"Ah, my lad," exclaims the old trainer, admiringly, as he gives the white back a farewell pat, "you are fit to-day to run a brave race for old Croton; and forget not all I have taught you!"
Dion dresses, and after a hurried meal proceeds to the temple, there to take the oath of the games—that he is qualified to run, and will use no guile in his race. Thence they go to the Metroön, rich with its treasures of art, to await the triple trumpet-note that shall announce the dolichos. For there are three races to be run this day—two short ones, the aulos and diaulos, and lastly the terrible dolichos, in which the runner covers the course twenty times. During the weary waiting Hippomaches heartens the boy by stories of the performances of his grandfather and father in Olympiads long past. The sun is well up before the first races are over, and the shrill trumpet-tones give the signal for the last of the running events.
At the northwestern corner of the Altis, by the station-entrance that only judges and competitors are privileged to use, the two separate, and Hippomaches hastens away to take his place among the men of Croton, who have their station near the base of the hill Kronion. Dion, with a crowd of other competitors, passes through the vaulted tunnel between long lines of brazen Zanes, and finds himself on the stadion in the full glare of the early sunlight. The heights around are thronged far as the eye can see with a vast crowd. To-day Dion runs before an assembled world. The long straight expanse of the stadion stretches before him. At either end are sunken slabs of white marble. Ten times must a runner touch each block to cover the full twenty courses. High above the stone which marks both start and finish are ranged the ten Hellenodikæ, the judges, while on the opposite side the white-faced priestess of Demeter Chamyrne sits alone—the only woman whose eyes may behold the games.
A great hush has fallen on the multitude as the competitors take the places assigned them by lot. It is broken by the voice of the herald.
"Let him that knows of any stain on the life or blood of a competitor speak now!" it thunders. A moment of tense silence, and then——"Let every runner place his feet on the mark!" echoes along the hill-side.
Each nude figure bends forward; a clear trumpet-note, and they are away, a rushing mass of bodies that gleam in the sunlight.
A little apart from the crowd in the seats of honor sit Glaucus, his twin sons—whose events do not come until late afternoon—and Hippomaches, the trainer.
"'Tis an easy game, this running," remarks one of the twins, the boxer, a little disdainfully.
"I say to you, oh winner with the cestus," Hippomaches responds, sternly, "that the most grievous blows on the palæstra are not to be compared with the suffering of the last five courses of the dolichos!"
But Glaucus hears nothing of this, nothing of the ejaculations and murmurs of excitement, pleasure, and disappointment that sound from all the throng. But for one thing has he eyes—a slim lithe figure far in the rear of the others, yet which moves with a smooth effortless gait like the swoop of a swallow. His iron grip tightens like a vise on the trainer's shoulder. "I know little of contests wherein men trust to their feet," he mutters. "Why lags the boy so far behind? He—he is not losing heart?"