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The president was just bidding the heralds, “Pluck them asunder and declare a tie!” when the stadium gave a shrill long shout. Lycon had turned to his final resource. Reckless of his own hurt, he dashed his iron forehead against the Athenian’s, as bull charges bull. Twice and three times, and the blood leaped out over Glaucon’s fair skin. Again—the rush of blood was almost blinding.
“You show truly excellent courage, dear Democrates,” cried Lycon, in pseudo-admiration. “That speech was quite worthy of a tragic actor.” “If we’re in the theatre, let the chorus sing its last strophe and have done. You disgust me.” “Peace, peace,” ordered Lycon, his hand still on the Athenian’s shoulder, “I will make all the haste I can, but obstinacy is disagreeable.
Clear through the scales of the cuirass it tore, and into the Persian’s shoulder,—Glaucon’s cast, never at the Isthmus truer with hand or eye. The ponderous blade turned, grazed the Athenian’s corselet, clattered on the deck. The Persian sprang back disarmed and powerless. At sight thereof the Phœnicians flung down their swords.
He saw himself ruined in life and in love, and blazoned as infamous forever. Lycon was wise enough to sit some moments, letting his utterance do its work. He was confident, and rightly. Democrates looked on him at last. The workings of the Athenian’s face were terrible. “I am your slave, Spartan. Had you bought me for ten minæ and held the bill of sale, I were not yours more utterly. Your wish?”
“No answer?” persisted the giant. “Eu! don’t complain that you’ve lacked warning, when you sit to-night in Charon’s ferry-boat.” The least shadow of a smile flitted across the Athenian’s face; there was a slight deepening of the light in his eye. He turned his head a bit toward Lycon:— “The games are not ended, dear Spartan,” he observed quietly.
For plainly the Olympians have destined that I should see and do great things in Hellas, otherwise they would not have kept me back from Leonidas’s glory.” The Athenian’s voice rang confidently. None of the halting weakness remained that had made it falter once when Mardonius asked him, “Will your Hellenes fight?” He spoke as might one returned crowned with the victor’s laurel.
Least of all that pair who wrestled perchance for life and for death. Twice again the Spartan strove with his weight to crush his opponent down. Twice vainly. He could not close his grip around the Athenian’s throat. He had looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening eyes.
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.
Again—Pytheas screamed with agony—the Athenian’s clutch seemed weakening. Again—flesh and blood could not stand such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to the pentathlon. “Help thou me, Athena of the Gray Eyes! For the glory of Athens, my father, my wife!” The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the bellowing stadium.
“Ah, yes! divinely mad.” Brighter still grew the Athenian’s eyes. “For that moment of exultation when we charged to meet the king I would again pay a lifetime.” “Yet the gateway of Hellas is unlocked. Your bravest are fallen. Your land is defenceless. What else can be written hereafter save, ‘The Hellenes strove with fierce courage to fling back Xerxes. Their valour was foolishness.