know that he is lurking about Troezene."

"Compassion, your Lordship, compassion,"—Hiram seemed washing his hands in oil, they waved so soothingly—"if your Benignity will grant it, I have a very worthy woman here who, I think, can tell a story that will be interesting."

"In with her, then."

The person Hiram escorted into the room proved to be no more nor less than Lampaxo. Two years had not removed the wrinkles from her cheek, the sharpness from her nose, the rasping from her tongue. At sight of her Democrates half rose from his seat and held out his hand affably, the demagogue's instinct uppermost.

"Ah! my good dame, whom do I recognize? Are you not the wife of our excellent fishmonger, Phormio? A truly sterling man, and how, pray, is your good husband?"

"Poorly, poorly, kyrie." Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her dirty chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than Themistocles or Aristeides was overpowering.

"Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably settled here until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a prosperous stall in the market-place."

"Of course, kyrie; and the trade, considering the times, is not so bad—Athena be praised—and he's not sick in body. It's worse, far worse. I was even on the point of going to your Lordship to state my misgivings, when your good friend, the Phoenician, fell into my company, and I found he was searching for the very thing I wanted to reveal."

"Ah!" Democrates leaned forward and battled against his impatience,—"and what is the matter wherein I can be of service to so deserving a citizen as your husband?"

"I fear me,"—Lampaxo put her apron dutifully to her face and began to sniff,—"your Excellency won't call him 'deserving' any more. Hellas knows your Excellency is patriotism itself. The fact is Phormio has 'Medized.' "

"Medized!" The orator started as became an actor. "Gods and goddesses! what trust is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?"

"Hear my story, mu! mu!" groaned Lampaxo. "It's a terrible thing to accuse one's own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private."

"Woman,"—Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,—"Medizing is treason. On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell everything, then rely on my wisdom."

"Certainly, kyrie, certainly," gasped Lampaxo, and so she began a recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared not bid her hasten.

The good woman commenced by reminding the strategus how he had visited her and her brother Polus to question them as to the doings of the Babylonish carpet merchant, and how it had seemed plain to them that Glaucon was nothing less than a traitor. Next she proceeded to relate how her husband had enabled the criminal to fly by sea, and her own part therein—for she loudly accused herself of treason in possessing a guilty knowledge of the outlaw's manner of escape. As for Bias, he had just now gone on a message to Megara, but Democrates would surely castigate his own slave. "Still," wound up Lampaxo, "the traitor seemed drowned, and his treason locked up in Phorcys's strong box, and so I said nothing about him. More's the pity."

"The more reason for concealing nothing now."

"Zeus strike me if I keep back anything. It's now about ten days since he returned."

" 'He?' Whom do you mean?"

"It's not overeasy to tell, kyrie. He calls himself Critias, and wears a long black beard and tangled hair. Phormio brought him home one evening—said he was the proreus of a Melian trireme caulking at Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiraeus and an old friend. I told Phormio we had enough these days to fill our own bellies, but my husband would be hospitable. I had to bring out my best honey cakes. Your Lordship knows I take just pride in my honey cakes."

"Beyond doubt,"—Democrates's hand twitched with impatience,—"but tell of the stranger."

"At once, kyrie; well, we all sat down to sup. Phormio kept pressing wine on the fellow as if we had not only one little jar of yellow Rhodian in the cellar. All the time the sailor barely spoke a few words of island Doric, but my heart misgave. He seemed so refined, so handsome. And near the roots of his hair it was not so dark—as if dyed and needing renewal. Trust a woman's eyes for that. When supper was over Phormio orders me, 'Up the ladder and to bed. I'll come shortly, but leave a blanket and pillow for our friend who sleeps on the hearth.' Your Excellency knows we hired a little house on the 'Carpenter's Street,' very reasonably you will grant—only half a minae for the winter. I gave the stranger a fine pillow and a blanket embroidered by Stephanium, she was my great-aunt, and left it to me by will, and the beautiful red wool was from Byzantium—"

"But you spoke of Critias?" Democrates could scarce keep upon his seat.

"Yes, kyrie. Well, I warned Phormio not to give him any more wine. Then I went up the ladder. O Mother Demeter, how sharply I listened, but the rascals spoke too low together for me to catch anything, save that Critias had dropped his Doric and spoke good Attic now. At last Phormio came up to me, and I pretended to snore. In the morning, lo! the scoundrelly stranger had slipped away. In the evening he returns late. Phormio harbours him again. So for several nights, coming late, going early. Then to-night he comes a bit before his wont. He and Phormio drank more than common. After Phormio sent me away, they talked a long time and in louder voice."

"You overheard?" Democrates gripped his arm-chair.

"Yes, kyrie, blessed be Athena! The stranger spoke pure Attic such as your Excellency might use. Many times I heard Hermione named, and yourself once—"

"And how?"

"The stranger said: 'So she will not wed Democrates. She loathes him. Aphrodite shed joy on her forever.' Then Phormio answered him, 'Therefore, dear Glaucon, you should trust the gods a little longer.' "

" 'Glaucon,' said he?" Democrates leaped from the chair.

" 'Glaucon,' on my oath by the Styx. Then I covered my head and wept. I knew my husband harboured the arch-traitor. Heaven can tell how he escaped the sea. As soon as Phormio was sleeping snug beside me, I went down the ladder, intending to call the watch. In the street I met a man, this good Phoenician here,—he explained he was suspecting this 'Critias' himself, and lurked about in hopes of tracing him in the morning. I told my story. He said it was best to come straight to you. And now I have accused my own husband, Excellency. Ai! was wife ever harder beset? Phormio is a kindly and commonly obedient man, even if he doesn't know the value of an obol. You will be merciful—"

"Peace," commanded Democrates, with portentous gravity, "justice first, mercy later. Do you solemnly swear you heard Phormio call this stranger 'Glaucon'?"

"Yes, kyrie. Woe! woe!"

"And you say he is now asleep in your house?"

"Yes, the wine has made them both very heavy."

"You have done well." Democrates extended his hand again. "You are a worthy daughter of Athens. In years to come they will name you with King Codrus who sacrificed his life for the freedom of Attica, for have you not sacrificed what should be dearer than life,—the fair name of your husband? But courage. Your patriotism may extenuate his crime. Only the traitor must be taken."

"Yes, he was breathing hard when I went out. Ah! seize him quickly."

"Retire," commanded Democrates, with a flourish; "leave me to concert with this excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross villany."

The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied.

"Courage, master,"—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his throat,—"the woman's tale is true metal. Critias shall sleep snug and sweetly to-night, if perchance too soundly."

"What will you do?" shrieked the wretched man.

"The thing is marvellously simple, master. The night is not yet old. Hasdrubal and his crew of Carthaginians are here and by the grace of Baal can serve you. This cackling hen will guide us to the house. Heaven has put your enemy off his guard. He and Phormio will never wake to feel their throats cut. Then a good stone on each foot takes the corpses down in the harbour."

But Democrates dashed his hand in negation.

"No, by the infernal gods, not so! No murder. I cannot bear the curse of the Furies. Seize him, carry him to the ends of the earth, to hardest slavery. Let him never cross my path again. But no bloodshed—"

Hiram almost lost his never failing smile, so much he marvelled.

"But, your Lordship, the man is a giant, mighty as Melkarth.(12) Seizing will be hard. Sheol is the safest prison."

"No." Democrates was still shaking. "His ghost came to me a thousand times, though yet he lived. It would hound me mad if I murdered him."

"You would not murder him. Your slave is not afflicted by dreams." Hiram's smile was extremely insinuating.

"Don't quibble with words. It would be I who slew him, though I never struck the blow. You can seize him. Is he not asleep? Call Hasdrubal—bind Glaucon, gag him, drag him to the ship. But he must not die."

"Very good, Excellency." Hiram seldom quarrelled to no purpose with his betters. "Let your Lordship deign to leave this small matter to his slave. By Baal's favour Hasdrubal and six of his crew sleep on shore to-night. Let us pray they be not deep in wine. Wait for me one hour, perhaps two, and your heart and liver shall be comforted."

"Go, go! I will wait and pray to Hermes Dolios."

Hiram even now did not forget his punctilious salaam before departing. Never had he seemed more the beautiful serpent with the shining scales than the instant he bent gracefully at Democrates's feet, the red light falling on his gleaming ear and nose rings, his smooth brown skin and beady eyes. The door turned on its pivots—closed. Democrates heard the retiring footsteps. No doubt the Phoenician was taking Lampaxo with him. The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it, laughing hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his hands! How the Morae in sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon's business and his, had provided the means of ridding him of the haunting terror! How everything conspired to aid him! He need not even kill Glaucon. He would have no blood guiltiness, he need not dread Alecto and her sister Furies. He could trust Hiram and Hasdrubal to see to it that Glaucon never returned to plague him. And Hermione? Democrates laughed again. He was almost frightened at his own glee.

"A month, my nymph, a month, and you and your dear father, yes, Themistocles himself, will be in no state to answer me 'nay,'—though Glaucon come to claim you."

Thus he lay a long time, while the drip, drip from the water-clock in the corner told how the night was passing. The lamp flickered and burned lower. He never knew the hours to creep so slowly.

* * * * * * *

At last, a knock; Scodrus, the yawning valet, ushering in a black and bearded sailor, who crouched eastern fashion at the feet of the strategus.

"You have seized him?"

"Blessed be Moloch, Baal, and Melkarth! They have poured sleep upon my Lord's enemy." The sailor's Greek was harsh and execrable. "Your servants did even as commanded. The woman let us in. The young man my Lord hates was bound and gagged almost ere he could waken, likewise the fishmonger was seized."

