The crier paused for the fifth time. The crowd—knotty Spartans, keen Athenians, perfumed Sicilians—pressed his pulpit closer, elbowing for the place of vantage. Amid a lull in their clamour the crier recommenced.

And now, men of Hellas, another time hearken. The sixth contestant in the pentathlon, most honourable of the games held at the Isthmus, is Glaucon, son of Conon the Athenian; his grandfather— a jangling shout drowned him.

The most beautiful man in Hellas! But an effeminate puppy! Of the noble house of Alcmæon! The family’s accursed! A great god helps him—even Eros. Ay—the fool married for mere love. He needs help. His father disinherited him.

Peace, peace, urged the crier; I’ll tell all about him, as I have of the others. Know then, my masters, that he loved, and won in marriage, Hermione, daughter of Hermippus of Eleusis. Now Hermippus is Conon’s mortal enemy; therefore in great wrath Conon disinherited his son,—but now, consenting to forgive him if he wins the parsley crown in the pentathlon—

A safe promise, interrupted a Spartan in broadest Doric; the pretty boy has no chance against Lycon, our Laconian giant.

Boaster! retorted an Athenian. Did not Glaucon bend open a horseshoe yesterday?

Our Mœrocles did that, called a Mantinean; whereupon the crier, foregoing his long speech on Glaucon’s noble ancestry, began to urge the Athenians to show their confidence by their wagers.

How much is staked that Glaucon can beat Ctesias of Epidaurus?

We don’t match our lion against mice! roared the noisiest Athenian.

Or Amyntas of Thebes?

Not Amyntas! Give us Lycon of Sparta.

Lycon let it be,—how much is staked and by whom, that Glaucon of Athens, contending for the first time in the great games, defeats Lycon of Sparta, twice victor at Nemea, once at Delphi, and once at Olympia?

The second rush and outcry put the crier nearly at his wits’ end to record the wagers that pelted him, and which testified how much confidence the numerous Athenians had in their unproved champion. The brawl of voices drew newcomers from far and near. The chariot race had just ended in the adjoining hippodrome; and the idle crowd, intent on a new excitement, came surging up like waves. In such a whirlpool of tossing arms and shoving elbows, he who was small of stature and short of breath stood a scanty chance of getting close enough to the crier’s stand to have his wager recorded. Such, at least, was the fate of a gray but dignified little man, who struggled vainly—even with risk to his long linen chiton—to reach the front.

Ugh! ugh! Make way, good people,—Zeus confound you, brute of a Spartan, your big sandals crush my toes again! Can I never get near enough to place my two minæ on that Glaucon?

Keep back, graybeard, snapped the Spartan; thank the god if you can hold your money and not lose it, when Glaucon’s neck is wrung to-morrow. Whereupon he lifted his own voice with, Thirty drachmæ to place on Lycon, Master Crier! So you have it—

And two minæ on Glaucon, piped the little man, peering up with bright, beady eyes; but the crier would never have heard him, save for a sudden ally.

Who wants to stake on Glaucon? burst in a hearty young Athenian who had wagered already. You, worthy sir? Then by Athena’s owls they shall hear you! Lend us your elbow, Democrates.

The latter request was to a second young Athenian close by. With his stalwart helpers thrusting at either side, the little man was soon close to the crier.

Two minæ? quoth the latter, leaning, two that Glaucon beats Lycon, and at even odds? But your name, sir—

The little man straightened proudly.

Simonides of Ceos.

The crowd drew back by magic. The most bristling Spartan grew respectful. The crier bowed as his ready stylus made the entry.

Simonides of Ceos, Simonides the most noted poet in Hellas! cried the first of his two rescuers; it’s a great honour to have served so famous a man. Pray let me take your hand.

With all the joy in the world. The little poet coloured with delight at the flattery. You have saved me, I avow, from the forge and anvil of Hephæstus. What a vulgar mob! Do stand apart; then I can try to thank you.

Aided again by his two protectors, Simonides was soon clear of the whirlpool. Under one of the graceful pines, which girded the long stadium, he recovered breath and looked at leisure upon his new acquaintances. Both were striking men, but in sharp contrast: the taller and darker showed an aquiline visage betraying a strain of non-Grecian blood. His black eyes and large mouth were very merry. He wore his green chiton with a rakishness that proved him anything but a dandy. His companion, addressed as Democrates, slighter, blonder, showed Simonides a handsome and truly Greek profile, set off by a neatly trimmed reddish beard. His purple-edged cloak fell in statuesque folds of the latest mode, his beryl signet-ring, scarlet fillet, and jewelled girdle bespoke wealth and taste. His face, too, might have seemed frank and affable, had not Simonides suddenly recalled an old proverb about mistrusting a man with eyes too close together.

And now, said the little poet, quite as ready to pay compliments as to take them, let me thank my noble deliverers, for I am sure two such valorous young men as you must come of the best blood of Attica.

I am not ashamed of my father, sir, spoke the taller Athenian; Hellas has not yet forgotten Miltiades, the victor of Marathon.

Then I clasp the hand of Cimon, the son of the saviour of Hellas. The little poet’s eyes danced. Oh! the pity I was in Thessaly so long, and let you grow up in my absence. A noble son of a noble father! And your friend—did you name him Democrates?

I did so.

Fortunate old rascal I am! For I meet Cimon the son of Miltiades, and Democrates, that young lieutenant of Themistocles who all the world knows is gaining fame already as Nestor and Odysseus, both in one, among the orators of Athens.

There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon. Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends, two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his companion.

The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime, strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.

His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows. The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a golden circlet. The chlamys around his hips was purple but dirty. To his companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.

Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send aid; if Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we resist Persia, but conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?

We shall see.

No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors hate the Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.

No rashness, Themistocles.

Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of Hellas. Still a battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our names shall be remembered as long as Agamemnon’s.

Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.

And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to have your Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in preparing for war? We all count on you.

I will try.

Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking about the pentathlon and the chances of—

Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon Themistocles and Leonidas also. The cry A fight! was producing its inevitable result. Scores of men, and those not the most aristocratic, were running pell-mell whither so many had thronged already. In the confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the first statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely witnesses of what followed.

The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence. What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began girding up his cloak.

You leave us, philotate? cried Glaucon. Would I not have all my friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow? Bid your ugly Bias keep away!

A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence, said the orator, smiling.

Declare his name.

Declare her name, cried Simonides, viciously.

Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name is Athens.

Curses on your public business, lamented Glaucon. But off with you, since your love is the love of us all.

Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. I leave you to faithful guardians. Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a victory. So take courage.

Chaire! chaire!A word conveying at once welcome! and farewell! called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to follow the slave-boy.

Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves, were touched by the red glow dying behind Acro-Corinthus. Torches gleamed amid the trees where the multitudes were buying, selling, wagering, making merry. All Greece seemed to have sent its wares to be disposed of at the Isthmia. Democrates idled along, now glancing at the huckster who displayed his painted clay dolls and urged the sightseers to remember the little ones at home. A wine-seller thrust a sample cup of a choice vintage under the Athenian’s nose, and vainly adjured him to buy. Thessalian easy-chairs, pottery, slaves kidnapped from the Black Sea, occupied one booth after another. On a pulpit before a bellowing crowd a pair of marionettes were rolling their eyes and gesticulating, as a woman pulled the strings.

But there were more exalted entertainments. A rhapsodist stood on a pine stump chanting in excellent voice Alcæus’s hymn to Apollo. And more willingly the orator stopped on the edge of a throng of the better sort, which listened to a man of noble aspect reading in clear voice from his scroll.

Æschylus of Athens, whispered a bystander. He reads choruses of certain tragedies he says he will perfect and produce much later.

Democrates knew the great dramatist well, but what he read was new—a Song of the Furies calling a terrific curse upon the betrayer of friendship. Some of his happiest lines, meditated Democrates, walking away, to be held a moment by the crowd around Lamprus the master-harpist. But now, feeling that he had dallied long enough, the orator turned his back on the two female acrobats who were swinging on a trapeze and struck down a long, straight road which led toward the distant cone of Acro-Corinthus. First, however, he turned on Bias, who all the time had been accompanying, dog-fashion.

You say he is waiting at Hegias’s inn?

In a tent at the lower end of the long stadium stood Glaucon awaiting the final summons to his ordeal. His friends had just cried farewell for the last time: Cimon had kissed him; Themistocles had gripped his hand; Democrates had called Zeus prosper you! Simonides had vowed that he was already hunting for the metres of a triumphal ode. The roar from without told how the stadium was filled with its chattering thousands. The athlete’s trainers were bestowing their last officious advice.

The Spartan will surely win the quoit-throw. Do not be troubled. In everything else you can crush him.

Beware of Mœrocles of Mantinea. He’s a knavish fellow; his backers are recalling their bets. But he hopes to win on a trick; beware, lest he trip you in the foot-race.

Aim low when you hurl the javelin. Your dart always rises.

Glaucon received this and much more admonition with his customary smile. There was no flush on the forehead, no flutter of the heart. A few hours later he would be crowned with all the glory which victory in the great games could throw about a Hellene, or be buried in the disgrace to which his ungenerous people consigned the vanquished. But, in the words of his day, he knew himself and his own powers. From the day he quitted boyhood he had never met the giant he could not master; the Hermes he could not outrun. He anticipated victory as a matter of course, even victory wrested from Lycon, and his thoughts seemed wandering far from the tawny track where he must face his foes.

Athens,—my father,—my wife! I will win glory for them all! was the drift of his revery.

The younger rubber grunted under breath at his athlete’s vacant eye, but Pytheas, the older of the pair, whispered confidently that when he had known Master Glaucon longer, he would know that victories came his way, just by reaching out his hands.

Athena grant it, muttered the other. I’ve got my half mina staked on him, too. Then from the tents at either side began the ominous call of the heralds:—

Amyntas of Thebes, come you forth.

Ctesias of Epidaurus, come you forth.

Lycon of Sparta, come you forth.

Glaucon held out his hands. Each trainer seized one.

Wish me joy and honour, good friends! cried the athlete.

Poseidon and Athena aid you! And Pytheas’s honest voice was husky. This was the greatest ordeal of his favourite pupil, and the trainer’s soul would go with him into the combat.

Glaucon of Athens, come you forth.

The curtains of the tent swept aside. An intense sunlight sprang to meet the Athenian. He passed into the arena clad only in his coat of glistering oil. Scolus of Thasos and Mœrocles of Mantinea joined the other four athletes; then, escorted each by a herald swinging his myrtle wand, the six went down the stadium to the stand of the judges.

Before the fierce light of a morning in Hellas beating down on him, Glaucon the Alcmæonid was for an instant blinded, and walked on passively, following his guide. Then, as from a dissolving mist, the huge stadium began to reveal itself: line above line, thousand above thousand of bright-robed spectators, a sea of faces, tossing arms, waving garments. A thunderous shout rose as the athletes came to view,—jangling, incoherent; each city cheered its champion and tried to cry down all the rest: applause, advice, derision. Glaucon heard the derisive hootings, pretty girl, pretty pullet, from the serried host of the Laconians along the left side of the stadium; but an answering salvo, Dog of Cerberus! bawled by the Athenian crowds opposite, and winged at Lycon, returned the taunts with usury. As the champions approached the judges’ stand a procession of full twenty pipers, attended by as many fair boys in flowing white, marched from the farther end of the stadium to meet them. The boys bore cymbals and tambours; the pipers struck up a brisk marching note in the rugged Dorian mode. The boys’ lithe bodies swayed in enchanting rhythm. The roaring multitude quieted, admiring their grace. The champions and the pipers thus came to the pulpit in the midst of the long arena. The president of the judges, a handsome Corinthian in purple and a golden fillet, swept his ivory wand from right to left. The marching note ceased. The whole company leaped as one man to its feet. The pipes, the cymbals were drowned, whilst twenty thousand voices—Doric, Bœotian, Attic—chorused together the hymn which all Greece knew: the hymn to Poseidon of the Isthmus, august guardian of the games.

Louder it grew; the multitude found one voice, as if it would cry, We are Hellenes all; though of many a city, the same fatherland, the same gods, the same hope against the Barbarian.

Thus in part. And in the hush thereafter the president poured a libation from a golden cup, praying, as the wine fell on the brazier beside him, to the Earth Shaker, seeking his blessing upon the contestants, the multitude, and upon broad Hellas. Next the master-herald announced that now, on the third day of the games, came the final and most honoured contest: the pentathlon, the fivefold struggle, with the crown to him who conquered thrice. He proclaimed the names of the six rivals, their cities, their ancestry, and how they had complied with the required training. The president took up his tale, and turning to the champions, urged them to strive their best, for the eyes of all Hellas were on them. But he warned any man with blood-guiltiness upon his soul not to anger the gods by continuing in the games.

But since, the brief speech concluded, these men have chosen to contend, and have made oath that they are purified or innocent, let them join, and Poseidon shed fair glory upon the best!

More shouting; the pipers paraded the arena, blowing shriller than ever. Some of the athletes shifted uneasily. Scolus the Thasian—youngest of the six—was pale, and cast nervous glances at the towering bulk of Lycon. The Spartan gave him no heed, but threw a loud whisper at Glaucon, who stood silently beside him:—

A cluster of white stuccoed houses with a craggy hill behind, and before them a blue bay girt in by the rocky isle of Salamis—that is Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Eastward and westward spreads the teeming Thrasian plain, richest in Attica. Behind the plain the encircling mountain wall fades away into a purple haze. One can look southward toward Salamis; then to the left rises the rounded slope of brown Pœcilon sundering Eleusis from its greater neighbour, Athens. Look behind: there is a glimpse of the long violet crests of Cithæron and Parnes, the barrier mountains against Bœotia. Look to right: beyond the summits of Megara lifts a noble cone. It is an old friend, Acro-Corinthus. The plain within the hills is sprinkled with thriving farmsteads, green vineyards, darker olive groves. The stony hill-slopes are painted red by countless poppies. One hears the tinkling of the bells of roving goats. Thus the more distant view; while at the very foot of the hill of vision rises a temple with proud columns and pediments,—the fane of Demeter the Earth Mother and the seat of her Mysteries, renowned through Hellas.

The house of Hermippus the Eumolpid, first citizen of Eleusis, stood to the east of the temple. On three sides gnarled trunks and sombre leaves of the sacred olives almost hid the white low walls of the rambling buildings. On the fourth side, facing the sea, the dusty road wound east toward Megara. Here, by the gate, were gathered a rustic company: brown-faced village lads and lasses, toothless graybeards, cackling old wives. Above the barred gate swung a festoon of ivy, whilst from within the court came the squeaking of pipes, the tuning of citharas, and shouted orders—signs of a mighty bustling. Then even while the company grew, a half-stripped courier flew up the road and into the gate.

They come, ran the wiseacre’s comment; but their buzzing ceased, as again the gate swung back to suffer two ladies to peer forth. Ladies, in the truth, for the twain had little in common with the ogling village maids, and whispers were soon busy with them.

Look—his wife and her mother! How would you, Praxinœ, like to marry an Isthmionices?

Excellently well, but your Hermas won’t so honour you.

Eu! see, she lifts her pretty blue veil; I’m glad she’s handsome. Some beautiful men wed regular hags.

