“I scarcely know; but I suppose life is sweet even to one who has lost everything; and I am too young,” he added with a faint smile, “to relish the idea of Charon and his ferry-boat.”
“Are you of the lineage of Pindar?”
“I cannot claim that honour. The husband of old Eurytion’s sister, and father of the little Creon, whom you have seen doubtless, was my kinsman; but I am not related to the house of Pindar by blood. No; I have no more claim to the clemency of Alexander than the rest of my countrymen.”
The young Macedonian stood lost in thought. He had often imagined the meeting that would take place some day, he was sure, between Charondas and himself. But he had never dreamt of it under such circumstances as these. He was to encounter him on the battle-field and vanquish him, perhaps overtake him in the pursuit, and then, perhaps, spare his life, perhaps kill him—he had never been quite able to make up his mind which it should be. But now killing him was out of the question; the man could not defend himself. And yet to give him up to death or slavery—how inexpressibly mean it seemed to him!
“I have no right,” said the young Theban, “to ask a favour of you. I wronged you once——”
“Stop,” interrupted Charidemus, “how came you to think of doing such a thing? It was shameful to win the prize in such a way.”
“It is true,” said the other; “but it was not of my own will that I came forward to object. Another urged me to it, and he is dead. You know that our cities give a handsome reward in money to those who win these prizes at the games; and we were very poor. But I could have trampled the crown in the dust, so hateful was it to win by craft what you had won by speed.”
“Well, well,” said Charidemus, who now had greater prizes than Olympia could give before his eyes, “it was no such great matter after all;” and he held out his hand to the wounded lad.
“Ah!” said the other, “I have no right to ask you favours. Yet one thing I may venture on. Kill me here. I could not bear to be a slave. Those poor women, who have risked their lives to save me, will be sorry when they hear of it, and little Creon will cry; but a child’s tears are soon dried. But a slave—that would be too dreadful. I remember a poor Phocian my father had—sold to him after the taking of Crissa, of which, I suppose, you have heard—as well bred a man as any of us, and better educated, for we Thebans, in spite of our Pindar, are not very clever. What a life he led! I would die a hundred times over sooner than bear it for a day! No, kill me, I beseech you. So may the gods above and below be good to you when your need comes! Have you ever killed a man?” he went on. “Hardly, I suppose, in cold blood. Well, then, I will show you where to strike.” And he pointed to a place on his breast, from which, at the same time, he withdrew his tunic. “My old trainer,” he went on, “taught me that. Or, if you would sooner have it so, give me the sword, and I dare say that I can make shift to deal as straight a blow as will suffice.”