"Bravely done. I never forget good service. And the woman?"

"She is retained likewise. I have hastened hither to learn the further will of my Lord."

Democrates arose hastily.

"My himation, staff, and shoes, boy!" he ordered. "I will go forth myself. The prisoners are still at the fishmonger's house?"

"Even so, Excellency."

"I go back with you. I must see this stranger with my own eyes. There must be no mistake."

Scodrus stared widely when he saw his master go out into the dark, for his only escort a black Carthaginian sailor with a dirk a cubit long. Democrates did not even ask for a lantern. None of the servants could fathom their master's doings of late. He gave strappings when they asked questions, and Bias was away.

The streets of Troezene were utterly deserted when Democrates threaded them. There was no moon, neither he nor his companion were overcertain of the way. Once they missed the right turn, wandered down a blind alley, and plunged into a pile of offal awaiting the scavenger dogs. But finally the seaman stopped at a low door in a narrow street, and a triple rap made it open. The scene was squalid. A rush-candle was burning on a table. Around it squatted seven men who rose and bowed as the strategus entered. In the dim flicker he could just recognize the burly shipmaster Hasdrubal and gigantic Hib, the Libyan "governor," whose ebon face betrayed itself even there.

"We have expected you, kyrie," said Hiram, who was one of the group.

"Thanks be to Hermes and to you all. I have told my guide already I will be grateful. Where is he?"

"In the kitchen behind, your Lordship. We were singularly favoured. Hib had the cord around his arms before he wakened. He could scarcely struggle despite his power. The fishmonger awoke before Hasdrubal could nip him. For a moment we feared his outcries would rouse the street. But again the gods blessed us. No one stirred, and we soon throttled him."

"Take the light," ordered Democrates. "Come."

Accompanied by Hiram, the orator entered the kitchen, a small square room. The white-washed ceiling was blacked around the smoke-hole, a few pots and pans lay in the corners, a few dying embers gleamed on the hearth. But Democrates had eyes only for two objects,—human figures tightly bound lying rigid as faggots in the further corner.

"Which is he?" asked Democrates again, stepping softly as though going to danger.

"The further one is Phormio, the nearer is my Lord's enemy. Your Excellency need not fear to draw close. He is quite secure."

"Give me the candle."

Democrates held the light high and trod gently over to the prostrate men. Hiram spoke rightly that his victim was secure. They had lashed him hand and foot, using small chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been thrust into his mouth and tied with twine under the ears. Democrates stood an instant looking down, then very deliberately knelt beside the prisoner and moved the candle closer. He could see now the face hidden half by the tangled black hair and beard and the gag—but who could doubt it?—the deep blue eye, the chiselled profile, the small, fine lips, yes, and the godlike form visible in its comeliness despite the bands. He was gazing upon the man who two years ago had called him "bosom-friend."

The prisoner looked straight upward. The only thing he could move was his eyes, and these followed Democrates's least motion. The orator pressed the candle closer yet. He even put out his hand, and touched the face to brush away the hair. A long look—and he was satisfied. No mistake was possible. Democrates arose and stood over the prisoner, then spoke aloud.

"Glaucon, I have played at dice with Fortune. I have conquered. I did not ruin you willingly. There was no other way. A man must first be a friend to himself, and then friendly to others. I have cast in my lot with the Persians. It was I who wrote that letter which blasted you at Colonus. Very soon there will be a great battle fought in Boeotia. Lycon and I will make it certain that Mardonius conquers. I am to be tyrant of Athens. Hermione shall be my wife." The workings of the prisoner's face made Democrates wince; from Glaucon's throat came rattlings, his eyes were terrible. But the other drove recklessly forward. "As for you, you pass this night out of my life. How you escaped the sea I know not and care less. Hasdrubal will take you to Carthage, and sell you into the interior of Libya. I wish you no misery, only you go where you shall never see Hellas again. I am merciful. Your life is in my hands. But I restore it. I am without blood guiltiness. What I have done you would have done, had you loved as I—had you been under necessity as I. Eros is a great god, but Anangke, Dame Necessity, is yet mightier. So to-night we part—farewell."

A strong spasm passed through the prisoner's frame. For a moment Democrates thought the bonds would snap. Too strong. The orator swung on his heel and returned to the outer room.

"The night wanes, kyrie," remarked Hasdrubal; "if these good people are to be taken to the ship, it must be soon."

"As you will. I do nothing more concerning them."

"Fetch down the woman," ordered Hasdrubal; in the mongrel Greek current amongst Mediterranean sea-folk. Two of his seamen ascended the ladder and returned with Lampaxo, who smirked and simpered at sight of Democrates and bobbed him a courtesy.

"The traitor is seized, your Excellency. I hope your Excellency will see that he drinks hemlock. You will be merciful to my poor husband, even if he must be arrested for the night. Gods and goddesses! what are these men doing to me?"

A stalwart Carthaginian was in the act of knotting a cord around the good woman's arms preparatory to pinioning them.

"Kyrie! kyrie!" she screamed, "they are binding me, too! Me—the most loyal woman in Attica."

Democrates scowled and turned his back on her.

"Your Lordship surely intended this woman to be taken also," suggested Hiram, sweetly. "It cannot be he will leave such a dangerous witness at large."

"Of course not. Off with her!"

"Kyrie! kyrie!" was her shriek, but quickly ended, for Hasdrubal knitted his fingers around her throat.

"A gag," he ordered, and with a few more struggles Lampaxo stood helpless and silent.

A little later the band was threading its stealthy way down the black streets. Four of the Carthaginians carried Glaucon, slung hands and feet over a pole. They dared not trust him on his feet. Phormio and Lampaxo walked, closely pinioned and pricked on by the captain's dagger. They were soon at the deserted strand, and their ship's pinnace lay upon the beach. Democrates accompanied them as far as the dark marge, and watched while the boat glided out into the gloom of the haven. The orator paced homeward alone. Everything had favoured him. He had even cleared himself of the curse of the Furies and the pursuit of Nemesis. He had, he congratulated himself, shown marvellous qualities of mercy. Glaucon lived? Yes—but the parching sand-plains of Libya would be as fast a prison as the grave, and the life of a slave in Africa was a short one. Glaucon had passed from his horizon forever.



CHAPTER XXXV

MOLOCH BETRAYS THE PHOENICIAN

Even whilst the boat pulled out to the trader, Hiram suggested that since his superior's "unfortunate scruples" forbade them to shed blood, at least they could disable the most dangerous captive by putting out his eyes. But Hasdrubal, thrifty Semite, would not hearken.

"Is not the fellow worth five hundred shekels in the Carthage market?—but who will give two for a blind dog?"

And once at the ship the prisoners were stowed in the hold so securely that even Hiram ceased to concern himself. In the morning some of the neighbours indeed wondered at Phormio's closed door and the silence of the jangling voice of Lampaxo; but the fishmonger was after all an exile, and might have returned suddenly to Attica, now the Persians had retreated again to Boeotia, and before these surmises could change to misdoubting, the Bozra was bearing forth into the AEgean.

The business of Hasdrubal with the Bozra at Troezene appeared simple. The war had disturbed the Greek harvests. He had come accordingly with a cargo of African corn, and was taking a light return lading of olive oil and salt fish. But those who walked along the harbour front remarked that the Bozra was hardly a common merchantman. She was a "sea-mouse," long, shallow, and very fast under sail; she also carried again an unwontedly heavy crew. When Hasdrubal's cargo seemed completed, he lingered a couple of days, alleging he was repairing a cable; then the third morning after his nocturnal adventure a cipher letter to Democrates sent the Carthaginian to sea. The letter went thus:—

"Lycon, in the camp of the Greeks in Boeotia, to Democrates in Troezene, greeting:—The armies have now faced many days. The soothsayers declare that the aggressor is sure to be defeated, still there has been some skirmishing in which your Athenians slew Masistes, Mardonius's chief of cavalry. This, however, is no great loss to us. Your presence with Aristeides is now urgently needed. Send Hasdrubal and Hiram at once to Asia with the papers we arranged in Corinth. Come yourself with speed to the army. Ten days and this merry dice-throwing is ended. Chaire!"

Democrates immediately after this gave Hiram a small packet of papyrus sheets rolled very tight, with the ominous injunction to "conceal carefully, weight it with lead, and fling it overboard if there is danger of capture." At which Hiram bowed more elegantly than usual and answered, "Fear not; it shall be guarded as the priests guard the ark of Moloch, and when next your slave comes, it is to salute my Lord as the sovran of Athens."

Hiram smiled fulsomely and departed. An hour later the Bozra ran out on the light wind around the point of Calauria and into the sparkling sea to eastward. Democrates stood gazing after her until she was a dark speck on the horizon.

The speck at last vanished. The strategus walked homeward. Glaucon was gone. The fateful packet binding Democrates irrevocably to the Persian cause was gone. He could not turn back. At the gray of morning with a few servants he quitted Troezene, and hastened to join Aristeides and Pausanias in Boeotia.

* * * * * * *

In the hold of the Bozra, where Hasdrubal had stowed his unwilling passengers, there crept just enough sunlight to make darkness visible. The gags had been removed from the prisoners, suffering them to eat, whereupon Lampaxo had raised a truly prodigious outcry which must needs be silenced by a vigorous anointing with Hasdrubal's whip of bullock's hide. Her husband and Glaucon disdained to join a clamour which could never escape the dreary cavern of the hold, and which only drew the hoots of their unmagnanimous guardians. The Carthaginians had not misinterpreted Glaucon's silence, however. They knew well they had a Titan in custody, and did not even unlash his hands. His feet and Phormio's were tied between two beams in lieu of stocks. The giant Hib took it upon himself to feed them bean porridge with a wooden spoon, making the dainty sweeter with tales of the parching heats of Africa and the life of a slave under Libyan task-masters.