The two ladies were clearly mother and daughter, of the same noble height, and dressed alike in white. Both faces were framed in a flutter of Amorgos gauze: the mother’s was saffron, crowned with a wreath of golden wheat-ears; the daughter’s blue with a circlet of violets. And now as they stood with arms entwined the younger brushed aside her veil. The gossips were right. The robe and the crown hid all but the face and tress of the lustrous brown hair,—but that face! Had not King Hephæstos wrought every line of clear Phœnician glass, then touched them with snow and rose, and shot through all the ichor of life? Perhaps there was a fitful fire in the dark eyes that awaited the husband’s coming, or a slight twitching of the impatient lips. But nothing disturbed the high-born repose of face and figure. Hermione was indeed the worthy daughter of a noble house, and happy the man who was faring homeward to Eleusis!

Another messenger. Louder bustle in the court, and the voice of Hermippus arraying his musicians. Now a sharp-faced man, who hid his bald pate under a crown of lilies, joined the ladies,—Conon, father of the victor. He had ended his life-feud with Hermippus the night the message flashed from Corinth. Then a third runner; this time in his hand a triumphant palm branch, and his one word—Here! A crash of music answered from the court, while Hermippus, a stately nobleman, his fine head just sprinkled with gray, led out his unmartial army.

Single pipes and double pipes, tinkling lyres and many-stringed citharas, not to forget herdsmen’s reed flutes, cymbals, and tambours, all made melody and noise together. An imposing procession that must have crammed the courtyard wound out into the Corinth road.

Here was the demarchThe chief magistrate of an Attic commune. of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and women,—bright of eye, graceful of movement,—twirling long chains of ivy, laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere. The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under the public eye—save at a sacred festival—no, not when the centre of the gladness was her husband.

He comes! So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect, and at his side another. Marching before the chariot were Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form. An unhealed scar marred his forehead—Lycon’s handiwork; but who thought of that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there.

Io! Glaucon! The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon the chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his fellow. Then after them sped the maidens. They ringed the chariot round with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.

Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.

In Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.

In the northern quarter of Athens the suburb of Alopece thrust itself under the slopes of Mt. Lycabettus, that pyramid of tawny rock which formed the rear bulwark, as it were, of every landscape of Athens. The dwellings in the suburb were poor, though few even in the richer quarters were at all handsome; the streets barely sixteen feet wide, ill-paved, filthy, dingy. A line of dirty gray stucco house-fronts was broken only by the small doors and the smaller windows in the second story. Occasionally a two-faced bust of Hermes stood before a portal, or a marble lion’s head spouted into a corner water trough. All Athenian streets resembled these. The citizen had his Pnyx, his Jury-Court, his gossiping Agora for his day. These dingy streets sufficed for the dogs, the slaves, and the women, whom wise Zeus ordered to remain at home.

Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows,—good man,—for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap. His patience indeed that evening was so near to exhaustion that after cursing inwardly the match-maker who had saddled this Amazon upon him, he actually found courage for an outbreak. He threw up his arms after the manner of a tragic actor:—

True, true is the word of Hesiod!

True is what? flew back none too gently.

The fool first suffers and is after wise. Woman, I am resolved.

On what? Lampaxo’s voice was soft as broken glass.

Years increase. I shan’t live long. We are childless. I will provide for you in my will by giving you in marriage to Hyperphon.Attic law allowed a husband to will his wife to a friend.

Hyperphon! screamed the virago, Hyperphon the beggarly hunchback, the laughing-stock of Athens! O Mother Hera!—but I see the villain’s aim. You are weary of me. Then divorce me like an honourable man. Send me back to Polus my dear brother. Ah, you sheep, you are silent! You think of the two-minæ dowry you must then refund. Woe is me! I’ll go to the King Archon. I’ll charge you with gross abuse. The jury will condemn you. There’ll be fines, fetters, stocks, prison—

Peace, groaned Phormio, terrified at the Gorgon, I only thought—

How dared you think? What permitted—

Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio! The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night. Groups of young men wandered past, bound homeward from the Cynosarges, the Academy, or some other well-loved gymnasium. In an hour the streets would be dark and still, except for a belated guest going to his banquet, a Scythian constable, or perhaps a cloak thief. For your Athenian, when he had no supper invitation, went to bed early and rose early, loving the sunlight far better than the flicker of his uncertain lamps.

And did the jury vote guilty? was Phormio’s first question of his brother-in-law.

We were patriotically united. There were barely any white beans for acquittal in the urn. The scoundrelly grain-dealer is stripped of all he possesses and sent away to beg in exile. A noble service to Athens!

Despite the evidence, murmured Clearchus; but Lampaxo’s shrill voice answered her brother:—

It’s my opinion you jurors should look into a case directly opposite this house. Spies, I say, Persian spies.

Spies! cried Polus, leaping up as from a coal; why, Phormio, haven’t you denounced them? It’s compounding with treason even to fail to report—

Peace, brother, chuckled the fishmonger, your sister smells for treason as a dog for salt fish. There is a barbarian carpet merchant—a Babylonian, I presume—who has taken the empty chambers above Demas’s shield factory opposite. He seems a quiet, inoffensive man; there are a hundred other foreign merchants in the city. One can’t cry Traitor! just because the poor wight was not born to speak Greek.

I do not like Babylonish merchants, propounded Polus, dogmatically; to the jury with him, I say!

At least he has a visitor, asserted Clearchus, who had long been silent. See, a gentleman wrapped in a long himation is going up to the door and standing up his walking stick.

The Acropolis of Athens rises as does no other citadel in the world. Had no workers in marble or bronze, no weavers of eloquence or song, dwelt beneath its shadow, it would stand the centre and cynosure of a remarkable landscape. It is The Rock, no other like unto it. Is it enough to say its ruddy limestone rises as a huge boulder one hundred and fifty feet above the plain, that its breadth is five hundred, its length one thousand? Numbers and measures can never disclose a soul,—and the Rock of Athens has all but a soul: a soul seems to glow through its adamant when the fire-footed morning steals over the long crest of Hymettus, and touches the citadel’s red bulk with unearthly brightness; a soul when the day falls to sleep in the arms of night as Helios sinks over the western hill by Daphni. Then the Rock seems to throb and burn with life again.

It is so bare that the hungry goats can hardly crop one spear of grass along its jagged slopes. It is so steep it scarce needs defence against an army. It is so commanding that he who stands on the westmost pinnacle can look across the windy hill of the Pnyx, across the brown plain-land and down to the sparkling blue sea with the busy havens of Peiræus and Phalerum, the scattered gray isles of the Ægean, and far away to the domelike crest of Acro-Corinthus. Let him turn to the right: below him nestles the gnarled hill of Areopagus, home of the Furies, the buzzing plaza of the Agora, the closely clustered city. Behind, there spread mountain, valley, plain,—here green, here brown, here golden,—with Pentelicus the Mighty rearing behind all, his summits fretted white, not with winter snows, but with lustrous marble. Look to the left: across the view passes the shaggy ridge of Hymettus, arid and scarred, as if wrought by the Titans, home only of goats and bees, of nymphs and satyrs.

That was almost the self-same vision in the dim past when the first savage clambered this Citadel of Cecrops and spoke, Here is my dwelling-place. This will be the vision until earth and ocean are no more. The human habitation changes, the temples rise and crumble; the red and gray rock, the crystalline air, the sapphire sea, come from the god, and these remain.

Democrates fronted ruin. What profit later details from Socias of the capture of the merchantman? Unless three days before the coming festival of the Panathenæa the orator could find a large sum, he was forever undone. His sequestering of the ship-money would become public property. He would be tried for his life. Themistocles would turn against him. The jury would hardly wait for the evidence. He would drink the poisonous hemlock and his corpse be picked by the crows in the Barathrum,—an open pit, sole burial place for Athenian criminals.

One thing was possible: to go to Glaucon, confess all, and beg the money. Glaucon was rich. He could have the amount from Conon and Hermippus for the asking. But Democrates knew Glaucon well enough to perceive that while the athlete might find the money, he would be horrified at the foul disclosure. He would save his old comrade from death, but their friendship would be ended. He would feel in duty bound to tell Themistocles enough to ruin Democrates’s political prospects for all time. An appeal to Glaucon was therefore dismissed, and the politician looked for more desperate remedies.

Democrates enjoyed apartments on the street of the Tripods east of the Acropolis, a fashionable promenade of Athens. He was regarded as a confirmed bachelor. If, therefore, two or three dark-eyed flute girls in Phaleron had helped him to part with a good many minæ, no one scolded too loudly; the thing had been done genteelly and without scandal. Democrates affected to be a collector of fine arms and armour. The ceiling of his living room was hung with white-plumed helmets, on the walls glittered brass greaves, handsomely embossed shields, inlaid Chalcidian scimitars, and bows tipped with gold. Under foot were expensive rugs. The orator’s artistic tastes were excellent. Even as he sat in the deeply pillowed arm-chair his eye lighted on a Nike,—a statuette of the precious Corinthian bronze, a treasure for which the dealer’s unpaid account lay still, alas! in the orator’s coffer.

But Democrates was not thinking so much of the unpaid bronze-smith as of divers weightier debts. On the evening in question he had ordered Bias, the sly Thracian, out of the room; with his own hands had barred the door and closed the lattice; then with stealthy step thrust back the scarlet wall tapestry to disclose a small door let into the plaster. A key made the door open into a cupboard, out of which Democrates drew a brass-bound box of no great size, which he carried gingerly to a table and opened with a complex key.

The contents of the box were curious, to a stranger enigmatic. Not money, nor jewels, but rolls of closely written papyri, and things which the orator studied more intently,—a number of hard bits of clay bearing the impressions of seals. As Democrates fingered these, his face might have betrayed a mingling of keen fear and keener satisfaction.

There is no such collection in all Hellas,—no, not in the world, ran his commentary; here is the signet of the Tagos of Thessaly, here of the Bœotarch of Thebes, here of the King of Argos. I was able to secure the seal of Leonidas while in Corinth. This, of course, is Themistocles’s,—how easily I took it! And this—of less value perhaps to a man of the world—is of my beloved Glaucon. And here are twenty more. Then the papyri,—he unrolled them lovingly, one after another,—precious specimens, are they not? Ah, by Zeus, I must be a very merciful and pious man, or I’d have used that dreadful power heaven has given me and never have drifted into these straits.

What that power was with which Democrates felt himself endued he did not even whisper to himself. His mood changed suddenly. He closed the box with a snap and locked it hurriedly.

Cursed casket!—I think I would be happier if Phorcys, the old man of the deep, could drown it all! I would be better for it and kept from foul thoughts.

He thrust the box back in the cupboard, drew forth a second like it, unlocked it, and took out more writings. Selecting two, he spread ink and papyrus before him, and copied with feverish haste. Once he hesitated, and almost flung back the writings into the casket. Once he glanced at the notes he had prepared for his speech against the defrauding contractor. He grimaced bitterly. Then the hesitation ended. He finished the copying, replaced the second box, and barred and concealed the cupboard. He hid his new copies in his breast and called in Bias.

I am going out, but I shall not be late.

Shall not Hylas and I go with lanterns? asked the fellow. Last night there were foot-pads.

I don’t need you, rejoined his master, brusquely.

He went down into the dimly lighted street and wound through the maze of back alleys wherein Athens abounded, but Democrates never missed his way. Once he caught the glint of a lantern—a slave lighting home his master from dinner. The orator drew into a doorway; the others glided by, seeing nothing. Only when he came opposite the house of the Cyprian he saw light spreading from the opposite doorway and knew he must pass under curious eyes. Phormio was entertaining friends very late. But Democrates took boldness for safety, strode across the illumined ring, and up to the Cyprian’s stairway. The buzz of conversation stopped a moment. Again Glaucon, he caught, but was not troubled.

After all, he reflected, if seen at all, there is no harm in such a mistake.

The room was again glittering in its Oriental magnificence. The Cyprian advanced to meet his visitor, smiling blandly.

Welcome, dear Athenian. We have awaited you. We are ready to heal your calamity.

Democrates turned away his face.

You know it already! O Zeus, I am the most miserable man in all Hellas!

And wherefore miserable, good friend? The Cyprian half led, half compelled the visitor to a seat on the divan. Is it such to be enrolled from this day among the benefactors of my most gracious lord and king?

Don’t goad me! Democrates wrung his hands. I am desperate. Take these papyri, read, pay, then let me never see your face again. He flung the two rolls in the Prince’s lap and sat in abject misery.

The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an inner chamber and silently take station at his master’s side, following the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the Prince spoke.

Democrates surpassed himself when arraigning the knavish contractor. Nestor and Odysseus both speak to us, shouted Polus in glee, flinging his black bean in the urn. What eloquence, what righteous fury when he painted the man’s infamy to pillage the city in a crisis like this!

So the criminal was sent to death and Democrates was showered with congratulations. Only one person seemed hardly satisfied with all the young orator did,—Themistocles. The latter told his lieutenant candidly he feared all was not being done to apprehend the Persian emissary. Themistocles even took it upon himself to send Sicinnus to run down several suspects, and just on the morning of the day preceding the Panathenæa—the great summer festival—Democrates received a hint which sent him home very thoughtful. He had met his chief in the Agora as he was leaving the Government-House, and Themistocles had again asked if he had smelt aught of the Persian agent. He had not.

Then you would well devote more time to finding his scent, and less to convicting a pitiful embezzler. You know the Alopece suburb?

Certainly.

Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each passer with violets, narcissus, and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the Panathenæa, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.

Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice. To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.

The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the lesches—the numerous little club houses about it—overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus’s booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.

Guilty—I vote guilty, the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower.

Before the house six riders were reining,—five Scythian bowmen of the constabulary of Athens, tow-headed Barbarians, grinning but mute; the sixth was Democrates. He dismounted with a bound, and as he did so the friends saw that his face was red as with pent-up excitement. Themistocles advanced hastily.

What’s this? Your hands seem a-quiver. Whom has that constable tied up behind him?

Seuthes! cried Glaucon, bounding back, Seuthes, by every god, and pinioned like a felon.

Ay! groaned the prisoner, lashed to a horse, what have I done to be seized and tried like a bandit? Why should I be set upon by these gentlemen while I was enjoying a quiet pot of wine in the tavern at Daphni, and be haled away as if to crucifixion? Mu! Mu! make them untie me, dear Master Glaucon.

Put down your prisoner, ordered Democrates, and all you constables stay without the house. I ask Themistocles, Hermippus, and Glaucon to come to an inner room. I must examine this man. The matter is serious.

Serious? echoed the bewildered athlete, I can vouch for Seuthes—an excellent Corinthian, come to Athens to sell some bales of wool—

On the evening of the Panathenæa, Bias, servant of Democrates, had supped with Phormio,—for in democratic Athens a humble citizen would not disdain to entertain even a slave. The Thracian had a merry wit and a story-teller’s gift that more than paid for the supper of barley-porridge and salt mackerel, and after the viands had disappeared was ready even to tell tales against his master.

I’ve turned my brain inside out, and shaken it like a meal sack. No wisdom comes. The kyrios has something on his mind. He prays to Hermes Dolios as often as if he were a cut-purse. Then yesterday he sent me for Agis—

Agis? Phormio pricked up his ears. The gambling-house keeper? What does Democrates with him?

Answer yourself. My master has been to Agis’s pretty place before to see his cocks. However, this is different. To-day I met Theon.

Who’s he?

Agis’s slave, the merriest scoundrel in Athens. Agis, he says, has been prancing like an ass stuffed with barley. He gave Theon a letter from Democrates to take to your Babylonian opposite; Theon must hunt up Seuthes, a Corinthian, and worm out of him when and how he was leaving Athens. Agis promised Theon a gold stater if all was right.

Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.

Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the Solon clear of the rocky shores.

As they raced past holy Delos the frightened passengers had vowed twelve oxen to Apollo if he saved them.

