“Hail, Paian; Alala, Alala!”
He shouted the old Dorian war cry and, waiting not for Eëtíon nor his father, charged down the Sacred Way. His spear was forward-ready; his shield weightless upon his arm. His hair streamed from his helmet upon the wind. He was light-footed as a god. So might Achilles have swept into battle after his days of wrath.
Eëtíon and Nikander, with a score of temple guards, leaped after him. The great gates had already been flung open by the earth’s motion.
“Ai, Ai! look up! Look up. Behold our avenging god!”
It was old Akeretos shouting in a frenzy which Theria had to obey. Her upward glance caught the bronze votive chariot of Gelon just as it toppled from its lofty eyrie in the cliffside. Down it came! Chariot, horses, victor and charioteer, banging on jutting rock and crag with grand clangour, a divine and shattering noise.
“And there happened to the Persians yet greater portents,” says the historian. “Two men in full armour and of stature more than human followed them slaying and pursuing.”
Meanwhile Dryas in the midst of battle knew only that he was struggling amid a sea of men. Persian warriors, who in spite of their terror of the supernatural happenings, fought the pursuing Delphians desperately and tried thus to preserve their fleeing hordes.
Dryas dealt blow after blow, stroke after stroke. Better yet, he received wounds uncaring, and with every wound, every stroke, the gods gave him manhood and courage.