So one day, another, and another, while the Bozra rocked at anchor, and the prisoners knew that liberty lay two short cable lengths away, yet might have been in Atlantis for all it profited them. Phormio never reviled his wife as the author of their calamity, and Lampaxo, with nigh childish earnestness, would protest that surely Democrates knew not what the sailors did when they bound her.

"So noble a patriot! An evil god bewitched him into letting these harpies take us. Woe! woe! What misfortune!"

To which plaint the others only smiled horribly and ground their teeth.

Phormio as well as Glaucon had heard the avowal of Democrates on the night of the seizure. There was no longer any doubt of the answer to the great riddle. But disheartening, benumbing beyond all personal anguish was the dread for Hellas. The sacrifice at Thermopylae vain. The glory of Salamis vain. Hellas and Athens enslaved. The will of Xerxes and Mardonius accomplished not because of their valour, but because of their enemies' infamy.

"O gods, if indeed there be gods!" Glaucon was greatly doubting that at last; "if ye have any power, if justice, truth, and honour weigh against iniquity, put that power forth, or never claim the prayers and sacrifice of men again."

Glaucon was past dreading for himself. He prayed that Hermione might be spared a long life of tears, and that Artemis might slay her quickly by her silent arrows. To follow his thoughts in all their dark mazes were profitless. Suffice it that the night which had brooded over his soul from the hour he fled from Colonus was never so dark as now. He was too despairing even to curse.

The last hope fled when they heard the rattling of the cables weighing anchor. Soon the soft slap of the water around the bow and the regular heaving motion told that the Bozra was under way. The sea-mouse creaked and groaned through all her timbers and her lading. The foul bilge-water made the hold stifling as a charnel-house. Lampaxo, Hib being absent, began to howl and moan.

"O Queen Hera! O Queen Hera, I die for a breath of air—I, the most patriotic woman in Athens!"

"Silence, goodwife," muttered Phormio, twisting desperately on the filthy straw under him. "Have I not enough to fret about without the addition of your pipings?" And he muttered underbreath the old saw of Hesiod:—

"He who doth a woman trust, Doth trust a den of thieves."

"Silence below there, you squealing sow," ordered Hib, from the hatchway. "Must I tan your hide again?"

Lampaxo subsided. Phormio tugged vainly at his feet in the stocks. Glaucon said nothing. A terrible hope had come to him. If he could not speedily die, at least he would soon go mad, and that would rescue him from his most terrible enemy—himself.

* * * * * * *

The Bozra, it has been said, headed not south but eastward. Hasdrubal's commission was to fetch Samos, where the still formidable fleet of the Barbarian lay, and to put the precious packet from Democrates in the hands of Tigranes, Xerxes's commander-in-chief on the coast of Asia Minor. But although speed had been enjoined, the voyage did not go prosperously. Off Belbina the wind deserted them altogether, and Hasdrubal had been compelled to force his craft along by sweeps,—ponderous oars, worked by three men,—but his progress at best was slow. Off Cythnos the breeze had again arisen, but it was the Eurus from the southeast, worse than useless; the Bozra had been obliged to ride at anchor off the island for two days. Then another calm; and at last, "because," said Hasdrubal piously, "he had vowed two black lambs to the Wind God," the breeze came clear and cool from the north, which, if not wholly favourable, enabled the merchantman to plough onward. It was the fifth day, finally, after quitting Troezene, that the headlands of Naxos came in sight at dawn, and the master began to take comfort. The fleet of the Greeks—a fisherboat had told him—was swinging inactive at Delos well to the north and westward, and he could fairly consider himself in waters dominated by the king.

"A fortunate voyage," the master was boasting to Hiram, as he sat at breakfast in the stern-cabin above a platter of boiled dolphin; "two talents from the Persians for acting as their messenger; a thousand drachmae profit on the corn; a hundred from Master Democrates in return for our little service, not to mention the profit on the return cargo, and last but not least the three slaves."

"Yes, the three slaves. I had almost forgotten about them."

"You see, my dear Hiram," quoth the master, betwixt two unwontedly huge mouthfuls, "you see what folly it was of you to suggest putting out that handsome fellow's eyes. I am strongly thinking of selling him not to Carthage, but to Babylon. I know a trader at Ephesus who makes a specialty of handsome youths. The satrap Artabozares has commissioned him to find as many good-looking out-runners as possible. Also for his harem—if this Glaucon were only a eunuch—"

Hiram, breaking a large disk of bread, was smiling very suggestively before making reply, when a sailor shouted at the hatch:—

"Ships, master! Ships with oars!"

"In what quarter?" Hasdrubal sprang up, letting the dishes clatter.

"From Myconus. They come up fast. Hib at the masthead counts eleven triremes."

"Baal preserve us!" The master at once clambered on deck. "The Greek fleet may be quitting Delos. We must pray for wind."

It was a gray, hazy day after a dozen bright ones. The northerly breeze seemed falling. The water spread out a sombre lead colour. The heights of Naxos were in sight to starboard, but none too clearly. Much more interesting to Hasdrubal was the line of dots spreading on the horizon to northwest. Despite the distance his keen eyes could catch the rise and fall of the oar banks—war-ships, not traders. Hib was right, and Hasdrubal's face grew longer. No triremes save the Greeks could be bearing thither, and a merchantman, even from nominally neutral Carthage, caught headed for the king's coasts in those days of blazing war was nothing if not fair prize. The master's decision was prompt.

"They are far off. Put the ship before the wind."

The sea-mouse was fleet indeed for a trader, but unlike a trireme must count on her canvas for her speed. With a piping breeze she could mock pursuit. In a calm she was fearfully handicapped. However, for a moment Hasdrubal congratulated himself he could slip away unnoticed. The distance was very great. Then his dark lips cursed.

"Moloch consume me! If I see aright, we are chased."

Two vessels, in fact, seemed turning away from the rest. They were heading straight after the Bozra. A long race it would be, but with the gale so light the chances were against the sea-mouse. Hasdrubal had no need to urge his crew to rig out the oars and tug furiously, if they wished to escape a Greek prison and a slave market.

The whole crew, forty black-visaged, black-eyed creatures, were soon busy over the dozen great sweeps in a frantic attempt to force the Bozra beyond danger. Panting, yelling, blaspheming, for a while they seemed holding their own, but the master watched with sinking heart the waning breeze. At the end of an hour their pursuers could be distinguished,—a tall trireme behind, but closer, pulling more rapidly, a penteconter, a slim scouting galley working fifty oars in a single bank.

Hasdrubal began to shout desperately: "Wind, Baal, wind! Fill the sails, and seven he-goats await thy altar in Carthage!"

Either the god found the bribe too small or lacked the power to accept it. The breeze did not stiffen. The sailors strove like demons at the sweeps, but almost imperceptibly the gap betwixt them and the war-ships was narrowing.

Hiram, who had been rowing, now left his post to approach the master.

"What of the captives? Crucifixion waits us all if they are found on the ship and tell their story. Kill them at once and fling the bodies overboard."

Hasdrubal shook his head.

"Not yet. Still a good chance. I'll not cast five hundred bright shekels to the fish till harder pressed. The breeze may strengthen." Then he redoubled his shout. "Wind, Baal, wind!"

But a little later the gap betwixt the sea-mouse and the penteconter had so dwindled that even the master's inborn thrift began to yield to prudence.

"Hark you, Hib," he cried from the helm. "Take Adherbal and Lars the Etruscan. It's a good ten furlongs to that cursed galley still, but we must have those prisoners ready on deck. Over they go if the chase gets a bit closer."

The giant Libyan hastened to comply, while all the crew joined in the captain's howl, "Wind, Baal, wind!" and cried reckless vows, while they scanned the fateful stretch of gray-green water behind the stern, whereon liberty if not life depended.

The trireme, pulling only one of her banks, was dropping behind, her navarch leaving the tiring chase to the penteconter, but the latter hung on doggedly.

"Curse those war-ships with their long oars and heavy crews," growled Hib, reappearing above the hatch with the prisoners. "The penteconter's only nine furlongs off."

He had been obliged to release the captives from the stocks, but Hib had taken the precaution to place on the formidable athlete a pair of leg irons joined by a shackle. Not merely were Glaucon's arms pinioned by a stout cord, but the great Libyan was gripping them tightly. Lars and Adherbal conducted the other prisoners, whose feet, however, were not bound. For a moment the three captives stood blinking at the unfamiliar light, unconscious of the situation and their extremity, whilst Hasdrubal for the fortieth time measured the distance. The wind had strengthened a little. Let it strengthen a trifle more and the Bozra would hold her own. Still her people were nearly spent with their toiling, and the keen beak and large complement of the man-of-war made resistance madness if she once came alongside.

"Have ready sand-bags," ordered Hasdrubal, "to tie to these wretches' feet. Set them by the boat mast, so the sail can hide our pretty deed from the penteconter. Have ready an axe. We'll bide a little longer, though, before we say 'farewell' to our passengers. The gods may help yet."

Hib and his fellows were marching the prisoners to the poop, when the sight of the war-ship told Phormio all the story. No gag now hindered his tongue.

"Oh, dragons from Carthage, are you going to murder us?" he began in tones more indignant than terrified.

"No, save as Heaven enjoins it!" quoth the master, clapping his hands to urge on the rowing stroke. "Pray, then, your AEolus, Hellene, to stiffen the breeze."