Near Naxos, Brasidas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,—hoping at least to find some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.

The Solon, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,—excellent for cargo, but none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint oaths, and began to pray—sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed almost too panic-stricken to aid in flinging the cargo overboard. Several were raving.

Hearken, Poseidon of Calauria, howled a Peiræus merchant against the screeching blasts, save from this peril and I vow thee and thy temple two mixing bowls of purest gold!

When Glaucon awoke to consciousness, it was with a sense of absolute weakness, at the same moment with a sense of absolute rest. He knew that he was lying on pillows softer than sleep, that the air he breathed was laden with perfume, that the golden light which came through his half-closed eyelids was deliciously tempered, that his ears caught a musical murmur, as of a plashing fountain. So he lay for long, too impotent, too contented to ask where he lay, or whence he had departed. Athens, Hermione, all the thousand and one things of his old life, flitted through his brain, but only as vague, far shapes. He was too weak even to long for them. Still the fountain plashed on, and mingling with the tinkling he thought he heard low flutes breathing. Perhaps it was only a phantasy of his flagging brain. Then his eyes opened wider. He lifted his hand. It was a task even to do that little thing,—he was so weak. He looked at the hand! Surely his own, yet how white it was, how thin; the bones were there, the blue veins, but all the strength gone out of them. Was this the hand that had flung great Lycon down? It would be mere sport for a child to master him now. He touched his face. It was covered with a thick beard, as of a long month’s growth. The discovery startled him. He strove to rise on one elbow. Too weak! He sank back upon the cushions and let his eyes rove inquiringly. Never had he seen tapestries the like of those that canopied his bed. Scarlet and purple and embroidered in gold thread with elaborate hunting scenes,—the dogs, the chariots, the slaying of the deer, the bearing home of the game. He knew the choicest looms of Sidon must have wrought them. And the linen, so cool, so grateful, underneath his head—was it not the almost priceless fabric of Borsippa? He stirred a little, his eyes rested on the floor. It was covered with a rug worth an Athenian patrician’s ransom,—a lustrous, variegated sheen, showing a new tint at each change of the light. So much he saw from the bed, and curiosity was wakened. Again he put forth his hand, and touched the hanging curtains. The movement set a score of little silver bells that dangled over the canopy to jingling. As at a signal the flutes grew louder, mingling with them was the clearer note of lyres. Now the strains swelled sweetly, now faded away into dreamy sighing, as if bidding the listener to sink again into the arms of sleep. Another vain effort to rise on his elbow. Again he was helpless. Giving way to the charm of the music, he closed his eyes.

Either I am awaking in Elysium, or the gods send to me pleasant dreams before I die.

He was feebly wondering which was the alternative when a new sound roused him, the sweep and rustle of the dresses of two women as they approached the bed. He gazed forth listlessly, when lo! above his couch stood two strangers,—strangers, but either as fair as Aphrodite arising from the sea. Both were tall, and full of queenly grace, both were dressed in gauzy white, but the hair of the one was of such gold that Glaucon hardly saw the circlet which pressed over it. Her eyes were blue, the lustre of her face was like a white rose. The other’s hair shone like the wing of a raven. A wreath of red poppies covered it, but over the softly tinted forehead there peered forth a golden snake with emerald eyes—the Egyptian uræus, the crown of a princess from the Nile. Her eyes were as black as the other’s were blue, her lips as red as the dye of Tyre, her hands—But before Glaucon looked and wondered more, the first, she of the golden head, laid her hand upon his face,—a warm, comforting hand that seemed to speed back strength and gladness with the touch. Then she spoke. Her Greek was very broken, yet he understood her.

Are you quite awakened, dear Glaucon?

He looked up marvelling, not knowing how to answer; but the golden goddess seemed to expect none from him.

It is now a month since we brought you from Astypalæa. You have wandered close to the Portals of the Dead. We feared you were beloved by Mazda too well, that you would never wake that we might bless you. Night and day have my husband and I prayed to Mithra the Merciful and Hauratât the Health-Giver in your behalf; each sunrise, at our command, the Magians have poured out for you the Haôma, the sacred juice dear to the Beautiful Immortals, and Amenhat, wisest of the physicians of Memphis, has stood by your bedside without rest. Now at last our prayers and his skill have conquered; you awake to life and gladness.

Glaucon lay wondering, not knowing how to reply, and only understanding in half, when the dark-haired goddess spoke, in purer Greek than her companion.

And I, O Glaucon of Athens, would have you suffer me to kiss your feet. For you have given my brother and my sister back to life. Then drawing near she took his hand in hers, while the two smiling looked down on him.

At last the lotus-eating ended. Repeated messengers told how Xerxes was quitting Babylon, was holding a muster in Cappadocia, and now was crossing Asia Minor toward Sardis. Mardonius and his companions had returned to that capital. Daily the soldiery poured into Sardis by tens of thousands. Glaucon knew now it was not a vain boast that for ten years the East had been arming against Hellas, that the whole power of the twenty satrapies would be flung as one thunderbolt upon devoted Greece.

In the plain about Sardis a second city was rising, of wicker booths and gay pavilions. The host grew hourly. Now a band of ebony archers in leopard skins entered from far Ethiopia, now Bactrian battle-axemen, now yellow-faced Tartars from the northeast, now bright-turbaned Arabs upon their swaying camels,—Syrians, Cilicians, black-bearded Assyrians and Babylonians, thick-lipped Egyptians, came, and many a strange race more.

But the core of the army were the serried files of Aryan horse and foot,—blond-headed, blue-eyed men, Persians and Medes, veterans of twenty victories. Their muscles were tempered steel. Their unwearying feet had tramped many a long parasang. Some were light infantry with wicker shields and powerful bows, but as many more horsemen in gold-scaled armour and with desert steeds that flew like Pegasus.

Glaucon’s longing for the old life ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the return of memory maddened him. Who had done it?—had forged that damning letter and then hid it with Seuthes? Themistocles? Impossible. Democrates?—the friend with the understanding heart no less than a brother dear, as Homer said? More impossible. An unknown enemy, then, had stolen the fleet order from Themistocles? But what man had hated Glaucon? One answer remained,—unwittingly the athlete had offended some god, forgotten some vow, or by sheer good fortune had awakened divine jealousy. Poseidon had been implacable toward Odysseus, Athena toward Hector, Artemis toward Niobe,—Glaucon could only pray that his present welcome amongst the Persians might not draw down another outburst of Heaven’s anger.

More than all else was the keen longing for Hermione. He saw her in the night. Vainly, amidst the storms of the gathering war, he had sought a messenger to Athens. In this he dared ask no help from Mardonius. Then almost from the blue a bolt fell that made him wish to tear Hermione from his heart.

A Carian slave, a trusted steward at the Athenian silver mines of Laurium, had loved his liberty and escaped to Sardis. The Persians questioned him eagerly, for he knew all the gossip of Athens. Glaucon met the runaway, who did not know then who he was, so many Greek refugees were always fluttering around the king’s court. The Carian told of a new honour for Democrates.

He is elected strategus for next year because of his proud patriotism. There is talk, too, of a more private bit of good fortune.

What is it?

That he has made successful suit to Hermippus of Eleusis for his daughter,—the widow of Glaucon, the dead outlaw. They say the marriage follows at the end of the year of mourning—Sir, you are not well!

I was never better. But the other had turned ashen. He quitted the Carian abruptly and shut himself in his chamber. It was good that he wore no sword. He might have slain himself.

Yet, he communed in his heart, was it not best? Was he not dead to Athens? Must Hermione mourn him down to old age? And whom better could she take than Democrates, the man who had sacrificed even friendship for love of country?

Artabanus, the vizier, gave a great feast that night. They drank the pledge, Victory to the king, destruction to his enemies. The lords all looked on Glaucon to see if he would touch the cup. He drank deeply. They applauded him. He remained long at the wine, the slaves bore him home drunken. In the morning Mardonius said Xerxes ordered him to serve in the cavalry guards, a post full of honour and chance for promotion. Glaucon did not resist. Mardonius sent him a silvered cuirass and a black horse from the steppes of Bactria,—fleet as the north wind. In his new armour he went to the chambers of Artazostra and Roxana. They had never seen him in panoply before. The brilliant mail became him rarely. The ladies were delighted.

You grow Persian apace, my Lord Prexaspes,—Roxana always called him by his new name now,—soon we shall hail you as your Magnificence the satrap of Parthia or Asia or some other kingly province in the East.

I do well to become Persian, he answered bitterly, unmoved by the admiration, for yesterday I heard that which makes it more than ever manifest that Glaucon the Athenian is dead. And whether he shall ever rise to live again, Zeus knoweth; but from me it is hid.

Artazostra did not approach, but Roxana came near, as if to draw the buckle of the golden girdle—the gift of Xerxes. He saw the turquoise shining on the tiara that bound her jet-black hair, the fine dark profile of her face, her delicate nostrils, the sweep of drapery that half revealed the form so full of grace. Was there more than passing friendship in the tone with which she spoke to him?

You have heard from Athens?

Yes.

And the tidings were evil.

Why call them evil, princess? My friends all believe me dead. Can they mourn for me forever? They can forget me, alas! more easily than I in my lonesomeness can forget them.

You are very lonely?—the hand that drew the buckle worked slowly. How soft it was, how delicately the Nile sun had tinted it!

Do you say you have no friends? None? Not in Sardis? Not among the Persians?

I said not that, dear lady,—but when can a man have more than one native country?—and mine is Attica, and Attica is far away.

All through that year to its close and again to the verge of springtime the sun made violet haze upon the hills and pure fire of the bay at Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Night by night the bird song would be stilled in the old olives along the dark waters. There Hermione would sit looking off into the void, as many another in like plight has sat and wearily waited, asking of the night and the sea the questions that are never answered. As the bay shimmered under the light of morning, she could gaze toward the brown crags of Salamis and the open Ægean beyond. The waves kept their abiding secret. The tall triremes, the red-sailed fishers’ boats, came and went from the havens of Athens, but Hermione never saw the ship that had borne away her all.

The roar and scandal following the unmasking of Glaucon had long since abated. Hermippus—himself full five years grayer on account of the calamity—had taken his daughter again to quiet Eleusis, where there was less to remind her of that terrible night at Colonus. She spent the autumn and winter in an unbroken shadow life, with only her mother and old Cleopis for companions. Reasons not yet told to the world gave her a little hope and comfort. But in mere desire to make her dark cloud break, her parents were continually giving Hermione pain. She guessed it long before her father’s wishes passed beyond vaguest hints. She heard him praising Democrates, his zeal for Athens and Hellas, his fair worldly prospects, and there needed no diviner to reveal Hermippus’s hidden meaning. Once she overheard Cleopis talking with another maid.

Her Ladyship has taken on terribly, to be sure, but I told her mother when a fire blazes too hot, it burns out simply the faster. Democrates is just the man to console in another year.

Yes, answered the other wiseacre, she’s far too young and pretty to stay unwedded very long. Aphrodite didn’t make her to sit as an old maid carding wool and munching beans. One can see Hermippus’s and Lysistra’s purpose with half an eye.

Cleopis, Nania, what is this vile tattling that I hear?

The young mistress’s eyes blazed fury. Nania turned pale. Hermione was quite capable of giving her a sound whipping, but Cleopis mustered a bold front and a ready lie:

Ei! dear little lady, don’t flash up so! I was only talking with Nania about how Phryne the scullion maid was making eyes at Scylax the groom.

I heard you quite otherwise, was the nigh tremulous answer. But Hermione was not anxious to push matters to an issue. From the moment of Glaucon’s downfall she had believed—what even her own mother had mildly derided—that Democrates had been the author of her husband’s ruin. And now that the intent of her parents ever more clearly dawned on her, she was close upon despair. Hermippus, however,—whatever his purpose,—was considerate, nay kindly. He regarded Hermione’s feelings as pardonable, if not laudable. He would wait for time to soothe her. But the consciousness that her father purposed such a fate for her, however far postponed, was enough to double all the unanswered longing, the unstilled pain.

It is easy to praise the blessings of peace. Still easier to paint the horrors of war,—and yet war will remain for all time the greatest game at which human wits can play. For in it every form of courage, physical and moral, and every talent are called into being. If war at once develops the bestial, it also develops as promptly the heroic. Alone of human activities it demands a brute’s strength, an iron will, a serpent’s intellect, a lion’s courage—all in one. And of him who has these things in justest measure, history writes, He conquered. It was because Mardonius seemed to possess all these, to foresee everything, to surmount everything, that Glaucon despaired for the fate of Hellas, even more than when he beheld the crushing armaments of the Persian.

Yet for long it seemed as if the host would march even to Athens without battle, without invoking Mardonius’s skill. The king crossed Thrace and Macedonia, meeting only trembling hospitality from the cities along his route. At Doriscus he had held a review of his army, and smiled when the fawning scribes told how one million seven hundred thousand foot and eighty thousand horse followed his banners.A number, of course, grossly exaggerated. Every fugitive and spy from southern Hellas told how the hearts of the stanchest patriots were sinking, how everywhere save in Athens and Sparta loud voices urged the sending of earth and water,—tokens of submission to the irresistible king. At the pass of Tempē covering Thessaly, Glaucon, who knew the hopes of Themistocles, had been certain the Hellenes would make a stand. Rumour had it that ten thousand Greek infantry were indeed there, and ready for battle. But the outlaw’s expectations were utterly shattered. To the disgust of the Persian lords, who dearly loved brisk fighting, it was soon told how the cowardly Hellenes had fled by ship, leaving the rich plains of Thessaly bare to the invader.

Thus was blasted Glaucon’s last hope. Hellas was doomed. He almost looked to see Themistocles coming as ambassador to bring the homage of Athens. Since his old life seemed closed to the outlaw, he allowed Mardonius to have his will with him,—to teach him to act, speak, think, as an Oriental. He even bowed himself low before the king, an act rewarded by being commanded one evening to play at dice with majesty itself. Xerxes was actually gracious enough to let his new subject win from him three handsome Syrian slave-boys.

You Hellenes are becoming wise, announced the monarch one day, when the Locrian envoys came with their earth and water. If you can learn to speak the truth, you will equal even the virtues of the Aryans.

Your Majesty has not found me a liar, rejoined the Athenian, warmly.

You gather our virtues apace. I must consider how I can reward you by promotion.

The king is overwhelmingly generous. Already I fear many of his servants mutter that I am promoted beyond all desert.

Mutter? mutter against you? The king’s eyes flashed ominously. By Mazda, it is against me, then, who advanced you! Hearken, Otanes,—he addressed the general of the Persian footmen, who stood near by,—who are the disobedient slaves who question my advancement of Prexaspes?

The general—he had been the loudest grumbler—bowed and kissed the carpet.

None, your Eternity; on the contrary, there is not one Aryan in the host who does not rejoice the king has found so noble an object for his godlike bounty.

You hear, Prexaspes, said Xerxes, mollified. I am glad, for the man who questions my wisdom touching your advancement must be impaled. To-morrow is my birthday, you will not fail to sit with the other great lords at the banquet.

The king overpowers me with his goodness.

Do not fail to deserve it. Mardonius is always praising you. Consider also how much better it is to depend on a gracious king than on the clamour of the fickle mob that rules in your helpless cities!

A rugged mountain, an inaccessible morass, and beyond that morass the sea: the mountain thrusting so close upon the morass as barely to leave space for a narrow wagon road. This was the western gate of Thermopylæ. Behind the narrow defile the mountain and swamp-land drew asunder; in the still scanty opening hot springs gushed forth, sacred to Heracles, then again on the eastern side Mt. Œta and the impenetrable swamp drew together, forming the second of the Hot Gates,—the gates which Xerxes must unlock if he would continue his march to Athens.

