"Is he dead, think you?" the Theban asked, taking the form across his knees as though it were that of a child.
"There is no mark on him; he may be only stunned," Nathan replied, resuming his oars.
Chares gazed at the pale face, with the dripping hair streaming back from its temples, and, bending forward, placed his ear over the heart.
"It beats," he cried. "He lives! Pull away, Nathan, and let the jackals howl!"
Arrows and javelins struck the water around the boat, but there was little danger from the marksmen above, unless some missile should find them by chance. The craft was almost indistinguishable from the top of the wall.
Nathan worked hard at the oars, while Chares rolled the body of Clearchus on his knees. Then he rubbed the pale limbs briskly and by no means gently until the blood began to circulate again. At last Clearchus opened his eyes and drew a deep breath.
"Is this the Styx?" he asked faintly. "Is the story true then, after all?"
"Not yet," Chares replied, with a laugh. "Your time has not yet come. You are dreaming."
Clearchus turned his head and saw the precipice of the mighty wall, rising black toward the stars and crowned with the red glow of the torches.
"Did I dive from there?" he asked wonderingly; "or is that, too, a dream?"