"Pray, then, to Pluto, whelps," bawled the undaunted fishmonger, "to give you a snug berth in Orcus. Ha! but it's a merry thought of you and all your pretty lads stretched on crosses and waiting for the crows."

But a violent screech came from Lampaxo, who had just comprehended the fate awaiting.

"Ai! ai! save me, fellow-Hellenes!" she bawled toward the penteconter, "a citizeness of Athens, the most patriotic woman in the city, slaughtered by Barbarians—"

"Silence the squealing sow!" roared Hasdrubal. "They'll hear her on the war-ship. Aft with her and overboard at once."

But as they dragged Lampaxo on the poop, her outcry rose to a tempest till Lars the Etruscan clapped his hand upon her mouth. Her screaming stilled, but his own outcry more than replaced it. In a twinkling the virago's hard teeth closed over his fingers. Two ran from the oars to him. But the woman, conscious that she fought for life or death, held fast. Curses, blows, even a dagger pried betwixt her lips—all bootless. She seemed as a thing possessed. And all the time the Etruscan howled in mortal agony.

The thin dagger, bent too hard, snapped betwixt her teeth. Lars's clamour could surely be heard on the penteconter. Again the breeze was falling.

They seized the fury's throat, and pressed it till she turned black, but the grip of her jaw only tightened.

"Attatai! attatai!" groaned the victim, "forbear. Don't throttle her. Her teeth are iron. They are biting through the bone. If you strangle her, they will never relax. Attatai! attatai!"

"Nip him tight, little wife," called Phormio, for once regarding his spouse with supreme satisfaction. "It's a dainty morsel you have in your mouth. Chew it well!"

Lampaxo's attackers paused an instant, uncertain how to release the Etruscan. To their threats of torture the woman was deaf as the mainmast, and still the Etruscan screamed.

Glaucon had stood perfectly passive during all this grim by-play. Once Phormio saw his fellow-captive's face twist into a smile, but in the excitement of the moment the fishmonger as well as the Carthaginians almost forgot the Isthmionices, and Hib relaxed his grip and guard. Lars's finger was streaming red, when Hasdrubal threw away the steering-paddle in a rage.

"Silence her forever! The axe, Hib. Split her skull open!"

The axe lay at the Libyan's feet. One instant, only one, betook his hands from the athlete's wrists to seize the weapon, but in that instant the yell from all the crew drowned even the howls of Lars. Had any watched, they might have seen all the muscles in the Alcmaeonid's glorious body contract, might have seen the fire spring from his eyes as he put forth a godlike might. Heracles and Athena Polias had been with him when he threw his strength upon the bands that held his arms. The crushing of Lycon down had been no feat like this. In a twinkling the cords about his wrists were snapped. He swung his free hands in the air.

"Athens!" he shouted, whilst the crew stood spellbound. "Hermione! Glaucon is still Glaucon!"

Hib had grasped the axe, but he never knew what smote him once behind the ear and sent him rolling lifeless against the bulwark. In an instant his bright weapon was swinging high above the athlete's head. Glaucon stood terrible as Achilles before the cowering Trojans.

"Woe! woe! he is Melkarth. We are lost men!" groaned the crew.

"At him, fools!" bawled Hasdrubal, first to recover wits, "his feet are still shackled."

But whilst the master called to them, the axe dashed down upon the fetters, and one great stroke smote the coupling-link in twain. The Athenian stood a moment looking right and left, the axe dancing as a toy in his grasp, and a smile on his face inviting, "Prove me."

A javelin singing from the hand of Adherbal flew at him. An imperceptible bending of the body, a red streak on Glaucon's naked side, and it dug into the deck. Yet whilst it quivered, was out again and hurled through the Carthaginian's breast and shoulders. He fell in a heap beside the Libyan.

Another howl from the sailors.

"Not Melkarth, but Baal the Dragon-Slayer. We are lost. Who can contend with him?"

"Cowards!" thundered Hasdrubal, whipping the sword from his thigh, "do you not know these three sniff our true business? If they live when the penteconter comes, it's not prison but Sheol that's waiting. Their lives or ours. One rush and we have this madman down!"

But their terrible adversary gave the master no time to gather his myrmidons. One stroke of the axe had already released Phormio, who clutched the arms of his wife.

"The cabin!" the ready-witted fishmonger commanded, and Lampaxo, scarce knowing what she did, released her ungentle hold on Lars and suffered her husband to drag her down the ladder. Glaucon went last; no man loving death enough to come within reach of the axe. Hasdrubal saw his victims escaping under his eyes and groaned.

"There is only one hatchway. We must force it. Darts, belaying-pins, ballast stones—fling anything down. It's for life or death!"

"The penteconter is four furlongs away!" shrieked a sailor, growing gray under his dark skin.

"And Democrates's despatches are hid in the cabin," added Hiram, chattering. "If they do not go overboard, our deaths will be terrible."

"Hear, King Moloch!" called Hasdrubal, lifting his swarthy arms to heaven, then striking them with his sword till the blood gushed down, "suffer us to escape this calamity and I vow thee even my daughter Tibait,—a child in her tenth year,—she shall die in thy holy furnace a sacrifice."

"Hear, Baal! Hear, Moloch!" chorussed the crew; and gathering courage from necessity seized boat-hooks, oars, dirks, and all other handy weapons for their attack.

But below the released prisoners had not been idle. Never—Glaucon knew it—had his brain been clearer, his invention more fertile than now, and Phormio was not too old to cease to be a valiant helper. The cabin was small. A few spears and swords stood in the rack about the mast. The athlete bolted the sliding hatch-cover, and tore down the weapons.

"Release your wife," he ordered Phormio; "yonder sea chest is strong. Drag it over to bar the hatch-ladder. Work as Titans if you hope for another sun."

"Ai, ai, ai!" screeched Lampaxo, who had released Lars's fingers only to resume her din, "we all perish. They are hewing the hatch-cover with their axes. Hera preserve us! The wood splinters. We die."

"We have no time to die," called the athlete, "but only to save Hellas."

A dozen blows beat the frail hatch-cover to splinters. A dark face with grinning teeth showed itself. A heavy ballast stone grazed the athlete's shoulder, but the intruder fell back with a gurgling in his throat, his hands clutching the empty air. Glaucon had sent a heavy spear clean through him.

More ballast stones, but the Titanic Alcmaeonid had torn a mattress from a bunk, and held it as effective shield. By main force the others dragged the chest across to the hatchway, making the entrance doubly narrow. Vainly Hasdrubal stormed at his men to rush down boldly. They barely dared to fling stones and darts, so fast their adversary sped them back, and to the mark.

"A god! a god! We fight against Heaven!" bleated the seamen.

Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the port-hole and the taunts of Phormio.

"Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoe, sweetest of the sirens," tossed the fishmonger, playing his part at Glaucon's side; "lure that dear penteconter a little nearer. And you, brave, gentle sirs, don't try 'to flay a skinned dog' by thrusting down here. Your hands are just itching for the nails, I warrant!"

Hasdrubal redoubled his vows to Moloch. In place of his daughter he substituted his son, though the lad was fourteen years old and the darling of his parents. But the god was not tempted even now. The attack on the cabin had called the sailors from the oars. The penteconter consequently had gained fast upon them. The trireme behind was manning her other banks and drawing down apace. Hiram cast a hopeless glance toward her.

"I know those 'eyes'—those red hawse-holes—the Nausicaae. Come what may, Themistocles must not read the packet in the cabin. There is one chance."

He approached the splintered hatchway and outstretched his hands—weaponless.

"Ah, good and gracious Master Glaucon, and your honest friends, your gods of Hellas are very great and have delivered us, your poor slaves, into your hands. Your friends approach. We will resist no longer. Come on deck; and when the ship is taken, entreat the navarch to be merciful and generous."

"Bah!" spat Phormio, "you write your promises in water, or better in oil, black-scaled viper. We know what time of day it is with us, and what for you."

Hiram saw Glaucon's hand rise with a javelin, and shrank shivering.

"They won't hearken. All's lost," he whimpered, his smile becoming ghastly.

"Another rush, men!" pleaded Hasdrubal.

"Lead the charge yourself, master!" retorted the seamen, sullenly.

The captain, swinging a cutlass, leaped down the bloodstained hatch. One moment the desperate fury of his attack carried Glaucon backward. The two fought—sword against axe—in doubtful combat.

"Follow! follow!" called Hasdrubal, dashing Phormio aside with the flat of his blade. "I have him at last!" But just as Hiram was leading down a dozen more, the athlete's axe swept past the sword, and fell like a millstone on the master's skull. He never screamed as he crashed upon the planks.

This was enough. The seamen were at the end of their valour. If they must die, they must die. What use resisting destiny?

Slowly, slowly the moments crept for the three in the cabin. Even Lampaxo grew still. They heard Hiram pleading frantically, vainly, for another attempt, and raving strange things about Democrates, Lycon, and the Persian. Then behind the Bozra sounded the rushing of foam around a ram, the bumping of fifty oars plying on the thole-pins. Into their sight shot the penteconter, the brass glistening on her prow, the white blades leaping in rhythm. Marines in armour stood on the forecastle. A few arrows pattered on the plankings of the Bozra. Her abject crew obeyed the demand to surrender. Their helmsman pushed over the steering-paddle, and flung himself upon the deck. The sea-mouse went up into the wind. The grappling-irons rattled over the bulwark. Glaucon heard the Phoenicians whining, "Mercy! mercy!" as they embraced the boarders' feet, then the proreus, in hearty Attic, calling, "Secure the prisoners and rummage the prize!"