The Great King’s couriers reported that the stubborn Hellenes had cast a wall across the entrance, and that so far from showing terror at the advent of majesty, were carelessly diverting themselves by athletic games, and by combing and adorning their hair, a fact which the Lord Prexaspes at least comprehended to mean that Leonidas and his Spartans were preparing for desperate battle. Nevertheless, it was hard to persuade the king that at last he confronted men who would resist him to his face. Glaucon said it. Demaratus, the outlawed Spartan, said it. Xerxes, however, remained angry and incredulous. Four long days he and his army sat before the pass, because, announced his couriers, he wishes in his benignity to give these madmen a chance to flee away and shun destruction; because, spoke those nearest to Mardonius, the brain of the army, there is hot fighting ahead, and the general is resolved to bring up the picked troops in the rear before risking a battle.

Then on the fifth day either Xerxes’s patience was exhausted or Mardonius felt ready. Strong regiments of Median infantry were ordered to charge Leonidas’s position, Xerxes not failing to command that they slay as few of the wretches as possible, but drag them prisoners before his outraged presence.

A noble charge. A terrible repulse. For the first time those Asiatics who had forgotten Marathon discovered the overwhelming superiority that the sheathing of heavy armour gave the Greek hoplites over the lighter armed Median spearmen. The short lances and wooden targets of the attackers were pitifully futile against the long spears and brazen shields of the Hellenes. In the narrow pass the vast numbers of Barbarians went for nothing. They could not use their archers, they could not charge with their magnificent cavalry. The dead lay in heaps. The Medes attacked again and again. At last an end came to their courage. The captains laid the lash over their mutinous troops. The men bore the whips in sullen silence. They would not charge again upon those devouring spears.

White with anger, Xerxes turned to Hydarnes and his Immortals, the infantry of the Life Guard. The general needed no second bidding. The charge was driven home with magnificent spirit. But what the vassal Medes could not accomplish, neither could the lordly Persians. The repulse was bloody. If once Leonidas’s line broke and the Persians rushed on with howls of triumph, it was only to see the Hellenes’ files close in a twinkling and return to the onset with their foes in confusion. Hydarnes led back his men at last. The king sat on the ivory throne just out of arrow shot, watching the ebb and flow of the battle. Hydarnes approached and prostrated himself.

Omnipotence, I the least of your slaves put my life at your bidding. Command that I forfeit my head, but my men can do no more. I have lost hundreds. The pass is not to be stormed.

Only the murmur of assent from all the well-tried generals about the throne saved Hydarnes from paying the last penalty. The king’s rage was fearful; men trembled to look on him. His words came so thick, the rest could never follow all his curses and commands. Only Mardonius was bold enough to stand up before his face.

Your Eternity, this is an unlucky day. Is it not sacred to Angra-Mainyu the Evil? The arch-Magian says the holy fire gives forth sparks of ill-omen. Wait, then, till to-morrow. Verethraghna, the Angel of Victory, will then return to your servants.

The bow-bearer led his trembling master to the royal tent, and naught more of Xerxes was seen till the morning. All that night Mardonius never slept, but went unceasingly the round of the host preparing for battle. Glaucon saw little of him. The Athenian himself had been posted among the guard of nobles directly about the person of the king, and he was glad he was set nowhere else, otherwise he might have been ordered to join in the attack. Like every other in the host, he slept under arms, and never returned to Mardonius’s pavilion. His heart had been in his eyes all that day. He had believed Leonidas would be swept from the pass at the first onset. Even he had underrated the Spartan prowess. The repulse of the Medes had astonished him. When Hydarnes reeled back, he could hardly conceal his joy. The Hellenes were fighting! The Hellenes were conquering! He forgot he stood almost at Xerxes’s side when the last charge failed; and barely in time did he save himself from joining in the shout of triumph raised by the defenders when the decimated Immortals slunk away. He had grown intensely proud of his countrymen, and when he heard the startled Persian lords muttering dark forbodings of the morrow, he all but laughed his gladness in their faces.

So the night passed for him: the hard earth for a bed, a water cruse wrapped in a cloak for a pillow. And just as the first red blush stole over the green Malian bay and the mist-hung hills of Eubœa beyond, he woke with all the army. Mardonius had used the night well. Chosen contingents from every corps were ready. Cavalrymen had been dismounted. Heavy masses of Assyrian archers and Arabian slingers were advanced to prepare for the attack by overwhelming volleys. The Persian noblemen, stung to madness by their king’s reproaches and their own sense of shame, bound themselves by fearful oaths never to draw from the onset until victorious or dead. The attack itself was led by princes of the blood, royal half-brothers of the king. Xerxes sat again on the ivory throne, assured by every obsequious tongue that the sacred fire gave fair omens, that to-day was the day of victory.

The attack was magnificent. For an instant its fury seemed to carry the Hellenes back. Where a Persian fell two stepped over him. The defenders were swept against their wall. The Barbarians appeared to be storming it. Then like the tide the battle turned. The hoplites, locking shields, presented an impenetrable spear hedge. The charge spent itself in empty promise. Mardonius, who had been in the thickest, nevertheless drew off his men skilfully and prepared to renew the combat.

In the interval Glaucon, standing by the king, could see a short, firm figure in black armour going in and out among the Hellenes, ordering their array—Leonidas—he needed no bird to tell him. And as the Athenian stood and watched, saw the Persians mass their files for another battering charge, saw the Great King twist his beard whilst his gleaming eyes followed the fate of his army, an impulse nigh irresistible came over him to run one short bow-shot to that opposite array, and cry in his own Greek tongue:—

I am a Hellene, too! Look on me come to join you, to live and die with you, with my face against the Barbarian!

Cruel the fate that set him here, impotent, when on that band of countrymen Queen Nikē was shedding bright glory!

But he was Glaucon the Traitor still, to be awarded the traitor’s doom by Leonidas. Therefore the Lord Prexaspes must stand at his post, guarding the king of the Aryans.

The second charge was as the first, the third was as the second. Mardonius was full of recourses. By repeated attacks he strove to wear the stubborn Hellenes down. The Persians proved their courage seven times. Ten of them died gladly, if their deaths bought that of a single foe. But few as were Leonidas’s numbers, they were not so few as to fail to relieve one another at the front of the press,—which front was fearfully narrow. And three times, as his men drifted back in defeat, Xerxes the king leaped from the throne whereon he sat, in anguish for his army.

At noon new contingents from the rear took the place of the exhausted attackers. The sun beat down with unpitying heat. The wounded lay sweltering in their agony whilst the battle roared over them. Mardonius never stopped to count his dead. Then at last came nightfall. Man could do no more. As the shadows from Œta grew long over the close scene of combat, even the proudest Persians turned away. They had lost thousands. Their defeat was absolute. Before them and to westward and far away ranged the jagged mountains, report had it, unthreaded by a single pass. To the eastward was only the sea,—the sea closed to them by the Greek fleet at the unseen haven of Artemisium. Was the triumph march of the Lord of the World to end in this?

Xerxes spoke no word when they took him to his tent that night, a sign of indescribable anger. Fear, humiliation, rage—all these seemed driving him mad. His chamberlains and eunuchs feared to approach to take off his golden armour. Mardonius came to the royal tent; the king, with curses he had never hurled against the bow-bearer before, refused to see him. The battle was ended. No one was hardy enough to talk of a fresh attack on the morrow. Every captain had to report the loss of scores of his best. As Glaucon rode back to Mardonius’s tents, he overheard two infantry officers:—

A fearful day—the bow-bearer is likely to pay for it. I hope his Majesty confines his anger only to him.

Yes—Mardonius will walk the Chinvat bridge to-morrow. The king is turning against him. Megabyzus is the bow-bearer’s enemy, and already is gone to his Majesty to say that it is Mardonius’s blunders that have brought the army to such a plight. The king will catch at that readily.

At the tents Glaucon found Artazostra and Roxana. They were both pale. The news of the great defeat had been brought by a dozen messengers. Mardonius had not arrived. He was not slain, that was certain, but Artazostra feared the worst. The proud daughter of Darius found it hard to bear up.

My husband has many enemies. Hitherto the king’s favour has allowed him to mock them. But if my brother deserts him, his ruin is speedy. Ah! Ahura-Mazda, why hast Thou suffered us to see this day?

Glaucon said what he could of comfort, which was little. Roxana wept piteously; he was fain to soothe her by his caress,—something he had never ventured before. Artazostra was on the point of calling her eunuchs and setting forth for Xerxes’s tent to plead for the life of her husband, when suddenly Pharnuches, Mardonius’s body-servant, came with news that dispelled at least the fears of the women.

I am bidden to tell your Ladyships that my master has silenced the tongues of his enemies and is restored to the king’s good favor. And I am bidden also to command the Lord Prexaspes to come to the royal tent. His Majesty has need of him.

Glaucon went, questioning much as to the service to be required. He did not soon forget the scene that followed. The great pavilion was lit by a score of resinous flambeaux. The red light shook over the green and purple hangings, the silver plating of the tent-poles. At one end rose the golden throne of the king; before it in a semicircle the stools of a dozen or more princes and commanders. In the centre stood Mardonius questioning a coarse-featured, ill-favoured fellow, who by his sheepskin dress and leggings Glaucon instantly recognized as a peasant of this Malian country. The king beckoned the Athenian into the midst and was clearly too eager to stand on ceremony.

Your Greek is better than Mardonius’s, good Prexaspes. In a matter like this we dare not trust too many interpreters. This man speaks the rough dialect of his country, and few can understand him. Can you interpret?

I am passing familiar with the Locrian and Malian dialect, your Majesty.

Question this man further as to what he will do for us. We have understood him but lamely.

Glaucon proceeded to comply. The man, who was exceeding awkward and ill at ease in such august company, spoke an outrageous shepherd’s jargon which even the Athenian understood with effort. But his business came out speedily. He was Ephialtes, the son of one Eurydemus, a Malian, a dull-witted grazier of the country, brought to Mardonius by hope of reward. The general, partly understanding his purpose, had brought him to the king. In brief, he was prepared, for due compensation, to lead the Persians by an almost unknown mountain path over the ridge of Œta and to the rear of Leonidas’s position at Thermopylæ, where the Hellenes, assailed front and rear, would inevitably be destroyed.

As Glaucon interpreted, the shout of relieved gladness from the Persian grandees made the tent-cloths shake. Xerxes’s eyes kindled. He clapped his hands.

Reward? He shall have ten talents! But where? How?

The man asserted that the path was easy and practicable for a large body of troops. He had often been over it with his sheep and goats. If the Persians would start a force at once—it was already quite dark—they could fall upon Leonidas at dawn. The Spartan would be completely trapped, or forced to open the defile without another spear thrust.

A care, fellow, warned Mardonius, regarding the man sharply; you speak glibly, but if this is a trick to lead a band of the king’s servants to destruction, understand you play with deadly dice. If the troops march, you shall have your hands knotted together and a soldier walking behind to cut your throat at the first sign of treachery.

Glaucon interpreted the threat. The man did not wince.

There is no trap. I will guide you.

That was all they could get him to say.

As Glaucon slept he found himself again in Athens. He was on the familiar way from the cool wrestling ground of the Academy and walking toward the city through the suburb of Ceramicus. Just as he came to the three tall pine trees before the gate, after he had passed the tomb of Solon, behold! a fair woman stood in the path and looked on him. She was beyond mortal height and of divine beauty, yet a beauty grave and stern. Her gray eyes cut to his heart like swords. On her right hand hovered a winged Victory, on her shoulder rested an owl, at her feet twined a wise serpent, in her left hand she bore the ægis, the shaggy goat-skin engirt with snakes—emblem of Zeus’s lightnings. Glaucon knew that she was Athena Polias, the Warder of Athens, and lifted his hands to adore her. But she only looked on him in silent anger. Fire seemed leaping from her eyes. The more Glaucon besought, the more she turned away. Fear possessed him. Woe is me, he trembled, I have enraged a terrible immortal. Then suddenly the woman’s countenance was changed. The ægis, the serpent, the Victory, all vanished; he saw Hermione before him, beautiful as on the day she ran to greet him at Eleusis, yet sad as was his last sight of her the moment he fled from Colonus. Seized with infinite longing, he sprang to her. But lo! she drifted back as into the air. It was even as when Odysseus followed the shade of his mother in the shadowy Land of the Dead.

Ugh—the dogs died hard, but they are dead, grunted Xerxes, still shivering on the ivory throne. The battle had raged disagreeably close to him.

They are dead; even so perish all of your Eternity’s enemies, rejoined Mardonius, close by. The bow-bearer himself was covered with blood and dust. A Spartan sword had grazed his forehead. He had exposed himself recklessly, as well he might, for it had taken all the efforts of the Persian captains, as well as the ruthless laying of whips over the backs of their men, to make the king’s battalions face the frenzied Hellenes, until the closing in of Hydarnes from the rear gave the battle its inevitable ending.

Xerxes was victorious. The gate of Hellas was unlocked. The mountain wall of Œta would hinder him no more. But the triumph had been bought with a price which made Mardonius and every other general in the king’s host shake his head.

Lord, reported Hystaspes, commander of the Scythians, one man in every seven of my band is slain, and those the bravest.

Lord, spoke Artabazus, who led the Parthians, my men swear the Hellenes were possessed by dævas. They dare not approach even their dead bodies.

Lord, asked Hydarnes, will it please your Eternity to appoint five other officers in the Life Guard, for of my ten lieutenants over the Immortals five are slain?

But the heaviest news no man save Mardonius dared to bring to the king.

May it please your Omnipotence, spoke the bow-bearer, to order the funeral pyres of cedar and precious oils to be prepared for your brothers Abrocomes and Hyperanthes, and command the Magians to offer prayers for the repose of their fravashis in Garonmana the Blessed, for it pleased Mazda the Great they should fall before the Hellenes.

Xerxes waved his hand in assent. It was hard to be the Lord of the World, and be troubled by such little things as the deaths of a few thousand servants, or even of two of his numerous half-brethren, hard at least on a day like this when he had seen his desire over his enemies.

They shall be well avenged, he announced with kingly dignity, then smiled with satisfaction when they brought him the shield and helmet of Leonidas, the madman, who had dared to contemn his power. But all the generals who stood by were grim and sad. One more such victory would bring the army close to destruction.

Xerxes’s happiness, however, was not to be clouded. From childish fears he had passed to childish exultation.

Have you found the body also of this crazed Spartan? he inquired of the cavalry officer who had brought the trophies.

As you say, Omnipotence, rejoined the captain, bowing in the saddle.

Good, then. Let the head be struck off and the trunk fastened on a cross that all may see it. And you, Mardonius, addressing the bow-bearer, ride back to the hillock where these madmen made their last stand. If you discover among the corpses any who yet breathe, bring them hither to me, that they may learn the futility of resisting my might.

The bow-bearer shrugged his shoulders. He loved a fair battle and fair treatment of valiant foes. The dishonouring of the corpse of Leonidas was displeasing to more than one high-minded Aryan nobleman. But the king had spoken, and was to be obeyed. Mardonius rode back to the hillock at the mouth of the pass, where the Hellenes had retired—after their spears were broken and they could resist only with swords, stones, or naked hands—for the final death grip.

