"Not I!" said his companion, laughing. "I love the lamps too well."
Leonidas shrugged his square shoulders. "It's not the lamps you love, Chares," he returned dryly. "But why are we idling here? Unless we make haste, Clearchus will be out of bed before we can surprise him."
"Come on, then!" Chares cried, urging his tired horse. "By Heracles! what's that?"
The three servants had ridden forward in advance of their masters. From the direction they had taken, the young men heard a confusion of angry voices, mingled with oaths. In another moment they saw that the street was blocked by a gorgeous litter borne on the shoulders of four sturdy slaves and surrounded by a dozen more, some of whom carried torches which burned pale in the morning light. The litter-bearers had refused to draw aside, and the guard was attempting to turn the horsemen back. Evidently some youth had been overtaken at his revelry by the dawn and was now being carried home by slaves who had followed his example at the wine-cup.
A bustling little man, with close-cropped hair and the sharp-nosed face of a fox, was shaking his sword in the faces of the riders.
"Back with you! Back!" he shouted. "Do you seek to halt the noble Phradates? Back, while you may!"
The curtains of the litter parted, and a young man's face, crimson with wrath and wine, appeared at the opening. He wore upon his head a wreath of wilted roses, which had slipped sidewise over one ear.
"What is the matter, Mena?" he called thickly. "Cut the rascals down!"
The three servants hesitated, looking back to their masters for instructions.
"Here is sport!" Chares cried, his eyes sparkling. "Let us ride through them! They need a lesson."