Glaucon had suffered many things of late. He had faced intolerable captivity, immediate death. Now around his eyes swam hot mist. He fell upon a sea chest, and for a little cared not for anything around, whilst down his cheeks would flow the tears.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE READING OF THE RIDDLE

A hard chase. The rowers of the penteconter were well winded before they caught the Bozra. A merchantman making for Asia was, however, undoubted prize; the luckless crew could be sold in the Agora, the cargo of oil, fish, and pottery was likewise of value. Cimon was standing on his poop, listening to the report of his proreus.

"We're all a mina richer for the race, captain, and they've some jars of their good Numidian wine in the forecastle."

But here a seaman interrupted, staring blankly.

"Kyrie, here's a strange prize. Five men lie dead on the deck. The planks are bloody. In the cabin are two men and a woman. All three seem mad. They are Greeks. They keep us out, and bawl, 'The navarch! show us the navarch, or Hellas is lost.' And one of them—as true as that I sucked my mother's milk—is Phormio—"

"Phormio the fishmonger,"—Cimon dropped his steering oar,—"on a Carthaginian ship? You're mad yourself, man."

"See with your own eyes, captain. They'll yield to none save you. The prisoners are howling that one of these men is a giant."

For the active son of Miltiades to leap from bulwark to bulwark took an instant. Only when he showed himself did the three in the cabin scramble up the ladder, covered with blood, the red lines of the fetters marked into wrist and ankle. Lampaxo had thrown her dress over her head and was screaming still, despite assurances. The third Hellene's face was hid under a tangle of hair. But Cimon knew the fishmonger. Many a morning had he haggled with him merrily for a fine mackerel or tunny, and the navarch recoiled in horror at his fellow-citizen's plight.

"Infernal gods! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?"

"From Troezene," gasped the refugee; "if you love Athens and Hellas—"

He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who—carelessly guarded—was gliding down the hatchway.

"Seize that viper, bind, torture; he knows all. Make him tell or Hellas is lost!"

"Control yourself, friend," adjured Cimon, sorely perplexed, while Hiram struggled and began tugging out a crooked knife, before two brawny seamen nipped him fast and disarmed.

"Ah! you carrion meat," shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the helpless creature's nose. "Honest men have their day at last. There's a gay hour coming before Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus."

"Peace," commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio's shouts, Lampaxo's howls, and Hiram's moans was at his wit's end. "Has no one on this ship kept aboard his senses?"

"If you will be so good, sir captain," the third Hellene at last broke his silence, "you will hearken to me."

"Who are you?"

"The proreus of the Alcyone of Melos. More of myself hereafter. But if you love the weal of Hellas, demand of this Hiram where he concealed the treasonable despatches he received at Troezene and now has aboard."

"Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always gliding around Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way to get them. Now, black-hearted Cyclops,"—Cimon's tone was not gentle,—"where are your papers?"

Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.

"Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none."

"Bah!" threw out Cimon, "I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still? Good, see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a miracle. A cord and belaying-pin, Naon."

The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phoenician's forehead with a fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull.

"Twist!" commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim's arms. Naon pressed the cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips of the Phoenician. His beady eyes started from his head, but he did not speak.

"Again," thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal agony escaped the prisoner.

"Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!"

"Tell quick, or we'll squeeze your brains out. Relax a little, Naon."

"In the boat mast." Hiram spit the words out one by one. "In the cabin. There is a peg. Pull it out. The mast is hollowed. You will find the papers. Woe! woe! cursed the day I was born. Cursed my mother for bearing me."

The miserable creature fell to the deck, pressing his hands to his temples and moaning in agony. No one heeded him now. Cimon himself ran below to the mast, and wrenched the peg from its socket. Papyrus sheets were there, rolled compactly, covered with writing and sealed. The navarch turned over the packet curiously, then to the amazement of the sailors seemed to stagger against the mast. He was as pale as Hiram. He thrust the packet into the hands of his proreus, who stood near.

"What make you of this seal? As you fear Athena, tell the truth."

"You need not adjure me so, captain. The device is simple: Theseus slaying the Minotaur."

"And who, in Zeus's name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?"

Silence for a moment, then the proreus himself was pale.

"Your Excellency does not mean—"

"Democrates!" cried the trembling navarch.

"And why not Democrates?" The words came from the released prisoner, who had been so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon's elbow. He spoke in a changed voice now; again the navarch was startled.

"Is Themistocles on the Nausicaae?" asked the stranger, whilst Cimon gazed on him spellbound, asking if he himself were growing mad.

"Yes—but your voice, your face, your manner—my head is dizzy."

The stranger touched him gently on the hand.

"Have I so changed, you quite forget me, Cimon?"

The son of Miltiades was a strong man. He had looked on Hiram's tortures with a laugh. To his own death he would have gone with no eyelash trembling. But now the rest saw him blench; then with a cry, at once of wonder and inexpressible joy, his arms closed round the tattered outlaw's neck. Treason or no treason—what matter! He forgot all save that before him was his long-time comrade.

"My friend! My boyhood's friend!" and so for many times they kissed.

The Nausicaae had followed the chase at easy distance, ready with aid in case the Bozra resisted. Themistocles was in his cabin with Simonides, when Cimon and Glaucon came to him. The admiral heard his young navarch's report, then took the unopened packet and requested Cimon and the poet to withdraw. As their feet sounded on the ladder in the companionway, Themistocles turned on the outlaw, it seemed, fiercely.

"Tell your story."

Glaucon told it: the encounter on the hillside at Troezene, the seizure in Phormio's house, the coming of Democrates and his boasts over the captives, the voyage and the pursuing. The son of Neocles never hastened the recital, though once or twice he widened it by an incisive question. At the end he demanded:—

"And does Phormio confirm all this?"

"All. Question him."

"Humph! He's a truthful man in everything save the price of fish. Now let us open the packet."

Themistocles was exceeding deliberate. He drew his dagger and pried the wrapper open without breaking the seals or tearing the papyrus. He turned the strips of paper carefully one by one, opened a casket, and drew thence a written sheet which he compared painfully with those before him.

"The same hand," his remark in undertone.

He was so calm that a stranger would have thought him engaged with routine business. Many of the sheets he simply lifted, glanced at, laid down again. They did not seem to interest. So through half the roll, but the outlaw, watching patiently, at last saw he eyebrows of the son of Neocles pressing ever closer,—sign that the inscrutable brain was at its fateful work.

At last he uttered one word, "Cipher."

A sheet lay before him covered with broken words and phrases—seemingly without meaning—but the admiral knew the secret of the Spartan scytale, the "cipher wood." Forth from his casket came a number of rounded sticks of varying lengths. On one after another he wound the sheet spirally until at the fifth trial the scattered words came together. He read with ease. Then Themistocles's brows grew closer than before. He muttered softly in his beard. But still he said nothing aloud. He read the cipher sheet through once, twice; it seemed thrice. Other sheets he fingered delicately, as though he feared the touch of venom. All without haste, but at the end, when Themistocles arose from his seat, the outlaw trembled. Many things he had seen, but never a face so changed. The admiral was neither flushed nor pale. But ten years seemed added to those lines above his eyes. His cheeks were hollowed. Was it fancy that put the gray into his beard and hair? Slowly he rose; slowly he ordered the marine on guard outside the cabin to summon Simonides, Cimon, and all the officers of the flag-ship. They trooped hither and filled the narrow cabin—fifteen or more hale, handsome Athenians, intent on the orders of the admiral. Were they to dash at once for Samos and surprise the Persian? Or what other adventure waited? The breeze had died. The gray breast of the AEgean rocked the Nausicaae softly. The thranites of the upper oar bank were alone on the benches, and stroking the great trireme along to a singsong chant about Amphitrite and the Tritons. On the poop above two sailors were grumbling lest the penteconter's people get all the booty of the Bozra. Glaucon heard their grunts and complainings whilst he looked on Themistocles's awful face.

The officers ranged themselves and saluted stiffly. Themistocles stood before them, his hands closed over the packet. The first time he started to speak his lips closed desperately. The silence grew awkward. Then the admiral gave his head a toss, and drew his form together as a runner before a race.

"Democrates is a traitor. Unless Athena shows us mercy, Hellas is lost."

"Democrates is a traitor!"

The cry from the startled men rang through the ship. The rowers ceased their chant and their stroking. Themistocles beckoned angrily for silence.

"I did not call you down to wail and groan." He never raised his voice; his calmness made him terrible. But now the questions broke loose as a flood.

"When? How? Declare."

"Peace, men of Athens; you conquered the Persian at Salamis, conquer now yourselves. Harken to this cipher. Then to our task and prove our comrades did not die in vain."

Yet despite him men wept on one another's shoulders as became true Hellenes, whilst Themistocles, whose inexorable face never relaxed, rewound the papyrus on the cipher stick and read in hard voice the words of doom.

"This is the letter secreted on the Carthaginian. The hand is Democrates's, the seals are his. Give ear.

"Democrates the Athenian to Tigranes, commander of the hosts of Xerxes on the coasts of Asia, greeting:—Understand, dear Persian, that Lycon and I as well as the other friends of the king among the Hellenes are prepared to bring all things to pass in a way right pleasing to your master. Even now I depart from Troezene to join the army of the allied Hellenes in Boeotia, and, the gods helping, we cannot fail. Lycon and I will contrive to separate the Athenians and Spartans from their other allies, to force them to give battle, and at the crisis cause the divisions under our personal commands to retire, breaking the phalanx and making Mardonius's victory certain.