The slain Barbarians lay in heaps. The Greeks had been crushed at the end, not in close strife, but by showers of arrows. Mardonius dismounted and went with a few followers among the dead. Plunderers were already at their harpy work of stripping the slain. The bow-bearer chased them angrily away. He oversaw the task which his attendants performed as quickly as possible. Their toil was not quite fruitless. Three or four Thespians were still breathing, a few more of the helots who had attended Leonidas’s Spartans, but not one of the three hundred but seemed dead, and that too with many wounds.

Snofru, Mardonius’s Egyptian body-servant, rose from the ghastly work and grinned with his ivories at his master.

All the rest are slain, Excellency.

You have not searched that pile yonder.

Snofru and his helpers resumed their toil. Presently the Egyptian dragged from a bloody heap a body, and raised a yell. Another one—he breathes!

There’s life in him. He shall not be left to the crows. Take him forth and lay him with the others that are living.

It was not easy to roll the three corpses from their feebly stirring comrade. When this was done, the stricken man was still encased in his cuirass and helmet. They saw only that his hands were slim and white.

With care, ordered the humane bow-bearer, he is a young man. I heard Leonidas took only older men on his desperate venture. Here, rascals, do you not see he is smothered in that helmet? Lift him up, unbuckle the cuirass. By Mithra, he has a strong and noble form! Now the helmet—uncover the face.

But as the Egyptian did so, his master uttered a shout of mingled wonderment and terror.

Glaucon—Prexaspes, and in Spartan armour!

What had befallen Glaucon was in no wise miraculous. He had borne his part in the battle until the Hellenes fell back to the fatal hillock. Then in one of the fierce onsets which the Barbarians attempted before they had recourse to the simpler and less glorious method of crushing their foes by arrow fire, a Babylonian’s war club had dashed upon his helmet. The stout bronze had saved him from wound, but under the stroke strength and consciousness had left him in a flash. The moment after he fell, the soldier beside him had perished by a javelin, and falling above the Athenian made his body a ghastly shield against the surge and trampling of the battle. Glaucon lay scathless but senseless through the final catastrophe. Now consciousness was returning, but he would have died of suffocation save for Snofru’s timely aid.

It was well for the Athenian that Mardonius was a man of ready devices. He had not seen Glaucon at his familiar post beside the king, but had presumed the Hellene had remained at the tents with the women, unwilling to watch the destruction of his people. In the rush and roar of the battle the messenger Artazostra had sent her husband telling of Prexaspes’s flight had never reached him. But Mardonius could divine what had happened. The swallow must fly south in the autumn. The Athenian had returned to his own. The bow-bearer’s wrath at his protégé’s desertion was overmastered by the consuming fear that tidings of Prexaspes’s disloyalty would get to the king. Xerxes’s wrath would be boundless. Had he not proffered his new subject all the good things of his empire? And to be rewarded thus! Glaucon’s recompense would be to be sawn asunder or flung into a serpent’s cage.

Fortunately Mardonius had only his own personal followers around him. He could count on their discreet loyalty. Vouchsafing no explanations, but bidding them say not a word of their discovery on their heads, he ordered Snofru and his companions to make a litter of cloaks and lances, to throw away Glaucon’s tell-tale Spartan armour, and bear him speedily to Artazostra’s tents. The stricken man was groaning feebly, moving his limbs, muttering incoherently. The sight of Xerxes driving in person to inspect the battle-field made Mardonius hasten the litter away, while he remained to parley with the king.

So only a few are alive? asked Xerxes, leaning over the silver rail of the chariot, and peering on the upturned faces of the dead which were nearly trampled by his horses. Are any sound enough to set before me?

None, your Eternity; even the handful that live are desperately wounded. We have laid them yonder.

Let them wait, then; all around here seem dead. Ugly hounds! muttered the monarch, still peering down; even in death they seem to grit their teeth and defy me. Faugh! The stench is already terrible. It is just as well they are dead. Angra-Mainyu surely possessed them to fight so! It cannot be there are many more who can fight like this left in Hellas, though Demaratus, the Spartan outlaw, says there are. Drive away, Pitiramphes—and you, Mardonius, ride beside me. I cannot abide those corpses. Where is my handkerchief? The one with the Sabæan nard on it. I will hold it to my nose. Most refreshing! And I had a question to ask—I have forgotten what.

Whether news has come from the fleets before Artemisium? spoke Mardonius, galloping close to the wheel.

Not that. Ah! I remember. Where was Prexaspes? I did not see him near me. Did he stay in the tents while these mad men were destroyed? It was not loyal, yet I forgive him. After all, he was once a Hellene.

May it please your Eternity,—Mardonius chose his words carefully,—a Persian always loved the truth, and lies to the king were doubly impious,—Prexaspes was not in the tents but in the thick of the battle.

Ah! Xerxes smiled pleasantly, it was right loyal of him to show his devotion to me thus. And he acquitted himself valiantly?

Most valiantly, Omnipotence.

Doubly good. Yet he ought to have stayed near me. If he had been a true Persian, he would not have withdrawn from the person of the king, even to display his prowess in combat. Still he did well. Where is he?

I regret to tell your Eternity he was desperately wounded, though your servant hopes not unto death. He is even now being taken to my tents.

Where that pretty dancer, your sister, will play the surgeon—ha! cried the king. Well, tell him his Lord is grateful. He shall not be forgotten. If his wounds do not mend, call in my body-physicians. And I will send him something in gratitude—a golden cimeter, perhaps, or it may be another cream Nisæan charger.

A general rode up to the chariot with his report, and Mardonius was suffered to gallop to his own tents, blessing Mazda; he had saved the Athenian, yet had not told a lie.

A city of two hundred thousand awaiting a common sentence of death,—such seemed the doom of Athens.

Every morning the golden majesty of the sun rose above the wall of Hymettus, but few could lift their hands to Lord Helios and give praise for another day of light. Each sunrise brings Xerxes nearer. The bravest forgot not that.

Yet Athens was never more truly the Violet-Crowned City than on these last days before the fearful advent. The sun at morn on Hymettus, the sun at night on Daphni, the nightingales and cicadas in the olives by Cephissus, the hum of bees on the sweet thyme of the mountain, the purple of the hills, the blue and the fire of the bay, the merry tinkle of the goat bells upon the rocks, the laugh of little children in the streets—all these made Athens fair, but could not take the cloud from the hearts of the people.

Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end.

And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra promised and did nothing. Thebes was weakening. Thessaly had sent earth and water. Corinth, Ægina, and a few lesser states were moderately loyal, but great Sparta only procrastinated and despatched no help to her Athenian ally. So every day the Persian thunder-cloud was darkening.

But one man never faltered, nor suffered others about him to falter,—Themistocles. The people heard him gladly—he would never talk of defeat. He had a thousand reasons why the invader should be baffled, from a convenient hexameter in old Bacis’s oracle book, up to the fact that the Greeks used the longest spears. If he found it weary work looking the crowding peril in the face and smiling still, he never confessed it. His friends would marvel at his serenity. Only when they saw him sit silent, saw his brows knit, his hand comb at his beard, they knew his inexhaustible brain was weaving the web which should ensnare the lord of the Aryans.

Thus day after day—while men thought dark things in their hearts.

It had come at last,—the hour wise men had dreaded, fools had scoffed at, cowards had dared not face. The Barbarian was within five days’ march of Attica. The Athenians must bow the knee to the world monarch or go forth exiles from their country.

In the morning after the night of terror came another courier, not this time from Thermopylæ. He bore a letter from Themistocles, who was returning from Eubœa with the whole allied Grecian fleet. The reading of the letter in the Agora was the first rift in the cloud above the city.

Be strong, prove yourselves sons of Athens. Do what a year ago you so boldly voted. Prepare to evacuate Attica. All is not lost. In three days I will be with you.

There was no time for an assembly at the Pnyx, but the Five Hundred and the Areopagus council acted for the people. It was ordered to remove the entire population of Attica, with all their movable goods, across the bay to Salamis or to the friendly Peloponnesus, and that same noon the heralds went over the land to bear the direful summons.

To Hermione, who in the calm after-years looked back on all this year of agony and stress as on an unreal thing, one time always was stamped on memory as no dream, but vivid, unforgetable,—these days of the great evacuation. Up and down the pleasant plain country of the Mesogia to southward, to the rolling highlands beyond Pentelicus and Parnes, to the slumbering villages by Marathon, to the fertile farm-land by Eleusis, went the proclaimers of ill-tidings.

Quit your homes, hasten to Athens, take with you what you can, but hasten, or stay as Xerxes’s slaves.

For the next two days a piteous multitude was passing through the city. A country of four hundred thousand inhabitants was to be swept clean and left naked and profitless to the invader. Under Hermione’s window, as she gazed up and down the street, jostled the army of fugitives, women old and young, shrinking from the bustle and uproar, grandsires on their staves, boys driving the bleating goats or the patient donkeys piled high with pots and panniers, little girls tearfully hugging a pet puppy or hen. But few strong men were seen, for the fleet had not yet rounded Sunium to bear the people away.

The well-loved villas and farmsteads were tenantless. They left the standing grain, the ripening orchards, the groves of the sacred olives. Men rushed for the last time to the shrines where their fathers had prayed,—the temples of Theseus, Olympian Zeus, Dionysus, Aphrodite. The tombs of the worthies of old, stretching out along the Sacred Way to Eleusis, where Solon, Clisthenes, Miltiades, and many another bulwark of Athens slept, had the last votive wreath hung lovingly upon them. And especially men sought the great temple of the Rock, to lift their hands to Athena Polias, and vow awful vows of how harm to the Virgin Goddess should be wiped away in blood.

So the throng passed through the city and toward the shore, awaiting the fleet.

It came after eager watching. The whole fighting force of Athens and her Corinthian, Æginetan, and other allies. Before the rest raced a stately ship, the Nausicaä, her triple-oar bank flying faster than the spray. The people crowded to the water’s edge when the great trireme cast off her pinnace and a well-known figure stepped therein.

Themistocles is with us!

He landed at Phaleron, the thousands greeted him as if he were a god. He seemed their only hope—the Atlas upbearing all the fates of Athens. With the glance of his eye, with a few quick words, he chased the terrors from the strategi and archons that crowded up around him.

Why distressed? Have we not held the Barbarians back nobly at Artemisium? Will we not soon sweep his power from the seas in fair battle?

With almost a conqueror’s train he swept up to the city. A last assembly filled the Pnyx. Themistocles had never been more hopeful, more eloquent. With one voice men voted never to bend the knee to the king. If the gods forbade them to win back their own dear country, they would go together to Italy, to found a new and better Athens far from the Persian’s power. And at Themistocles’s motion they voted to recall all the political exiles, especially Themistocles’s own great enemy Aristeides the Just, banished by the son of Neocles only a few years before. The assembly dispersed—not weeping but with cheers. Already it was time to be quitting the city. Couriers told how the Tartar horsemen were burning the villages beyond Parnes. The magistrates and admirals went to the house of Athena. The last incense smoked before the image. The bucklers hanging on the temple wall were taken down by Cimon and the other young patricians. The statue was reverently lifted, wound in fine linen, and borne swiftly to the fleet.

Come, makaira! called Hermippus, entering his house to summon his daughter. Hermione sent a last glance around the disordered aula; her mother called to the bevy of pallid, whimpering maids. Cleopis was bearing Phœnix, but Hermione took him from her. Only his own mother should bear him now. They went through the thinning Agora and took one hard look at each familiar building and temple. When they should return to them, the inscrutable god kept hid. So to Peiræus,—and to the rapid pinnaces which bore them across the narrow sea to Salamis, where for the moment at least was peace.

All that day the boats were bearing the people, and late into the night, until the task was accomplished, the like whereof is not found in history. No Athenian who willed was left to the power of Xerxes. One brain and voice planned and directed all. Leonidas, Ajax of the Hellenes, had been taken. Themistocles, their Odysseus, valiant as Ajax and gifted with the craft of the immortals, remained. Could that craft and that valour turn back the might of even the god-king of the Aryans?

A few days only Xerxes and his host rested after the dear-bought triumph at Thermopylæ. An expedition sent to plunder Delphi returned discomfited—thanks, said common report, to Apollo himself, who broke off two mountain crags to crush the impious invaders. But no such miracle halted the march on Athens. Bœotia and her cities welcomed the king; Thespiæ and Platæa, which had stood fast for Hellas, were burned. The Peloponnesian army lingered at Corinth, busy with a wall across the Isthmus, instead of risking valorous battle.

By the soul of my father, the king had sworn, I believe that after the lesson at Thermopylæ these madmen will not fight again!

By land they will not, said Mardonius, always at his lord’s elbow, by sea—it remains for your Eternity to discover.

Will they really dare to fight by sea? asked Xerxes, hardly pleased at the suggestion.

Omnipotence, you have slain Leonidas, but a second great enemy remains. While Themistocles lives, it is likely your slaves will have another opportunity to prove to you their devotion.

Ah, yes! A stubborn rogue, I hear. Well—if we must fight by sea, it shall be under my own eyes. My loyal Phœnician and Egyptian mariners did not do themselves full justice at Artemisium; they lacked the valour which comes from being in the presence of their king.

Which makes a dutiful subject fight as ten, quickly added Pharnaspes the fan-bearer.

Of course, smiled the monarch, and now I must ask again, Mardonius, how fares it with my handsome Prexaspes?

Only indifferently, your Majesty, since you graciously deign to inquire.

Such a sad wound? That is heavy news. He takes long in recovering. I trust he wants for nothing.

Nothing, Omnipotence. He has the best surgeons in the camp.

To-day I will send him Helbon wine from my own table. I miss his comely face about me. I want him here to play at dice. Tell him to recover because his king desires it. If he has become right Persian, that will be better than any physic.

I have no doubt he will be deeply moved to learn of your Eternity’s kindness, rejoined the bow-bearer, who was not sorry that further discussion of this delicate subject was averted by the arch-usher introducing certain cavalry officers with their report on the most practicable line of march through Bœotia.

Glaucon, in fact, was long since out of danger, thanks to the sturdy bronze of his Laconian helmet. He was able to walk, and, if need be, ride, but Mardonius would not suffer him to go outside his own tents. The Athenian would be certain to be recognized, and at once Xerxes would send for him, and how Glaucon, in his new frame of mind, would deport himself before majesty, whether he would not taunt the irascible monarch to his face, the bow-bearer did not know. Therefore the Athenian endured a manner of captivity in the tents with the eunuchs, pages, and women. Artazostra was often with him, and less frequently Roxana. But the Egyptian had lost all power over him now. He treated her with a cold courtesy more painful than contempt. Once or twice Artazostra had tried to turn him back from his purpose, but her words always broke themselves over one barrier.

I am born a Hellene, lady. My gods are not yours. I must live and die after the manner of my people. And that our gods are strong and will give victory, after that morning with Leonidas I dare not doubt.

When the host advanced south and eastward from Thermopylæ, Glaucon went with it, riding in a closed travelling carriage guarded by Mardonius’s eunuchs. All who saw it said that here went one of the bow-bearer’s harem women, and as for the king, every day he asked for his favourite, and every day Mardonius told him, He is even as before, an answer which the bow-bearer prayed to truth-loving Mithra might not be accounted a lie.

