"It will be harder for Darius to hire Greeks to fight for him after this," Chares remarked, as he reined in his horse beside his two friends and dismounted.
"They were of our race, after all," Clearchus said, regretfully.
"They were not cowards," Chares assented, nodding his head in approval, "and we have lost more men than we could spare. Here is a fellow, now, who might have amounted to something."
He pointed to the body of a young man who lay with his broken sword beside him. His pale face was calm and his wide eyes stared upward at the crimson evening sky. His corselet had been broken, disclosing the end of a thin roll of papyrus. Chares drew it out and broke the seals.
"He may have been a poet," he said, handing the roll to Clearchus. "Read it!"
The Athenian glanced at the writing and uttered a quick exclamation.
"Artemisia is in Halicarnassus!" he cried.
"What do you mean?" Chares demanded.
"This is a letter from Xanthe to me," Clearchus said, and he proceeded to read the lines that his unhappy aunt had written with so much toil.
"Who is this Iphicrates?" Leonidas asked.