"For your part, excellent Tigranes, you must avoid the Hellenic ships at Delos and come back to Mardonius with your fleet ready to second him at once after his victory, which will be speedy; then with your aid he can readily turn the wall at the Isthmus. I send also letters written, as it were, in the hand of Themistocles. See that they fall into the hands of the other Greek admirals. They will breed more hurt amongst the Hellenes than you can accomplish with all your ships. I send, likewise, lists of such Athenians and Spartans as are friendly to his Majesty, also memoranda of such secret plans of the Greeks as have come to my knowledge.

"From Troezene, given into the hands of Hiram on the second of Metageitnion, in the archonship of Xanthippus. Chaire!"

Themistocles ceased. No man spoke a word. It was as if a god had flung a bolt from heaven. What use to cry against it? Then, in an ominously low voice, Simonides asked a question.

"What are these letters which purport to come from your pen, Themistocles?"

The admiral unrolled another papyrus, and as he looked thereon his fine face contracted with loathing.

"Let another read. I am made to pour contempt and ridicule upon my fellow-captains. I am made to boast 'when the war ends, I will be tyrant of Athens.' A thousand follies and wickednesses are put in my mouth. Were this letter true, I were the vilest wretch escaping Orcus. Since forged—" his hands clinched—"by that man, that man whom I have trusted, loved, cherished, called 'younger brother,' 'oldest son'—" He spat in rising fury and was still.

" 'Fain would I grip his liver in my teeth,' " cried the little poet, even in storm and stress not forgetting his Homer. And the howl from the man-of-war's men was as the howl of beasts desiring their prey. But the admiral's burst of anger ended. He stood again an image of calm power. The voice that had charmed the thousands rang forth in its strength and sweetness.

"Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the most, for who is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later let us weep for him. One whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But now the work is neither to weep nor to punish, but to save Hellas. A great battle impends in Boeotia. Except the Zeus of our sires and Athena of the Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without fatherland. Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The Nausicaae is the 'Salaminia,'—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must be the deed, and ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the oars."

Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift even to look upon him. He strode before all his lieutenants up and out upon the poop. The long tiers of benches and the gangways filled with rowers peered up at him. They had seen their officers gather in the cabin, and Dame Rumour, subtlest of Zeus's messengers, had breathed "ill-tidings." Now the admiral stood forth, and in few words told all the heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned on the benches.

"Democrates is a traitor!"

A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians's democracy was sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play on their two hundred hearts better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the note changed from despair to incitement, and when at last he called, "And can we cross the AEgean as never trireme crossed and pluck back Hellas from her fate?" thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing their brawny arms into the air.

"We can!"

Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was still with him.

* * * * * * *

Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders must be written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding him at all hazards to keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in privy council with Themistocles in the state cabin. At the same time a prisoner was passed aboard the Nausicaae, not gently bound,—Hiram, a precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the rest of the Bozra's people found a quicker release. The penteconter's people decided their fate with a yell.

"Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!"

So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung overboard, "because we lack place and wood to crucify you," called the Nausicaae's governor, as he pushed the last pair off into the leaden sea,—for the day was distant when the destruction of such Barbarian rogues would weigh even on tender consciences.

So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and the Bozra bore away to join the remaining fleet, another deed was done in sight of all three ships. For whilst Themistocles was with Cimon, Simonides and Sicinnus had taken Glaucon to the Nausicaae's forecastle. Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight. The Alcmaeonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman's dress, and stood forth in all his godlike beauty.

Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and kissed him once more, whilst the rowers clapped their hands.

"Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again. Io! Io! paean!"

"Yes," spoke Themistocles, in a burst of gladness. "The gods take one friend, they restore another. OEdipus has read the sphinx's riddle. Honour this man, for he is worthy of honour through Hellas!"

The officers ran to the athlete, after them the sailors. They covered his face and hands with kisses. He seemed escaped the Carthaginian to perish in the embrace of his countrymen. Never was his blush more boyish, more divine. Then a bugle-blast sent every man to his station. Cimon leaped across to his smaller ship. The rowers of the Nausicaae ran out their oars, the hundred and seventy blades trailed in the water. Every man took a long breath and fixed his eyes on the admiral standing on the poop. He held a golden goblet set with turquoise, and filled with the blood-red Pramnian wine. Loudly Themistocles prayed.

"Zeus of Olympus and Dodona, Zeus Orchios, rewarder of the oath-breaker, to whom the Hellenes do not vainly pray, and thou Athena of the Pure Eyes, give ear. Make our ship swift, our arms strong, our hearts bold. Hold back the battle that we come not too late. Grant that we confound the guilty, put to flight the Barbarian, recompense the traitor. So to you and all other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will proffer prayer and sacrifice forever. Amen."

He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden cup.

"Heaven speed you!" shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The keleustes smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar bank rose as one and plunged into the foam. A long "h-a!" went up from the benches. The race to save Hellas was begun.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE RACE TO SAVE HELLAS

The chase had cost the Athenians dear. Before the Bozra had submitted to her fate, she had led the Nausicaae and her consort well down into the southern AEgean. A little more and they would have lifted the shaggy headlands of Crete. The route before the great trireme was a long one. Two thousand stadia,(13) as the crow flies, sundered them from the Euripus, the nearest point whence they could despatch a runner to Pausanias and Aristeides; and what with the twistings around the scattered Cyclades the route was one-fourth longer. But men had ceased reckoning distance. Their hearts were in the flying oars, and at first the Nausicaae ran leaping across the waves as leaps the dolphin,—the long gleaming blades springing like shuttles in the hands of the ready crew. They had taken from the penteconter all her spare rowers, and to make the great ship bound over the steel-gray deep was children's play. "We must save Hellas, and we can!" That was the thought of all from Themistocles to the meanest thranite.

So at the beginning when the task seemed light and hands were strong. The breeze that had betrayed the Bozra ever sank lower. Presently it died altogether. The sails they set hung limp on the mast. The navarch had them furled. The sea spread out before them, a glassy, leaden-coloured floor; the waves roaring in their wake faded in a wide ripple far behind. To hearten his men the keleustes ceased his beating on the sounding-board, and clapped lips to his pipe. The whole trireme chorussed the familiar song together:—

"Fast and more fast O'er the foam-spray we're passed. And our creaking sails swell To the swift-breathing blast, For Poseidon's wild steeds With their manifold feet, Like a hundred white nymphs On the blue sea-floor fleet. And we wake as we go Gray old Phorcys below, Whilst on shell-clustered trumpets The loud Tritons blow! The loud Tritons blow!

"All of AEolus's train Springing o'er the blue main To our paeans reply With their long, long refrain; And the sea-folk upleap From their dark weedy caves; With a clear, briny laugh They dance over the waves; Now their mistress below,— See bright Thetis go, As she leads the mad revels, While loud Tritons blow! While loud Tritons blow!

"With the foam gliding white, Where the light flash is bright. We feel the live keel Leaping on with delight; And in melody wild Men and Nereids and wind Sing and laugh all their praise, To the bluff seagods kind; Whilst deep down below, Where no storm blasts may go, On their care-charming trumpets The loud Tritons blow, The loud Tritons blow."

Bravely thus for a while, but at last Themistocles, watching from the poop with eyes that nothing evaded, saw how here and there the dip of the blades was weakening, here and there a breast was heaving rapidly, a mouth was panting for air.

"The relief," he ordered. And the spare rowers ran gladly to the places of those who seemed the weariest. Only a partial respite. Fifty supernumeraries were a poor stop-gap for the one hundred and seventy. Only the weakest could be relieved, and even those wept and pled to continue at the benches a little longer. The thunderous threat of Ameinias, that he who refused a proffered relief must stand all day by the mast with an iron anchor on his shoulder, alone sufficed to make the malcontents give place. Yet after a little while the singing died. Breath was too precious to waste. It was mockery to troll of "AEolus's winds" whilst the sea was one motionless mirror of gray. The monotonous "beat," "beat" of the keleustes's hammer, and the creaking of the oars in their leathered holes alone broke the stillness that reigned through the length of the trireme. The penteconter and her prize had long since faded below the horizon. With almost wistful eyes men watched the islets as they glided past one after another, Thera now, then Ios, and presently the greater Paros and Naxos lay before them. They relieved oars whenever possible. The supernumeraries needed no urging after their scanty rest to spring to the place of him who was fainting, but hardly any man spoke a word.

The first time the relief went in Glaucon had stepped forward.

"I am strong. I am able to pull an oar," he had cried almost angrily when Themistocles laid his hand upon him, but the admiral would have none of it.

"You shall not. Sooner will I go on to the bench myself. You have been through the gates of Tartarus these last days, and need all your strength. Are you not the Isthmionices,—the swiftest runner in Hellas?"

Then Glaucon had stepped back and said no more. He knew now for what Themistocles reserved him,—that after the Nausicaae made land he must run, as never man ran before across wide Boeotia to bear the tidings to Pausanias.

They were betwixt Paros and Naxos at last. Wine and barley cakes soaked in oil were passed among the men at the oars. They ate without leaving the benches. And still the sea spread out glassy, motionless, and the pennon hung limp on the mainmast. The keleustes slowed his beatings, but the men did not obey him. No whipped cattle were they, such as rowed the triremes of Phoenicia, but freemen born, sons of Athens, who called it joy to die for her in time of need. Therefore despite the keleustes's beats, despite Themistocles's command, the rowing might not slacken. And the black wave around the Nausicaae's bow sang its monotonous music.

But Themistocles ever turned his face eastward, until men thought he was awaiting some foe in chase, and presently—just as a rower among the zygites fell back with the blood gushing from mouth and nostrils—the admiral pointed his finger toward the sky-line of the morning.