It was while the army lay at Platæa that news came which might have shaken Glaucon’s purpose, had that purpose been shakable. Euboulus the Corinthian had been slain in a skirmish shortly after the forcing of Thermopylæ. The tidings meant that no one lived who could tell in Athens that on the day of testing the outlaw had cast in his lot with Hellas. Leonidas was dead. The Spartan soldiers who had heard Glaucon avow his identity were dead. In the hurried conference of captains preceding the retreat, Leonidas had told his informant’s precise name only to Euboulus. And now Euboulus was slain, doubtless before any word from him of Glaucon’s deed could spread abroad. To Athenians Glaucon was still the Traitor, doubly execrated in this hour of trial. If he returned to his people, would he not be torn in pieces by the mob? But the young Alcmæonid was resolved. Since he had not died at Thermopylæ, no life in the camp of the Barbarian was tolerable. He would trust sovran Athena who had plucked him out of one death to deliver from a second. Therefore he nursed his strength—a caged lion waiting for freedom,—and almost wished the Persian host would advance more swiftly that he might haste onward to his own.

Leonidas was taken. Themistocles was left,—left to bear as crushing a load as ever weighed on man,—to fight two battles, one with the Persian, one with his own unheroic allies, and the last was the harder. Three hundred and seventy Greek triremes rode off Salamis, half from Athens, but the commander-in-chief was Eurybiades of Sparta, the sluggard state that sent only sixteen ships, yet the only state the bickering Peloponnesians would obey. Hence Themistocles’s sore problems.

Different from the man of unruffled brow who ruled from the bema was he who paced the state cabin of the Nausicaä a few nights after the evacuation. For he at least knew the morn would bring Hellas her doom. There had been a gloomy council that afternoon. They had seen the Acropolis flame two days before. The great fleet of Xerxes rode off the Attic havens. At the gathering of the Greek chiefs in Eurybiades’s cabin Themistocles had spoken one word many times,—Fight!

To which Adeimantus, the craven admiral of Corinth, and many another had answered:—

Delay! Back to the Isthmus! Risk nothing!

Then at last the son of Neocles silenced them, not with arguments but threats. Either here in the narrow straits we can fight the king or not at all. In the open seas his numbers can crush us. Either vote to fight here or we Athenians sail for Italy and leave you to stem Xerxes as you can.

There had been sullen silence after that, the admirals misliking the furrow drawn above Themistocles’s eyes. Then Eurybiades had haltingly given orders for battle.

That had been the command, but as the Athenian left the Spartan flag-ship in his pinnace he heard Globryas, the admiral of Sicyon, muttering, Headstrong fool—he shall not destroy us! and saw Adeimantus turn back for a word in Eurybiades’s ear. The Spartan had shaken his head, but Themistocles did not deceive himself. In the battle at morn half of the Hellenes would go to battle asking more how escape? than how conquer? and that was no question to ask before a victory.

The cabin was empty now save for the admiral. On the deck above the hearty shouts of Ameinias the trierarch, and chanting of the seamen told that on the Nausicaä at least there would be no slackness in the fight. The ship was being stripped for action, needless spars and sails sent ashore, extra oars made ready, and grappling-irons placed. Battle was what every Athenian prayed for, but amongst the allies Themistocles knew it was otherwise. The crucial hour of his life found him nervous, moody, silent. He repelled the zealous subalterns who came for orders.

My directions have been given. Execute them. Has Aristeides come yet? The last question was to Simonides, who had been half-companion, half-counsellor, in all these days of storm.

He is not yet come from Ægina.

Leave me, then.

Themistocles’s frown deepened. The others went out.

The state cabin was elegant, considering its place. Themistocles had furnished it according to his luxurious taste,—stanchions cased in bronze hammered work, heavy rugs from Carthage, lamps swinging from chains of precious Corinthian brass. Behind a tripod stood an image of Aphrodite of Fair Counsel, the admiral’s favourite deity. By force of habit now he crossed the cabin, took the golden box, and shook a few grains of frankincense upon the tripod.

Attend, O queen, he said mechanically, and be thou propitious to all my prayers.

He knew the words meant nothing. The puff of night air from the port-hole carried the fragrance from the room. The image wore its unchanging, meaningless smile, and Themistocles smiled too, albeit bitterly.

So this is the end. A losing fight, cowardice, slavery—no, I shall not live to see that last.

He looked from the port-hole. He could see the lights of the Barbarian fleet clearly. He took long breaths of the clear brine.

So the tragedy ends—worse than Phrynicus’s poorest, when they pelted his chorus from the orchestra with date-stones. And yet—and yet—

He never formulated what came next even in his own mind.

Eu! he cried, springing back with part of his old lightness, I have borne a brave front before it all. I have looked the Cyclops in the face, even when he glowered the fiercest. But it all will pass. I presume Thersytes the caitiff and Agamemnon the king have the same sleep and the same dreams in Orchus. And a few years more or a few less in a man’s life make little matter. But it would be sweeter to go out thinking I have triumphed than I have failed, and all the things I loved fail with me. And Athens—

Again he stopped. When he resumed his monologue, it was in a different key.

There are many things I cannot understand. They cannot unlock the riddles at Delphi, no seer can read them in the omens of birds. Why was Glaucon blasted? Was he a traitor? What was the truth concerning his treason? Since his going I have lost half my faith in mortal men.

Once more his thoughts wandered.

How they trust me, my followers of Athens! Is it not better to be a leader of one city of freemen than a Xerxes, master of a hundred million slaves? How they greeted me, as if I were Apollo the Saviour, when I returned to Peiræus! And must it be written by the chroniclers thereafter, About this time Themistocles, son of Neocles, aroused the Athenians to hopeless resistance and drew on them utter destruction? O Father Zeus, must men say that? Am I a fool or crazed for wishing to save my land from the fate of Media, Lydia, Babylonia, Egypt, Ionia? Has dark Atropos decreed that the Persians should conquer forever? Then, O Zeus, or whatever be thy name, O Power of Powers, look to thine empire! Xerxes is not a king, but a god; he will besiege Olympus, even thy throne.

He crossed the cabin with hard strides.

How can I? he cried half-aloud, beating his forehead. How can I make these Hellenes fight?

His hand tightened over his sword-hilt.

This is the only place where we can fight to advantage. Here in the strait betwixt Salamis and Attica we have space to deploy all our ships, while the Barbarians will be crowded by numbers. And if we once retreat?—Let Adeimantus and the rest prate about—The wall, the wall across the Isthmus! The king can never storm it. Nor will he try to, unless his councillors are turned stark mad. Will he not have command of the sea? can he not land his army behind the wall, wherever he wills? Have I not dinned that argument in those doltish Peloponnesians’ ears until I have grown hoarse? Earth and gods! suffer me rather to convince a stone statue than a Dorian. The task is less hard. Yet they call themselves reasoning beings.

A knock upon the cabin door. Simonides reëntered.

You do not come on deck, Themistocles? The men ask for you. Ameinias’s cook has prepared a noble supper—anchovies and tunny—will you not join the other officers and drink a cup to Tychē, Lady Fortune, that she prosper us in the morning?

I am at odds with Tychē, Simonides. I cannot come with you.

The case is bad, then?

Ay, bad. But keep a brave face before the men. There’s no call to pawn our last chance.

Has it come to that? quoth the little poet, in curiosity and concern.

Leave me! ordered Themistocles, with a sweep of the hand, and Simonides was wise enough to obey.

Themistocles took a pen from the table, but instead of writing on the outspread sheet of papyrus, thrust the reed between his teeth and bit it fiercely.

How can I? How can I make these Hellenes fight? Tell that, King Zeus, tell that!

Then quickly his eager brain ran from expedient to expedient.

Another oracle, some lucky prediction that we shall conquer? But I have shaken the oracle books till there is only chaff in them. Or a bribe to Adeimantus and his fellows? But gold can buy only souls, not courage. Or another brave speech and convincing argument? Had I the tongue of Nestor and the wisdom of Thales, would those doltish Dorians listen?

The stranger drew back the shaggy cap. Simonides and Themistocles saw a young, well-formed man. With his thick beard and the flickering cabin lamps it was impossible to discover more. The newcomer stood silent as if awaiting remark from the others, and they in turn looked on him.

Well, spoke the admiral, at length, who are you? Why are you here?

You do not know me?

Not in the least, and my memory is good. But your speech now is Attic, not Doric as they told me.

It may well be Attic, I am Athenian born.

Athenian? And still to me a stranger? Ah! an instant. Your voice is familiar. Where have I heard it before?

The last time, rejoined the stranger, his tones rising, it was a certain night at Colonus. Democrates and Hermippus were with you—likewise—

Themistocles leaped back three steps.

The sea gives up its dead. You are Glaucon son of—

Conon, completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral was not so calm.

Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What prevents that I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?

Nothing hinders! nothing—Glaucon’s voice mounted to shrillness—save that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.

A loyal son you have been! darted Themistocles, his lips curling. Where did you escape the sea?

I was washed on Astypalæa.

Where have you been since?

In Sardis.

Who protected you there?

Mardonius.

Did the Persians treat you so shabbily that you were glad to desert them?

They loaded me with riches and honour. Xerxes showered me with benefits.

And you accompanied their army to Hellas? You went with the other Greek renegades—the sons of Hippias and the rest?

Glaucon’s brow grew very red, but he met Themistocles’s arrowlike gaze.

I did—and yet—

Ah, yes—the yet, observed Themistocles, sarcastically. I had expected it. Well, I can imagine many motives for coming,—to betray our hopes to the Persians, or even because Athena has put some contrite manhood in your heart. You know, of course, that the resolution we passed recalling the exiles did not extend pardon to traitors.

I know it.

Themistocles flung himself into a chair. The admiral was in a rare condition for him,—truly at a loss to divine the best word and question.

Sit also, Simonides, his order, and you, once Alcmæonid and now outlaw, tell why, after these confessions, I should believe any other part of your story?

I do not ask you to believe,—Glaucon stood like a statue,—I shall not blame you if you do the worst,—yet you shall hear—

The admiral made an impatient gesture, commanding Begin, and the fugitive poured out his tale. All the voyage from Phaleron he had been nerving himself for this ordeal; his composure did not desert now. He related lucidly, briefly, how the fates had dealt with him since he fled Colonus. Only when he told of his abiding with Leonidas Themistocles’s gaze grew sharper.

Tell that again. Be careful. I am very good at detecting lies.

Glaucon repeated unfalteringly.

What proof that you were with Leonidas?

None but my word. Euboulus of Corinth and the Spartans alone knew my name. They are dead.

Humph! And you expect me to accept the boast of a traitor with a price upon his head?

You said you were good at detecting lies.

Themistocles’s head went down between his hands; at last he lifted it and gazed the deserter in the face.

Now, son of Conon, do you still persist that you are innocent? Do you repeat those oaths you swore at Colonus?

All. I did not write that letter.

Who did, then?

A malignant god, I said. I will say it again.

Themistocles shook his head.

Gods take human agencies to ruin a man in these days, even Hermes the Trickster. Again I say, who wrote that letter?

Athena knows.

And unfortunately her Ladyship the Goddess will not tell, cried the admiral, blasphemously. Let us fall back on easier questions. Did I write it?

For the fourth time the subaltern who stood at Eurybiades’s elbow turned the water-glass that marked the passing of the hours. The lamps in the low-ceiled cabin were flickering dimly. Men glared on one another across the narrow table with drawn and heated faces. Adeimantus of Corinth was rising to reply to the last appeal of the Athenian.

We have had enough, Eurybiades, of Themistocles’s wordy folly. Because the Athenian admiral is resolved to lead all Hellas to destruction, is no reason that we should follow. As for his threat that he will desert us with his ships if we refuse to fight, I fling it in his face that he dare not make it good. Why go all over the well-threshed straw again? Is not the fleet of the king overwhelming? Were we not saved by a miracle from overthrow at Artemisium? Do not the scouts tell us the Persians are advancing beyond Eleusis toward Megara and the Isthmus? Is not our best fighting blood here in the fleet? Then if the Isthmus is threatened, our business is to defend it and save the Peloponnesus, the last remnant of Hellas unconquered. Now then, headstrong son of Neocles, answer that!

The Corinthian, a tall domineering man, threw back his shoulders like a boxer awaiting battle. Themistocles did not answer, but only smiled up at him from his seat opposite.

I have silenced you, grinning babbler, at last, thundered Adeimantus, and I demand of you, O Eurybiades, that we end this tedious debate. If we are to retreat, let us retreat. A vote, I say, a vote!

Eurybiades rose at the head of the table. He was a heavy, florid individual with more than the average Spartan’s slowness of tongue and intellect. Physically he was no coward, but he dreaded responsibility.

Much has been said, he announced ponderously, many opinions offered. It would seem the majority of the council favour the decision to retire forthwith. Has Themistocles anything more to say why the vote should not be taken?

Nothing, rejoined the Athenian, with an equanimity that made Adeimantus snap his teeth.

We will therefore take the vote city by city, went on Eurybiades. Do you, Phlegon of Seriphos, give your vote.

Seriphos—wretched islet—sent only one ship, but thanks to the Greek mania for equality Phlegon’s vote had equal weight with that of Themistocles.

Salamis is not defensible, announced the Seriphian, shortly. Retreat.

And you, Charmides of Melos?

Retreat.

And you, Phoibodas of Trœzene?

Retreat, by all the gods.

And you, Hippocrates of Ægina?

Stay and fight. If you go back to the Isthmus, Ægina must be abandoned to the Barbarians. I am with Themistocles.

Record his vote, shouted Adeimantus, ill-naturedly, he is but one against twenty. But I warn you, Eurybiades, do not call for Themistocles’s vote, or the rest of us will be angry. The man whose city is under the power of the Barbarian has no vote in this council, however much we condescend to listen to his chatterings.

The Athenian sprang from his seat, his aspect as threatening as Apollo descending Olympus in wrath.

Where is my country, Adeimantus? Yonder! he pointed out the open port-hole, there rides the array of our Athenian ships. What other state in Hellas sends so many and sets better men within them? Athens still lives, though her Acropolis be wrapped in flames. Strong-hearted men and naught else are warp and woof of a city. Do you forget Alcæus’s word so soon, O Boaster from Corinth? Yes, by Athena Promachos, Mistress of Battles, while those nine score ships ride on the deep, I have a city fairer, braver, than yours. And will you still deny me equal voice and vote with this noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his comrade from Melos with his twain?

Themistocles’s voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades broke in with soothing tones.

No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent Corinthian did but jest.

A fitting hour for jesting! muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his seat.

The vote, the vote! urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus’s elbow, and the voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only three—Themistocles’s and those of the Æginetan and Megarian admirals—were in favour of abiding the onset. Yet even when Eurybiades arose to announce the decision, the son of Neocles sat with his hands sprawling on the table, his face set in an inscrutable smile as he looked on Adeimantus.

It is the plain opinion,—Eurybiades hemmed and hawed with his words,—the plain opinion, I say, of this council that the allied fleet retire at once to the Isthmus. Therefore, I, as admiral-in-chief, do order each commander to proceed to his own flag-ship and prepare his triremes to retire at dawn.

Well said, shouted Adeimantus, already on his feet; now to obey.

But with him rose Themistocles. He stood tall and calm, his thumbs thrust in his girdle. His smile was a little broader, his head held a little higher, than of wont.

Good Eurybiades, I grieve to blast the wisdom of all these valiant gentlemen, but they cannot retire if they wish.

Explain! a dozen shouted.

Very simply. I have had good reason to know that the king has moved forward the western horn of his fleet, so as to enclose our anchorage at Salamis. It is impossible to retire save through the Persian line of battle.

Perseus upholding the Gorgon’s head before Polydectes’s guests and turning them to stone wrought hardly more of a miracle than this calm announcement of Themistocles. Men stared at him vacantly, stunned by the tidings, then Adeimantus’s frightened wrath broke loose.

Fox!Equivalent to crying Hound! in English. Was this your doing?

I did not ask you to thank me, philotate, was the easy answer. It is, however, urgent to consider whether you wish to be taken unresisting in the morning.

