“Væ victis”, retorted Roylands, with a laugh; “keep your lamentations till after the contest, Mr. Aristophanes. Jove! how that fellow scuds!”
A one-mile race was going on, four times round the arena, which was a quarter of a mile in circumference, and about half a dozen men had started, among whom was Temistocles, the young Greek who had won the wine-skin dance on the first day of the festival. He had shot slightly ahead of his competitors, who were making great efforts to catch him up, but Maurice, an adept in such things, saw that he was exhausting himself in the effort to keep the lead, and, as it was only the first lap, would not be able to hold out to the end going at such a pace.
“Crispin, tell that fellow leading to reserve himself for the last round.”
“What for?”
“Because he’s taking too much out of himself, stupid. Quick, shout as he passes.”
The runners were now flying past the winning-post, which was directly in front of Justinian’s throne, so Crispin sang out loudly in Greek to Temistocles as Maurice had instructed him. The young Palikar was no fool, and saw that the advice was good, so he let the two behind him gain his side, and took a second place between them and the ruck. Only these three men were in the race, for the remaining three were already well blown, and Temistocles, acting on the wary advice given, wanted his two most dangerous opponents to exhaust themselves. During the second lap, one of the last three men threw up the sponge, as also did another at the third round, and as the hinder man was completely out of it, the interest in the race centred in the two leading runners and Temistocles, who followed closely behind. Neck and neck ran the first two, making violent efforts to pass one another, quite unaware of the danger behind them, so that at the final lap they were getting somewhat stale. Half-way round the arena, one gained slightly on the other, and, thinking he was now pretty certain of the victory, ran home at full speed, but Temistocles, who had been mustering his strength, saw that the decisive moment had come, and, shooting past him like an arrow, gained the goal four lengths ahead. The applause during this exciting race was tremendous, and the onlookers cheered themselves hoarse when Temistocles won; while that grateful young man came to thank Crispin for the hint which had gained him the victory.
“Do not thank me,” said Crispin, smiling, as he drew Roylands forward; “Kyrios Maurice told me what to say.”
Temistocles expressed himself much beholden to the lord, and went off to receive the congratulations of his friends, while the next item on the programme, which was a boxing contest, began. Both Maurice and Dick watched this exhibition of pugilistic science critically, and came to the conclusion that while the islanders were active enough in dodging and hitting, they had not sufficient strength to make their blows effective enough when they hit home. It was all dexterity and avoidance with them, which made the fight pretty enough to look on, but scarcely exciting from an English point of view. Still, one of these light-weight Greeks was enough to tire out any ordinary boxer, and, once having exhausted his antagonist, could hope to tap him pretty freely, and thus come off victor.
At last, after several contests, Maurice and Dick put on the gloves and stepped into the arena, and, after shaking hands in time-honored fashion, began to spar warily at one another. Both were heavier-built men than the spare-framed Greeks, but were pretty equally matched in point of weight and science. If anything, Dick had the quicker eye of the two, while Roylands possessed the longer reach. Justinian, an old boxing man himself, was as keen as a needle over this glove match, and came down from his seat, in order to get a closer view of the battle, while the Melnosians, equally interested, crowded round eagerly to watch the contest.
After sparring lightly for a time, Maurice made a feint, and led out straight home, but Dick was on his guard, and parried the blow with his right, catching his antagonist a lifter on the jaw with his left. Secretly annoyed at this, Roylands made rapid play, and succeeded in landing a stunner on Dick’s eye before the active sailor could dodge. Maurice got the worst of the first round, Dick of the second, so it seemed difficult to foresee who would finally triumph. In the third Maurice got a nasty one in the ribs, but, feinting with his left, extended his right rapidly in that dexterous blow known as “the policeman’s knock,” which, catching Dick full on the face, had the effect of tumbling him over on the grass. In the fourth round, however, Dick recovered his lost ground by blowing his antagonist first, then coming home with a tremendous rap on the left ear which made Maurice see stars. The Greeks were frenzied with excitement, and even Justinian, Caliphronas, and Crispin caught the contagion, and yelled as loudly as the rest at every successful blow. Not so active as the cat-like sailor, Maurice was getting a trifle blown, and thought he was going to disgrace himself in Helena’s eyes, and, what was worse, in Caliphronas’, by being beaten, so, when the fifth round began, made up his mind to come off best. By this time he was pretty well versed in Dick’s tactics[tactics], and when the sailor closed in with a right-hand feint, in order to come home with his left, Maurice dodged like lightning, and, breaking down Dick’s guard, punished him severely on the nose. Both men’s blood was up now, and indeed Dick’s was showing, as it streamed from what is called, in the graceful language of the prize ring, “his smeller,” and at the sixth round the onlookers saw that the final bout would be severe.