"Look! Athena is with us!"

And for the first time in hours those panting, straining men let the hot oar butts slip from their hands, even trail in the darkling water, whilst they rose, looked, and blessed their gods.

It was coming, the strong kind Eurus out of the south and east. They could see the black ripple springing over the glassy sea; they could hear the singing of the cordage; they could catch the sweet sniff of the brine. Admiral and rower lifted their hands together at this manifest favour of heaven.

"Poseidon is with us! Athena is with us! AEolus is with us! We can save Hellas!"

Soon the sun burst forth above the mist. All the wide ocean floor was adance with sparkling wavelets. No need of Ameinias's lusty call to bend again the sails. The smaller canvas on the foremast and great spread on the mainmast were bellying to the piping gale. A fair wind, but no storm. The oars were but helpers now,—men laughed, hugged one another as boys, wept as girls, and let the benignant wind gods labour for them. Delos the Holy they passed, and Tenos, and soon the heights of Andros lifted, as the ship with its lading of fate flew over the island-strewn sea. At last, just as the day was leaving them, they saw Helios going down into the fire-tinged waves in a parting burst of glory. Darkness next, but the kindly wind failed not. Through the night no man on that trireme slumbered. Breeze or calm, he who had an obol's weight of power spent it at the oars.

Long after midnight Themistocles and Glaucon clambered the giddy cordage to the ship's top above the swelling mainsail. On the narrow platform, with the stars above, the dim tracery of the wide sail, the still dimmer tracery of the long ship below, they seemed transported to another world. Far beneath by the glimmer of the lanterns they saw the rowers swaying at their toil. In the wake the phosphorous bubbles ran away, opalescent gleams springing upward, as if torches of Doris and her dancing Nereids. So much had admiral and outlaw lived through this day they had thought little of themselves. Now calmer thought returned. Glaucon could tell of many things he had heard and thought, of the conversation overheard the morning before Salamis, of what Phormio had related during the weary captivity in the hold of the Bozra. Themistocles pondered long. Yet for Glaucon when standing even on that calm pinnacle the trireme must creep over the deep too slowly.

"O give me wings, Father Zeus," was his prayer; "yes, the wings of Icarus. Let me fly but once to confound the traitor and deliver thy Hellas,—after that, like Icarus let me fall. I am content to die."

But Themistocles pressed close against his side. "Ask for no wings,"—in the admiral's voice was a tremor not there when he sped confidence through the crew,—"if it be destined we save Hellas, it is destined; if we are to die, we die. 'No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun the fate assigned.' Hector said that to Andromache, and the Trojan was right. But we shall save Hellas. Zeus and Athena are great gods. They did not give us glory at Salamis to make that glory tenfold vain. We shall save Hellas. Yet I have fear—"

"Of what, then?"

"Fear that Themistocles will be too merciful to be just. Ah! pity me."

"I understand—Democrates."

"I pray he may escape to the Persians, or that Ares may slay him in fair battle. If not—"

"What will you do?"

The admiral's hold upon the younger Athenian's arm tightened.

"I will prove that Aristeides is not the only man in Hellas who deserves the name of 'Just.' When I was young, my tutor would predict great things of me. 'You will be nothing small, Themistocles, but great, whether for good or ill, I know not,—but great you will be.' And I have always struggled upward. I have always prospered. I am the first man in Hellas. I have set my will against all the power of Persia. Zeus willing, I shall conquer. But the Olympians demand their price. For saving Hellas I must pay—Democrates. I loved him."

The two men stood in silence long, whilst below the oars and the rushing water played their music. At last the admiral relaxed his hand on Glaucon.

"Eu! They will call me 'Saviour of Hellas' if all goes well. I shall be greater than Solon, or Lycurgus, or Periander, and in return I must do justice to a friend. Fair recompense!"

The laugh of the son of Neocles was harsher than a cry. The other answered nothing. Themistocles set his foot on the ladder.

"I must return to the men. I would go to an oar, only they will not let me."

The admiral left Glaucon for a moment alone. All around him was the night,—the stars, the black aether, the blacker sea,—but he was not lonely. He felt as when in the foot-race he turned for the last burst toward the goal. One more struggle, one supreme summons of strength and will, and after that the triumph and the rest.—Hellas, Athens, Hermione, he was speeding back to all. Once again all the things past floated out of the dream-world and before him,—the wreck, the lotus-eating at Sardis, Thermopylae, Salamis, the agony on the Bozra. Now came the end, the end promised in the moment of vision whilst he pulled the boat at Salamis. What was it? He tried not to ask. Enough it was to be the end. He, like Themistocles, had supreme confidence that the treason would be thwarted. The gods were cruel, but not so cruel that after so many deliverances they would crush him at the last. "The miracles of Zeus are never wrought in vain." Had not Zeus wrought miracles for him once and twice? The proverb was great comfort.

Suddenly whilst he built his palace of phantasy, a cry from the foreship dissolved it.

"Attica, Attica, hail, all hail!"

He saw upon the sky-line the dim tracery of the Athenian headlands "like a shield laid on the misty deep." Again men were springing from the oars, laughing, weeping, embracing, whilst under the clear, unflagging wind the Nausicaae sped up the narrowing strait betwixt Euboea and the mainland. Dawn glowed at last, unveiling the brown Attic shoreline with Pentelicus the marble-fretted and all his darker peers.

Hour by hour they ran onward. They skirted the long low coast of Euboea to the starboard. They saw Marathon and its plain of fair memories stretching to port, and now the strait grew closer yet, and it needed all the governor's skill at the steering-oars to keep the Nausicaae from the threatening rocks. Marathon was behind at last. The trireme rounded the last promontory; the bay grew wider; the prow was set more to westward. Every man—the faintest—struggled back to his oar if he had left it—this was the last hundred stadia to Oropus, and after that the Nausicaae might do no more. Once again the keleustes piped, and his note was swift and feverish. The blades shot faster, faster, as the trireme raced down the sandy shore of the Attic "Diacria." Once in the strait they saw a brown-sailed fisherboat, and the helm swerved enough to bring her within hail. The fishermen stared at the flying trireme and her straining, wide-eyed men.

"Has there been a battle?" cried Ameinias.

"Not yet. We are from Styra on Euboea; we expect the news daily. The armies are almost together."

"And where are they?"

"Near to Plataea."

That was all. The war-ship left the fishermen rocking in her wake, but again Themistocles drew his eyebrows close together, while Glaucon tightened the buckle on his belt. Plataea,—the name meant that the courier must traverse the breadth of Boeotia, and with the armies face to face how long would Zeus hold back the battle? How long indeed, with Democrates and Lycon intent on bringing battle to pass? The ship was more than ever silent as she rushed on the last stretch of her course. More men fell at the oars with blood upon their faces. The supernumeraries tossed them aside like logs of wood, and leaped upon their benches. Themistocles had vanished with Simonides in the cabin; all knew their work,—preparing letters to Aristeides and Pausanias to warn of the bitter truth. Then the haven at last: the white-stuccoed houses of Oropus clustering down upon the shore, the little mole, a few doltish peasants by the landing gaping at the great trireme. No others greeted them, for the terror of Mardonius's Tartar raiders had driven all but the poorest to some safe shelter. The oars slipped from numb fingers; the anchor plunged into the green water; the mainsail rattled down the mast. Men sat on the benches motionless, gulping down the clear air. They had done their part. The rest lay in the hands of the gods, and in the speed of him who two days since they had called "Glaucon the Traitor." The messenger came from the cabin, half stripped, on his head a felt skullcap, on his feet high hunter's boots laced up to the knees. He had never shone in more noble beauty. The crew watched Themistocles place a papyrus roll in Glaucon's belt, and press his mouth to the messenger's ear in parting admonition. Glaucon gave his right hand to Themistocles, his left to Simonides. Fifty men were ready to man the pinnace to take him ashore. On the beach the Nausicaae's people saw him stand an instant, as he turned his face upward to the "dawn-facing" gods of Hellas, praying for strength and swiftness.

"Apollo speed you!" called two hundred after him. He answered from the beach with a wave of his beautiful arms. A moment later he was hid behind a clump of olives. The Nausicaae's people knew the ordeal before him, but many a man said Glaucon had the easier task. He could run till life failed him. They now could only fold their hands and wait.

* * * * * * *

It was long past noon when Glaucon left the desolate village of Oropus behind him. The day was hot, but after the manner of Greece not sultry, and the brisk breeze was stirring on the hill slopes. Over the distant mountains hung a tint of deep violet. It was early in Boedromion.(14) The fields—where indeed the Barbarian cavalry men had not deliberately burned them—were seared brown by the long dry summer. Here and there great black crows were picking, and a red fox would whisk out of a thicket and go with long bounds across the unharvested fields to some safer refuge. Glaucon knew his route. Three hundred and sixty stadia lay before him, and those not over the well-beaten course in the gymnasium, but by rocky goat trails and by-paths that made his task no easier. He started off slowly. He was too good an athlete to waste his speed by one fierce burst at the outset. At first his road was no bad one, for he skirted the willow-hung Asopus, the boundary stream betwixt Attica and Boeotia. But he feared to keep too long upon this highway to Tanagra, and of the dangers of the road he soon met grim warnings.