The Corinthian shook his fist across the table.

Liar, as a last device to ruin us, you invent this folly.

It is easy to see if I lie, rejoined Themistocles; send out a pinnace and note where the Persians anchor. It will not take long.

For an instant swords seemed about to leap from their scabbards, and the enraged Peloponnesians to sheathe them in the Athenian’s breast. He stood unflinching, smiling, while a volley of curses flew over him. Then an orderly summoned him on deck, while Adeimantus and his fellows foamed and contended below. Under the battle lantern Themistocles saw a man who was his elder in years, rugged in feature, with massive forehead and wise gray eyes. This was Aristeides the Just, the admiral’s enemy, but their feud had died when Xerxes drew near to Athens.

Hands clasped heartily as the twain stood face to face.

Our rivalry forever more shall be a rivalry which of us can do most to profit Athens, spoke the returning exile; then Aristeides told how he had even now come from Ægina, how he had heard of the clamours to retreat, how retreat was impossible, for the Persians were pressing in. A laugh from Themistocles interrupted.

My handiwork! Come to the council. They will not believe me, no, not my oath.

Aristeides told his story, and how his vessel to Salamis had scarce escaped the Egyptian triremes, and how by this time all entrance and exit was surely closed. But even now many an angry captain called him liar. The strife of words was at white heat when Eurybiades himself silenced the fiercest doubter.

Captains of Hellas, a trireme of Teos has deserted from the Barbarian to us. Her navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides tell. The Egyptians hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked on Psyttaleia. The Phœnicians and Ionians enclose us on the eastern strait. We are hemmed in.

Sunrise. The Nausicaä was ready. Ameinias the navarch walked the deck above the stern-cabin with nervous strides. All that human forethought could do to prepare the ship had long been done. The slim hull one hundred and fifty feet long had been stripped of every superfluous rope and spar. The masts had been lowered. On the cat-heads hung the anchors weighted with stone to fend off an enemy, astern towed the pinnace ready to drag alongside and break the force of the hostile ram. The heavy-armed marines stood with their long boarding spears, to lead an attack or cast off grappling-irons. But the true weapon of the Nausicaä was herself. To send the three-toothed beak through a foeman’s side was the end of her being. To meet the shock of collision two heavy cables had been bound horizontally around the hull from stem to stern. The oarsmen,—the thranites of the upper tier, the zygites of the middle, the thalamites of the lower,—one hundred and seventy swart, nervous-eyed men, sat on their benches, and let their hands close tight upon those oars which trailed now in the drifting water, but which soon and eagerly should spring to life. At the belt of every oarsman dangled a sword, for boarders’ work was more than likely. Thirty spare rowers rested impatiently on the centre deck, ready to leap wherever needed. On the forecastle commanded the prōreus, Ameinias’s lieutenant, and with him the keleustes, the oar master who must give time on his sounding-board for the rowing, and never fail,—not though the ships around reeled down to watery grave. And finally on the poop by the captain stood the governor,—knotted, grizzled, and keen,—the man whose touch upon the heavy steering oars might give the Nausicaä life or destruction when the ships charged beak to beak.

The trireme is ready, admiral, reported Ameinias, as Themistocles came up leisurely from the stern-cabin.

The son of Neocles threw back his helmet, that all might see his calm, untroubled face. He wore a cuirass of silvered scale-armour over his purple chiton. At his side walked a young man, whom the ship’s people imagined the deserter of the preceding night, but he had drawn his helmet close.

This is Critias, said Themistocles, briefly, to the navarch; he is a good caster. See that he has plenty of darts.

One of Themistocles’s secret agents, muttered the captain to the governor, we should have guessed it. And they all had other things to think of than the whence and wherefore of this stranger.

It was a weary, nervous interval. Men had said everything, done everything, hoped and feared everything. They were in no mood even to invoke the gods. In desperation some jested riotously as they gripped the oars on the benches,—demonstrations which the prōreus quelled with a loud Silence in the ship. The morning mist was breaking. A brisk wind was coming with the sun. Clear and strong sang the Notus, the breeze of the kindly south. It covered the blue bay with crisping whitecaps, it sent the surf foaming up along the Attic shore across the strait. Themistocles watched it all with silent eyes, but eyes that spoke of gladness. He knew the waves would beat with full force on the Persian prows, and make their swift movement difficult while the Greeks, taking the galloping surf astern, would suffer little.

Æolus fights for us. The first omen and a fair one. The word ran in whispers down the benches, and every soul on the trireme rejoiced.

How long did they sit thus? An æon? Would Eurybiades never draw out his line of battle? Would Adeimantus prove craven at the end? Would treachery undo Hellas to-day, as once before at Lade when the Ionian Greeks had faced the Persian fleet in vain? Now as the vapour broke, men began to be able to look about them, and be delivered from their own thoughts. The shores of Salamis were alive,—old men, women, little children,—the fugitives from Attica were crowding to the marge in thousands to watch the deed that should decide their all. And many a bronze-cheeked oarsman arose from his bench to wave farewell to the wife or father or mother, and sank back again,—a clutching in his throat, a mist before his eyes, while his grip upon the oar grew like to steel.

As the Nausicaä rode at her place in the long line of ships spread up and down the shore of Salamis, it was easy to detect forms if not faces on the strand. And Glaucon, peering out from his helmet bars, saw Democrates himself standing on the sands and beckoning to Themistocles. Then other figures became clear to him out of the many, this one or that whom he had loved and clasped hands with in the sunlit days gone by. And last of all he saw those his gaze hungered for the most, Hermippus, Lysistra, and another standing at their side all in white, and in her arms she bore something he knew must be her child,—Hermione’s son, his son, born to the lot of a free man of Athens or a slave of Xerxes according as his elders played their part this day. Only a glimpse,—the throng of strangers opened to disclose them closed again; Glaucon leaned on a capstan. All the strength for the moment was gone out of him.

You rowed and wrought too much last night, Critias, spoke Themistocles, who had eyes for everything. To the cabin, Sicinnus, bring a cup of Chian.

No wine, for Athena’s sake! cried the outlaw, drawing himself together, it is passed. I am strong again.

A great shout from the shores and the waiting fleet made him forget even the sight of Hermione.

They come! The Persians! The Persians!

The fleet of the Barbarians was advancing from the havens of Athens.

After the Nausicaä had returned that night to Salamis, after the old men and the women had laughed and wept over the living,—they were too proud to weep over the dead,—after the prudent admirals had set the fleet again in order, for Xerxes might tempt fate again in the morning with his remaining ships, Themistocles found himself once more in his cabin. With him was only Glaucon the Alcmæonid. The admiral’s words were few and pointed.

Son of Conon, last night you gave me the thought whereby I could save Hellas. To-day your javelin saved me from death. I owe you much. I will repay in true coin. To-morrow I can give you back to your wife and all your friends if you will but suffer me.

The younger man flushed a little, but his eyes did not brighten. He felt Themistocles’s reservation.

On what terms?

You shall be presented to the Athenians as one who, yielding for a moment to overmastering temptation, has atoned for one error by rendering infinite service.

Then I am to be Glaucon the Traitor still, even if Glaucon the Repentant Traitor?

Your words are hard, son of Conon; what may I say? Have you any new explanation for the letter to Argos?

The old one—I did not write it.

Let us not bandy useless arguments. Do you not see I shall be doing all that is possible?

Hellas was saved. But whether forever or only for a year the gods kept hid. Panic-stricken, the Lord of the World had fled to Asia after the great disaster. The eunuchs, the harem women, the soft-handed pages, had escaped with their master to luxurious Sardis, the remnant of the fleet fled back across the Ægean. But the brain and right arm of the Persians, Mardonius the Valiant, remained in Hellas. With him were still the Median infantry, the Tartar horse-archers, the matchless Persian lancers,—the backbone of the undefeated army. Hellas was not yet safe.

Democrates had prospered. He had been reëlected strategus. If Themistocles no longer trusted him quite so freely as once, Aristeides, restored now to much of his former power, gave him full confidence. Democrates found constant and honourable employment through the winter in the endless negotiations at Sparta, at Corinth, and elsewhere, while the jealous Greek states wrangled and intrigued, more to humiliate some rival than to advance the safety of Hellas. But amongst all the patriot chiefs none seemed more devoted to the common weal of Hellas than the Athenian orator.

Hermippus at least was convinced of this. The Eleusinian had settled at Trœzene on the Argive coast, a hospitable city that received many an outcast Athenian. He found his daughter’s resistance to another marriage increasingly unreasonable. Was not Glaucon dead for more than a year? Ought not any woman to bless Hera who gave her so noble, so eloquent, a husband as Democrates—pious, rich, trusted by the greatest, and with the best of worldly prospects?

If you truly desire any other worthy man, makaira, said Hermippus, once, you shall not find me obstinate. Can a loving father say more? But if you are simply resolved never to marry, I will give you to him despite your will. A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.

He ruined Glaucon, said Hermione, tearfully.

At least, returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel things, he has never been a traitor to his country.

Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phœnix in the cradle. Here old Cleopis found her, took her in her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphæus chasing Arethusa—a song more fit for Phœnix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the world and himself.

It was a tedious, jangling conference held at the Isthmus city. Mardonius had tempted the Athenians sorely. In the spring had come his envoys proffering reparation for all injuries in the wars, enlarged territory, and not slavery, but free alliance with the Great King, if they would but join against their fellow-Hellenes. The Athenians had met the tempter as became Athenians. Aristeides had given the envoys the answer of the whole people.

We know your power. Yet tell it to Mardonius, that so long as Helios moves in the heavens we will not make alliance with Xerxes, but rather trust to the gods whose temples he has burned.

Bravely said, but when the Athenians looked to Sparta for the great army to hasten north and give Mardonius his death-stroke, it was the old wearisome tale of excuses and delay. At the conference in Corinth Aristeides and Democrates had passed from arguments to all but threats, even such as Themistocles had used at Salamis. It was after one of these fruitless debates that Democrates passed out of the gathering at the Corinthian prytaneum, with his colleagues all breathing forth their wrath against Dorian stupidity and evasiveness.

Democrates himself crossed the city Agora, seeking the house of the friendly merchant where he was to sup. He walked briskly, his thoughts more perhaps on the waiting betrothal feast at Trœzene, than on the discussion behind him. The Agora scene had little to interest, the same buyers, booths, and babel as in Athens, only the citadel above was the mount of Acro-Corinthus, not the tawny rock of Athena. And in late months he had begun to find his old fears and terrors flee away. Every day he was growing more certain that his former missteps—that was his own name for certain occurrences—could have no malign influence. After all, he was reflecting, Nemesis is a very capricious goddess. Often she forgets for a lifetime, and after death—who knows what is beyond the Styx?

He was on such noble terms with all about him that he could even give ear to the whine of a beggar. The man was sitting on the steps between the pillars of a colonnade, with a tame crow perched upon his fist, and as Democrates passed he began his doggerel prayer:—

Despite exile, life had moved pleasantly for Hermippus’s household that spring. The Trœzenians had surpassed all duties to Zeus Xenios—the stranger’s god—in entertaining the outcast Athenians. The fugitives had received two obols per day to keep them in figs and porridge. Their children had been suffered to roam and plunder the orchards. But Hermippus had not needed such generosity. He had placed several talents at interest in Corinth; likewise bonds of guest-friendship with prominent Trœzenians made his residence very agreeable. He had hired a comfortable house, and could enjoy even luxury with his wife, daughter, young sons, and score of slaves.

Little Phœnix grew marvellously day by day, as if obeying his mother’s command to wax strong and avenge his father. Old Cleopis vowed he was the healthiest, least tearful babe, as well as the handsomest, she had ever known,—and she spoke from wide experience. When he was one year old, he was so active they had to tie him in the cradle. When the golden spring days came, he would ride forth upon his nurse’s back, surveying the Hellas he was born to inherit, and seeming to find it exceeding good.

But as spring verged on summer, Hermione demanded so much of Cleopis’s care that even Phœnix ceased to be the focus of attention. The lordly Alcmæonid fell into the custody of one Niobe, a dark-haired lass of the islands, who treated him well, but cared too much for certain young serving-gentlemen to waste on her charge any unreciprocated adoration. So on one day, just as the dying grass told the full reign of the Sun King, she went forth with her precious bundle wriggling in her arms, but her thoughts hardly on Master Phœnix. Procles the steward had been cold of late, he had even cast sly glances at Jocasta, Lysistra’s tiring-woman. Mistress Niobe was ready—since fair means of recalling the fickle Apollo failed—to resort to foul. Instead, therefore, of going to the promenade over the sea, she went—burden and all—to the Agora, where she was sure old Dion, who kept a soothsayer’s shop, would give due assistance in return for half a drachma.

The market was just thinning. Niobe picked her way amongst the vegetable women, fought off a boy who thrust on her a pair of geese, and found in a quiet corner by a temple porch the booth of Dion, who grinned with his toothless gums in way of greeting. He listened with paternal interest to her story, soothed her when she sniffled at Procles’s name, and made her show her silver, then began pulling over his bags and vials of strange powders and liquids.

Ah, kind Master Dion, began Niobe, for the sixth time, if only some philtre could make Procles loath that abominable Jocasta!

Eu! eu! muttered the old sinner, it’s hard to say what’s best,—powder of toad’s bone or the mixture of wormwood and adder’s fat. The safest thing is to consult the god—

What do you mean?

Why, my holy cock here, hatched at Delphi with Apollo’s blessings on him. Dion pointed with his thumb to the small coop at his feet. The oracle is simple. You cast before him two piles of corn; if he picks at the one to right we take toad’s bone, to left the adder’s fat. Heaven will speak to us.

Excellent, cried Niobe, brightening.

But, of course, we must use only consecrated corn, that’s two obols more.

Niobe’s face fell. I’ve only this half-drachma.

Then, philotata, said Dion, kindly but firmly, we had better wait a little longer.

Niobe wept. Ai! woe. A little longer and Jocasta has Procles. I can’t ask Hermione again for money. Ai! ai!

Two round tears did not move Dion in the slightest. Niobe was sobbing, at her small wits’ end, when a voice sounded behind her.

What’s there wrong, lass? By Zeus, but you carry a handsome child!

Niobe glanced, and instantly stopped weeping. A young man dressed roughly as a sailor, and with long black hair and beard, had approached her, but despite dress and beard she was quite aware he was far handsomer than even Procles.

I beg pardon, kyrie,—she said kyrie by instinct,—I’m only an honest maid. Dion is terribly extortionate. She cast down her eyes, expecting instant succour from the susceptible seaman, but to her disgust she saw he was admiring only the babe, not herself.

Ah! Gods and goddesses, what a beautiful child! A girl?

A boy, answered Niobe, almost sullenly.

Blessed the house in Trœzene then that can boast of such a son.

Oh, he’s not Trœzenian, but one of the exiles from Athens, volunteered Dion, who kept all the tittle-tattle of the little city in stock along with his philtres.

An Athenian! Praised be Athena Polias, then. I am from Athens myself. And his father?

The brat will never boast of his father, quoth Dion, rolling his eyes. He left the world in a way, I wager five minæ, the mother hopes she can hide from her darling, but the babe’s of right good stock, an Alcmæonid, and the grandfather is that Hermippus—

Hermippus? The stranger seemed to catch the word out of Dion’s mouth. A donkey had broken loose at the upper end of the Agora; he turned and stared at it and its pursuers intently.

If you’re Athenian, went on the soothsayer, the story’s an old one—of Glaucon the Traitor.

