Once the outer defence was taken, Caliphronas intended to lead his century of men up this secret way, which he knew thoroughly, and thus gain the heart of the island as exemplified by the Acropolis, while the Demarch was keeping back the feigned attack at the stockade. This stratagem was very clever and very feasible, but the difficulty in carrying it out consisted in the fact that, before the path could be ascended, the outer defence would have to be taken, which was no easy task, when defended by such determined men as the Melnosians. However, it was to[to] all appearances the only chance of gaining speedy possession of the island, without risking prolonged fighting; so Alcibiades adopted the plan without hesitation, and arranged with his subordinates to assault the palisade at early dawn, carry it with a dash, and then, while he made a feigned attack at the inner defence, Caliphronas and his men, gaining the interior of the island by this path, could attack the defending party in the rear.
It never for a moment struck Messrs. Alcibiades & Company that Justinian was far too wide awake not to have thought of this contingency, and had made his preparations in consequence. The entrance of the path from the gorge was up a narrow, winding staircase, cut in the live rock, which could only hold two men abreast, so, in the event of the outer defence being beaten down, this staircase could be easily defended by a dozen or so of men. Added to this, an iron gate closely locked was placed at the entrance; therefore, even if the enemy did gain an entrance into the pass, they had considerable difficulties to overcome before marching in triumph into the Acropolis. Justinian would, indeed, have been a bad general had he not foreseen this danger, but even though he thus guarded against it to the best of his ability, he trusted that his men would be able to hold the outer defence until Alcibiades retired in discomfiture.
As a matter-of-fact, the fiery old adventurer would have liked nothing better than to sally forth at the head of his handful of men and drive his enemy into the sea, but he was no longer the reckless Rudolph Roylands of the past, and judged it best to be cautious, nor risk the chance of a pitched battle in the open with unequal numbers. Intrenched in the strong outworks of the pass, his little band could hope to face their enemies with more than a fair chance of victory, but if he was foolish enough to make a sally, his ninety-five men would, in spite of their bravery, be quickly cut to pieces by more than double the number. Of course their military precision would doubtless tell against the undisciplined hordes of Alcibiades; still the risk was too great, and Justinian, much as he desired to make a bold dash for victory, deemed it best to take advantage of all the shelter and advantage his fortifications afforded.
The western pass was not unlike the tunnel in conformation, for, extending from inside to outside, a distance of a quarter of a mile, it ran upward from the cliffs of the beach for some little way, then, turning in an abrupt angle, pursued a straight way into the interior of the crater. Evidently created by a volcanic eruption for the outlet of lava, the sides, rent apart by some convulsion, arose precipitous and sterile to the height of over two hundred feet. No vegetation softened the nakedness of these rugged rocks, which, streaked with green, yellow, and red, presented a singularly forbidding appearance. On the top grew ancient pines, whose sombre branches, nearly touching one another as they stretched across the gulf, only permitted a thin streak of sky to be seen; so that the depths below were singularly gloomy, and to the imaginative Hellenes might well have suggested the thought that it was the Gate of Hades, by which name it was traditionally known. Justinian, however, abandoned such cognomen as of evil omen, and called it “The Western Pass,” by which title it was generally called by the Melnosians. It was indeed a remarkably eerie place even on the brightest day, and the light which filtered downward from between the branches of the pines but half revealed, in a glimmering gloom, the horrent rocks, the lack of flowers and grasses, and the chill, vault-like seeming of the whole tremendous cleft.
Maurice, having slept all day, felt wonderfully refreshed when he awoke, just as the sun set, and, though his head was still painful with the wound, yet his brain was perfectly bright and clear; so, after making a hearty meal, he started with his uncle and Crispin for the western pass, where he was to remain all night. The enemy might, or might not, make a night attack, and Justinian rather inclined to the belief that they would wait till daylight. Nevertheless, to guard against any chance of such a thing occurring, he resolved that every one, both leaders and men, should remain in the pass during the hours of darkness.
The men thus being at the front, a number of the women were sleeping up at the Acropolis with Helena, so as to be near their relations, and the interior of the island was thus given over entirely to feminine influence; while the extreme end of the pass, near to the outer palisade, was occupied by the male defenders. At times the sunlight came into this cliff entrance, so there was a scanty vegetation for some distance inward, so on this sparse grass Justinian and his men made themselves comfortable. Many of the soldiers, wearied out with watching, were sleeping around, but there was a strong guard at the barricade, under the command of Gurt, who was much better, and had insisted upon coming to the front.
Round a fire sat the Demarch, his nephew, Crispin, and Dick, all talking earnestly about the coming struggle, for the bos’n, having snatched a few hours of sleep during the afternoon, was now quite alert and active. The fire was lighted more for the sake of comfort than because of cold, though, indeed, the bottom of this abyss was chilly enough, and the cheerful flames flickered redly in the intense darkness, while high above glimmered the pale stars, and to the right arose the frowning mass of the palisade black against the faint gleam of the luminous night. To their nostrils came the salt savor of the sea, and at intervals they could hear the songs and revelry of their foes on the beach below. What with the recumbent forms of the sleeping men, the firelight hollowing out a space for itself in the blackness, and the intense stillness of the night, broken only by the pacing of the sentries, and the fitful snatches of song from the near distance, the whole scene was extraordinarily weird, so much so, that Crispin, with his impressionable poet’s nature, soon relapsed into silence.
“Crispin, why don’t you think of business?” said Maurice mischievously, as he noticed the poet’s abstraction.
“I was thinking of—of—other things.”
“My niece for instance,” observed the Demarch, with a grave smile.