First, it was a farmstead in black ruin, with the carcass of a horse half burned lying before the gate. Next, it was the body of a woman, three days slain, and in the centre of the road,—no pleasant sight, for the crows had been at their banquet,—and hardened though the Alcmaeonid was to war, he stopped long enough to cast the ceremonial handful of dust on the poor remains, as symbolic burial, and sped a wish to King Pluto to give peace to the wanderer's spirit. Next, people met him: an old man, his wife, his young son,—wretched shepherd-folk dressed in sheepskins,—the boy helping his elders as they tottered along on their staves toward the mountain. At sight of Glaucon they feebly made to fly, but he held out his hand, showing he was unarmed, and they halted also.

"Whence and whither, good father?"

Whereat the old man began to shake all over and tell a mumbling story, how they had been set upon by the Scythian troopers in their little farm near OEnophytae, how he had seen the farmhouse burn, his two daughters swung shrieking upon the steeds of the wild Barbarians, and as for himself and his wife and son, Athena knew what saved them! They had lost all but life, and fearful for that were seeking a cave on Mt. Parnes. Would not the young man come with them, a thousand dangers lurked upon the way? But Glaucon did not wait to hear the story out. On he sped up the rocky road.

"Ah, Mardonius! ah, Artazostra!" he was speaking in his heart, "noble and brave you are to your peers, but this is your rare handiwork,—and though you once called me friend, Zeus and Dike still rule, there is a price for this and you shall tell it out."

Yet he bethought himself of the old man's warning, and left the beaten way. At the long steady trot learned in the stadium, he went onward under the greenwood behind the gleaming river, where the vines and branches whipped on his face; and now and again he crossed a half-dried brook, where he swept up a little water in his hands, and said a quick prayer to the friendly nymphs of the stream. Once or twice he sped through fig orchards, and snatched at the ripe fruit as he ran, eating without slackening his course. Presently the river began to bend away to westward. He knew if he followed it, he came soon to Tanagra, but whether that town were held by the Persians or burned by them, who could tell? He quitted the Asopus and its friendly foliage. The bare wide plain of Boeotia was opening. Concealment was impossible, unless indeed he turned far eastward toward Attica and took refuge on the foothills of the mountains. But speed was more precious than safety. He passed Scolus, and found the village desolate, burned. No human being greeted him, only one or two starving dogs rushed forth to snap, bristle, and be chased away by a well-sent stone. Here and yonder in the fields were still the clusters of crows picking at carrion,—more tokens that Mardonius's Tartar raiders had done their work too well. Then at last, an hour or more before the sunset, just as the spurs of Cithaeron, the long mountain over against Attica, began to thrust their bald summits up before the runner's ken, far ahead upon the way approached a cloud of dust. The Athenian paused in his run, dashed into the barren field, and flung himself flat between the furrows. He heard the hoof-beats of the wiry steppe horses, the clatter of targets and scabbards, the shrill shouts of the raiders. He lifted his head enough to see the red streamers on their lance tips flutter past. He let the noise die away before he dared to take the road once more. The time he lost was redeemed by a burst of speed. His head was growing very hot, but it was not time to think of that.

Already the hills were spreading their shadows, and Plataea was many stadia away. Knowledge of how much remained made him reckless. He ran on without his former caution. The plain was again changing to undulating foothills. He had passed Erythrae now,—another village burned and deserted. He mounted a slope, was descending to mount another, when lo! over the hill before came eight riders at full speed. What must be done, must be done quickly. To plunge into the fallow field again were madness, the horsemen had surely seen him, and their sure-footed beasts could run over the furrows like rabbits. Glaucon stood stock still and stretched forth both hands, to show the horsemen he did not resist them.

"O Athena Polias," uprose the prayer from his heart, "if thou lovest not me, forget not thy love for Hellas, for Athens, for Hermione my wife."

The riders were on him instantly, their crooked swords flew out. They surrounded their captive, uttering outlandish cries and chatterings, ogling, muttering, pointing with their swords and lances as if debating among themselves whether to let the stranger go or hew him in pieces. Glaucon stood motionless, looking from one to another and asking for wisdom in his soul. Seven were Tartars, low-browed, yellow-skinned, flat of nose, with the grins of apes. He might expect the worst from these. But the eighth showed a long blond beard under his leather helm, and Glaucon rejoiced; the chief of the band was a Persian and more amenable.

The Tartars continued gesturing and debating, flourishing their steel points right at the prisoner's breast. He regarded them calmly, so calmly that the Persian gave vent to his admiration.

"Down with your lance-head, Rukhs. By Mithra, I think this Hellene is brave as he is beautiful! See how he stands. We must have him to the Prince."

"Excellency," spoke Glaucon, in his best court Persian, "I am a courier to the Lord Mardonius. If you are faithful servants of his Eternity the king, where is your camp?"

The chief started.

"On the life of my father, you speak Persian as if you dwelled in Eran at the king's own doors! What do you here alone upon this road in Hellas?"

Glaucon put out his hand before answering, caught the tip of Rukhs's lance, and snapped it short like a reed. He knew the way to win the admiration of the Barbarians. They yelled with delight, all at least save Rukhs.

"Strong as he is brave and handsome," cried the Persian. "Again—who are you?"

The Alcmaeonid drew himself to full height and gave his head its lordliest poise.

"Understand, Persian, that I have indeed lived long at the king's gates. Yes,—I have learned my Aryan at the Lord Mardonius's own table, for I am the son of Attaginus of Thebes, who is not the least of the friends of his Eternity in Hellas."

The mention of one of the foremost Medizers of Greece made the subaltern bend in his saddle. His tone became even obsequious.

"Ah, I understand. Your Excellency is a courier. You have despatches from the king?"

"Despatches of moment just landed from Asia. Now tell me where the army is encamped."

"By the Asopus, much to northward. The Hellenes lie to south. Here, Rukhs, take the noble courier behind you on the horse, and conduct him to the general."

"Heaven bless your generosity," cried the runner, with almost precipitate haste, "but I know the country well, and the worthy Rukhs will not thank me if I deprive him of his share in your booty."

"Ah, yes, we have heard of a farm across the hills at Eleutherae that's not yet been plundered,—handsome wenches, and we'll make the father dig up his pot of money. Mazda speed you, sir, for we are off."

"Yeh! yeh!" yelled the seven Tartars, none more loudly than Rukhs, who had no hankering for conducting a courier back into the camp. So the riders came and went, whilst Glaucon drew his girdle one notch tighter and ran onward through the gathering evening.

The adventure had been a warning. Once Athena had saved him, not perchance twice,—again he took to the fields. He did not love the sight of the sun ever lower, on the long brown ridge of Helicon far to west. Until now he scarce thought enough of self to realize the terrible draughts he had made upon his treasure-house of strength. Could it be that he—the Isthmionices, who had crushed down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads—could faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose? Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet—so swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus—lift so heavily?

As a flash it came over him what he had endured,—the slow agony on the Bozra, the bursting of the bands, the fight for life, the scene with Themistocles, the sleepless night on the trireme. Now he was running as the wild hare runs before the baying chase. Could it be that all this race was vain?

"For Hellas! For Hermione!"

Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.

"Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I cannot fail."

It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars of gold above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon his forehead. Before his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some kind destiny set a stout pole upright in the field,—perhaps for vines to clamber,—he clutched it, and stood until his sight cleared and the pain a little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the roadway. He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast comfort,—if there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none before dawn. But he had still weary stadia before him, and running was out of the question. Ever and anon he would stop his hobbling, take air, and stare at the vague tracery of the hills,—Cithaeron to southward, Helicon to west, and northward the wide dark Theban plain. He gave up counting how many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic words, "For Hellas! For Hermione!" and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last—he guessed it was nearly midnight—he caught once more the flashings of a shallow river and the dim outlines of shrubbery beside the bank—again the Asopus. He must take care or he would wander straight into Mardonius's camp. Therefore he stopped awhile, drank the cool water, and let the stream purl around his burning foot. Then he set his face to the south, for there lay Plataea. There he would find the Hellenes.

He was almost unconscious of everything save the fierce pain and the need to go forward even to the end. At moments he thought he saw the mountains springing out of their gloom,—Helicon and Cithaeron beckoning him on, as with living fingers.

"Not too late. Marathon was not vain, nor Thermopylae, nor Salamis. You can save Hellas."

Who spoke that? He stared into the solitary night. Was he not alone? Then phantasms came as on a flood. He was in a kind of euthanasy. The pain of his foot had ceased. He saw the Paradise by Sardis and its bending feathery palms; he heard the tinkling of the Lydian harps, and Roxana singing of the magic Oxus, and the rose valleys of Eran. Next Roxana became Hermione. He was standing at her side on the knoll of Colonus, and watching the sun sink behind Daphni making the Acropolis glow with red fire and gold. Yet all the time he knew he was going onward. He must not stop.

"For Hellas! For Hermione!"

At last even the vision of the Violet-Crowned City faded to mist. Had he reached the end,—the rest by the fields of Rhadamanthus, away from human strife? The night was ever darkening. He saw nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing save that he was still going onward, onward.

* * * * * * *

At some time betwixt midnight and dawning an Athenian outpost was pacing his beat outside the lines of Aristeides. The allied Hellenes were retiring from their position by the Asopus to a more convenient spot by Plataea, less exposed to the dreaded Persian cavalry, but on the night march the contingents had become disordered. The Athenians were halting under arms,—awaiting orders from Pausanias the commander-in-chief. The outpost—Hippon, a worthy charcoal-burner of Archarnae—was creeping gingerly behind the willow hedges, having a well-grounded fear of Tartar arrows. Presently his fox-keen ears caught footfalls from the road. His shield went up. He couched his spear. His eyes, sharpened by the long darkness, saw a man hardly running, nor walking, yet dragging one foot and leaning on a staff. Here was no Tartar, and Hippon sprang out boldly.