The stranger turned back again. For a moment Dion saw he was blinking, but no doubt it was dust. Then he suddenly began to fumble in his girdle.

What do you want, girl? he demanded of Niobe, nigh fiercely.

Two obols.

Take two drachmæ. I was once a friend to that Glaucon, and traitor though he has been blazed, his child is yet dear to me. Let me take him.

Without waiting her answer he thrust the coin into her hands, and caught the child out of them. Phœnix looked up into the strange, bearded face, and deliberated an instant whether to crow or to weep. Then some friendly god decided him. He laughed as sweetly, as musically, as ever one can at his most august age. With both chubby hands he plucked at the black beard and held tight. The strange sailor answered laugh with laugh, and released himself right gayly. Then whilst Niobe and Dion watched and wondered they saw the sailor kiss the child full fifty times, all the time whispering soft words in his ear, at which Phœnix crowed and laughed yet more.

An old family servant, threw out Dion, in a whisper.

Sheep! retorted the nurse, do you call yourself wise? Do you think a man with that face and those long hands ever felt the stocks or the whip? He’s gentleman born, by Demeter!

War makes many changes, rejoined Dion. Ai! is he beside himself or a kidnapper? He is walking off with the babe.

The stranger indeed had seemed to forget them all and was going with swift strides up the Agora, but just before Niobe could begin her outcry he wheeled, and brought his merry burden back to the nurse’s arms.

You ought to be exceeding proud, my girl, he remarked almost severely, to have such a precious babe in charge. I trust you are dutiful.

So I strive, kyrie, but he grows very strong. One cannot keep the swaddling clothes on him now. They say he will be a mighty athlete like his father.

Ah, yes—his father— The sailor looked down.

You knew Master Glaucon well? pressed Dion, itching for a new bit of gossip.

Well, answered the sailor, standing gazing on the child as though something held him fascinated, then shot another question. And does the babe’s lady-mother prosper?

She is passing well in body, kyrie, but grievously ill in mind. Hera give her a release from all her sorrow!

Sorrow? The man’s eyes were opening wider, wider. What mean you?

Why, all Trœzene knows it, I’m sure.

Once more the Persians pressed into Attica, once more the Athenians,—or such few of them as had ventured home in the winter,—fled with their movables to Salamis or Peloponnesus, and an embassy, headed by Aristeides, hastened to Sparta to demand for the last time that the tardy ephors make good their promise in sending forth their infantry to hurl back the invader. If not, Aristeides spoke plainly, his people must perforce close alliance with Mardonius.

Almost to the amazement of the Athenian chiefs, so accustomed were they to Dorian doltishness and immobility, after a ten days’ delay and excuses that they must celebrate their festival the Hyacinthia, the ephors called forth their whole levy. Ten thousand heavy infantrymen with a host of lightly armed helotsThe serfs of the Spartans. were started northward under the able lead of Pausanias, the regent for Leonidas’s young son. Likewise all the allies of Lacedæmon—Corinthians, Sicyonians, Elians, Arcadians—began to hurry toward the Isthmus. Therefore men who had loved Hellas and had almost despaired for her took courage. At last we will have a great land battle, and an end to the Barbarian.

All was excitement in the Athenian colony at Trœzene. The board of strategi met and voted that now was the time for a crowning effort. Five thousand men-at-arms should march under Aristeides to join against Mardonius in Bœotia. By sea Themistocles should go with every available ship to Delos, meet the allied squadrons there, and use his infallible art in persuading the sluggish Spartan high admiral to conduct a raid across the Ægean at Xerxes’s own doors. Of the ten strategi Democrates had called loudest for instant action, so loudly indeed that Themistocles had cautioned him against rashness. Hermippus was old, but experienced men trusted him, therefore he was appointed to command the contingent of his tribe. Democrates was to accompany Aristeides as general adjutant; his diplomatic training would be invaluable in ending the frictions sure to arise amongst the allies. Cimon would go with Themistocles, and so every other man was sent to his place. In the general preparation private problems seemed forgotten. Hermippus and Democrates both announced that the betrothal of Hermione had been postponed, pending the public crisis. The old Eleusinian had not told his daughter, or even his wife, why he had seemed to relax his announced purpose of forcing Hermione to an unwelcome marriage. The young widow knew she had respite—for how long nothing told her, but for every day her agony was postponed she blessed kind Hera. Then came the morning when her father must go forth with his men. She still loved him, despite the grief he was giving her. She did him justice to believe he acted in affection. The gay ribbons that laced his cuirass, the red and blue embroidery that edged his taxiarch’s cloak, were from the needle of his daughter. Hermione kissed him as she stood with her mother in the aula. He coughed gruffly when he answered their farewell. The house door closed behind him, and Hermione and Lysistra ran into one another’s arms. They had given to Hellas their best, and now must look to Athena.

The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phœnician had been several days in Trœzene, 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 Trœzene.

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 Phœnician, 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 prōreus of a Melian trireme caulking at Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiræus 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 minæ 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.

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 Bœotia, and before these surmises could change to misdoubting, the Bozra was bearing forth into the Ægean.

The business of Hasdrubal with the Bozra at Trœzene 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 Bœotia, to Democrates in Trœzene, 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 Trœzene, and hastened to join Aristeides and Pausanias in Bœotia.

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 prōreus.

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 Trœzene, 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 prōreus 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 Trœzene and now has aboard.

The chase had cost the Athenians dear. Before the Bozra had submitted to her fate, she had led the Nausicaä and her consort well down into the southern Ægean. 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,Nearly two hundred miles. 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 Nausicaä 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:—

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 Æolus’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.

Never since Salamis had Persian hopes been higher than that night. What if the Spartans were in the field at last, and the incessant skirmishing had been partly to Pausanias’s advantage? Secure in his fortified camp by the Asopus, Mardonius could confidently wait the turn of the tide. His light Tartar cavalry had cut to pieces the convoys bringing provisions to the Hellenes. Rumour told that Pausanias’s army was ill fed, and his captains were at loggerheads. Time was fighting for Mardonius. A joyful letter he had sent to Sardis the preceding morning: Let the king have patience. In forty days I shall be banqueting even in Sparta.

In the evening the Prince sat at council with his commanders. Xerxes had left behind his own war pavilion, and here the Persians met. Mardonius sat on the high seat of the dais. Gold, purple, a hundred torches, made the scene worthy of the monarch himself. Beside the general stood a young page,—beautiful as Armaiti, fairest of the archangels. All looked on the page, but discreetly kept their thoughts to whispers, though many had guessed the secret of Mardonius’s companion.

The debate was long and vehement. Especially Artabazus, general of the rear-guard, was loud in asserting no battle should be risked. He was a crafty man, who, the Prince suspected, was his personal enemy, but his opinion was worth respecting.

I repeat what I said before. The Hellenes showed how they could fight at Thermopylæ. Let us retire to Thebes.

Bravely said, valiant general, sneered Mardonius, none too civilly.

It is mine to speak, yours to follow my opinion as you list. I say we can conquer these Hellenes with folded hands. Retreat to Thebes; money is plentiful with us; we can melt our gold cups into coin. Sprinkle bribes among the hostile chiefs. We know their weakness. Not steel but gold will unlock the way to Sparta.

The generalissimo stood up proudly.

Bribes and stealth? Did Cyrus and Darius win us empire with these? No, by the Fiend-Smiter, it was sharp steel and the song of the bow-string that made Eran to prosper, and prosper to this day. But lest Artabazus think that in putting on the lion I have forgotten the fox, let the strangers now come to us stand forth, that he and every other may know how I have done all things for the glory of my master and the Persian name.

He smote with his commander’s mace upon the bronze ewer on the table. Instantly there appeared two soldiers, between them two men, one of slight, one of gigantic, stature, but both in Grecian dress. Artabazus sprang to his feet.

Who are these men—Thebans?

From greater cities than Thebes. You see two new servants of the king, therefore friends of us all. Behold Lycon of Sparta and Democrates, friend of Themistocles.

His speech was Persian, but the newcomers both understood when he named them. The tall Laconian straightened his bull neck, as in defiance. The Athenian flushed. His head seemed sinking betwixt his shoulders. Much wormwood had he drunk of late, but none bitterer than this,—to be welcomed at the councils of the Barbarian. Artabazus salaamed to his superior half mockingly.

Verily, son of Gobryas, I was wrong. You are guileful as a Greek. There can be no higher praise.

The Prince’s nostrils twitched. Perhaps he was not saying all he felt.

Let your praise await the issue, he rejoined coldly. Suffice it that these friends were long convinced of the wisdom of aiding his Eternity, and to-night come from the camp of the Hellenes to tell all that has passed and why we should make ready for battle at the dawning. He turned to the Greeks, ordering in their own tongue, Speak forth, I am interpreter for the council.

An awkward instant followed. Lycon looked on Democrates.

You are an Athenian, your tongue is readiest, he whispered.

And you the first to Medize. Finish your handiwork, the retort.

We are waiting, prompted Mardonius, and Lycon held up his great head and began in short sentences which the general deftly turned into Persian.

Your cavalry has made our position by the Asopus intolerable. All the springs are exposed. We have to fight every time we try to draw water. To-day was a meeting of the commanders, many opinions, much wrangling, but all said we must retire. The town of Platæa is best. It is strong, with plenty of water. You cannot attack it. To-night our camp has been struck. The troops begin to retire, but in disorder. The contingent of each city marches by itself. The Athenians, thanks to Democrates, delay retreating; the Spartans I have delayed also. I have persuaded Amompharetus, my cousin, who leads the Pitanate mora,A division in the Spartan army. and who was not at the council, that it is cowardly for a Spartan to retreat. He is a sheep-skulled fool and has believed me. Consequently, he and his men are holding back. The other Spartans wait for them. At dawn you will find the Athenians and Spartans alone near their old camping ground, their allies straggling in the rear. Attack boldly. When the onset joins, Democrates and I will order our own divisions to retire. The phalanxes will be broken up. With your cavalry you will have them at mercy, for once the spear-hedge is shattered, they are lost. The battle will not cost you twenty men.

Artabazus rose again and showed his teeth.

A faithful servant of the king, Mardonius,—and so well is all provided, do we brave Aryans need even to string our bows?

The Prince winced at the sarcasm.

I am serving the king, not my own pleasure, he retorted stiffly. The son of Gobryas is too well known to have slurs cast on his courage. And now what questions would my captains ask these Greeks? Promptly—they must be again in their own lines, or they are missed.

An officer here or there threw an interrogation. Lycon answered briefly. Democrates kept sullen silence. He was clearly present more to prove the good faith of his Medizing than for anything he might say. Mardonius smote the ewer again. The soldiers escorted the two Hellenes forth. As the curtains closed behind them, the curious saw that the features of the beautiful page by the general’s side were contracted with disgust. Mardonius himself spat violently.

Dogs, and sons of dogs, let Angra-Mainyu wither them forever. Bear witness, men of Persia, how, for the sake of our Lord the King, I hold converse even with these vilest of the vile!

Soon the council was broken up. The final commands were given. Every officer knew his task. The cavalry was to be ready to charge across the Asopus at gray dawn. With Lycon and Democrates playing their part the issue was certain, too certain for many a grizzled captain who loved the ring of steel. In his own tent Mardonius held in his arms the beautiful page—Artazostra! Her wonderful face had never shone up at his more brightly than on that night, as he drew back his lips from a long fond kiss.

To-morrow—the triumph. You will be conqueror of Hellas. Xerxes will make you satrap. I wish we could conquer in fairer fight, but what wrong to vanquish these Hellenes with their own sly weapons? Do you remember what Glaucon said?

What thing?

That Zeus and Athena were greater than Mazda the Pure and glorious Mithra? To-morrow will prove him wrong. I wonder whether he yet lives,—whether he will ever confess that Persia is irresistible.

I do not know. From the evening we parted at Phaleron he has faded from our world.

He was fair as the Amesha-Spentas, was he not? Poor Roxana—she is again in Sardis now. I hope she has ceased to eat her heart out with vain longing for her lover. He was noble minded and spoke the truth. How rare in a Hellene. But what will you do with these two gold-bought traitors, friends of the king indeed?

Mardonius’s face grew stern.

I have promised them the lordships of Athens and of Sparta. The pledge shall be fulfilled, but after that,—Artazostra understood his sinister smile,—there are many ways of removing an unwelcome vassal prince, if I be the satrap of Hellas.

And you are that in the morning.

For your sake, was his cry, as again he kissed her, I would I were not satrap of Hellas only, but lord of all the world, that I might give it to you, O daughter of Darius and Atossa.

I am mistress of the world, she answered, for my world is Mardonius. To-morrow the battle, the glory, and then what next—Sicily, Carthage, Italy? For Mazda will give us all things.

Morning at last, ruddy and windy. The Persian host had been long prepared. The Tartar cavalry with their bulls-hide targets and long lances, the heavy Persian cuirassiers, the Median and Assyrian archers with their ponderous wicker-shields, stood in rank waiting only the word that should dash them as sling-stones on Pausanias and his ill-starred following. The Magi had sacrificed a stallion, and reported that the holy fire gave every favouring sign. Mardonius went from his tent, all his eunuchs bowing their foreheads to the earth and chorussing, Victory to our Lord, to Persia, and to the King.

They brought Mardonius his favourite horse, a white steed of the sacred breed of Nisæa. The Prince had bound around his turban the gemmed tiara Xerxes had given him on his wedding-day. Few could wield the Babylonish cimeter that danced in the chieftain’s hand. The captains cheered him loudly, as they might have cheered the king.

Life to the general! To the satrap of Hellas!

But beside the Nisæan pranced another, lighter and with a lighter mount. The rider was cased in silvered scale-armour, and bore only a steel-tipped reed.

The general’s page, ran the whisper, and other whispers, far softer, followed. None heard the quick words passed back and forth betwixt the two riders.

Themistocles had started from Oropus with Simonides, a small guard of mariners, and a fettered prisoner, as soon as the Nausicaä’s people were a little rested. Half the night they themselves were plodding on wearily. At Tanagra the following afternoon a runner with a palm branch met them.

Mardonius is slain. Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The Athenians aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who gives us victory!

And the traitors? Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy.

Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered by Aristeides’s tents.

Then the other Athenians broke forth into pæans, but Themistocles bowed his head and was still, though the messenger told how Pausanias and his allies had taken countless treasure, and now were making ready to attack disloyal Thebes. So the admiral and his escort went at leisure across Bœotia, till they reached the Hellenic host still camped near the battle-field. There Themistocles was long in conference with Aristeides and Pausanias. After midnight he left Aristeides’s tent.

Where is the prisoner? he asked of the sentinel before the headquarters.

Your Excellency means the traitor?

The day that disloyal Thebes surrendered came the tidings of the crowning of the Hellenes’ victories. At Mycale by Samos the Greek fleets had disembarked their crews and defeated the Persians almost at the doors of the Great King in Sardis. Artabazus had escaped through Thrace to Asia in caitiff flight. The war—at least the perilous part thereof—was at end. There might be more battles with the Barbarian, but no second Salamis or Platæa.

The Spartans had found the body of Mardonius pierced with five lances—all in front. Pausanias had honoured the brave dead,—the Persian had been carried from the battle-ground on a shield, and covered by the red cloak of a Laconian general. But the body mysteriously disappeared. Its fate was never known. Perhaps the curious would have gladly heard what Glaucon on his sick-bed told Themistocles, and what Sicinnus did afterward. Certain it is that the shrewd Asiatic later displayed a costly ring which the satrap Zariaspes, Mardonius’s cousin, sent him for a great service to the house of Gobryas.