Without a word, the three Companions turned away. While the fire had fled rapidly before the wind, it had made little progress in other directions. It was still eating into the rushes behind them and on either side and they were surrounded by it, excepting where it had swept back to the slope. To return in that direction would be to run new risk of capture. They were prisoners.
They looked at each other. Their faces and garments were black with smoke and ashes.
"What would they say if they could see you in the Agora in Athens looking like that?" Chares asked of Clearchus.
"They would ask me the price of charcoal, I suppose," the Athenian replied, laughing.
They moved slowly after the receding fire, choosing their path with caution and halting every few yards to wait until the ground had cooled.
"We shall not get out in time!" Leonidas groaned.
"Don't be too sure," Clearchus cried. "Look at that." He extended his hand, upon which a drop of water had fallen.
"Rain!" cried the Spartan, joyfully. "The Gods be thanked!"
It was rain, indeed. The drops were falling all around them, making little puffs in the hot ashes and hissing on the embers. The wind shifted further to the east and brought a refreshing dampness to their faces, crimsoned by the stifling atmosphere which they had been forced to breathe. There was a muttering of thunder, then a nearer crash overhead, and they saw the storm striding across the plain in a long, sweeping curve. They lifted their faces to it and drew deep breaths, letting the water trickle through their hair and down their bodies. Steam rose from the blackened expanse all about them. Gaps began to appear in the hissing circle of fire. The red tongues flickered and went out.
"There is yet time," Leonidas cried, and in a few moments they were once more among the reeds, heading for the northern margin of the swamp.