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“But your accent is Athenian?” asked the decarch, with wonderment. “Ay, Athenian,” assented Glaucon. “Curses on you! I thought no Athenian ever Medized. What business had you in the Persian camp? Who of your countrymen are there save the sons of Hippias?” “Not many,” rejoined the fugitive, not anxious to have the questions pushed home.
The two went down dark avenues of tents, and halted at one where five hoplites stood guard with their spears ready, five more slept before the entrance. “We watch him closely, kyrie,” explained the decarch, saluting. “Naturally we fear suicide as well as escape. Two more are within the tent.” “Withdraw them. Do you all stand at distance. For what happens I will be responsible.”
“A friend, a Hellene—my speech tells that. Take me to Leonidas. I’ve a story worth telling.” “Euge! Master ‘Friend,’ our general can’t be waked for every deserter. We’ll call our decarch.” A shout brought the subaltern commanding the Greek outposts. He was a Spartan of less sluggish wits than many of his breed, and presently believed Glaucon when he declared he had reason in asking for Leonidas.
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