"Watch the first turning, O Glaucus, and thou wilt see why Dion holds back," Hippomaches answers, grimly. "'Tis the bitter stadia that comes last by which thy son's courage will be proven."
Now the crowd of runners are at the end of the first course. The madness of the race is upon most of the novices. Forgetting the long stadia that come after, they strain every muscle to be the first to touch the white stone, and, instantly turning, retrace their course. In the wild jostle that results, Polymnestor, the Platæan runner, is thrown headlong, and though he rises instantly, and limpingly follows the others, never is the lost ground regained. A little group of the older runners, including Dion, who races with all the judgment of a veteran, have held back, and now, avoiding the returning rush, complete the course with no danger of interference, and are soon close upon the heels of the leaders.
It is to this little group that the knowing ones look for the winner. There is Philoctetes, the Spartan, a grim, black-bearded man in the prime of life, who won the dolichos at the last Olympiad. Near him are formidable rivals—Listhenes, Athens's speediest runner, who defeated Philoctetes by a desperate effort at the recent Nemean Games, and Antenor of Corinth, the winner of the event at the Pythian Games, is just at his shoulder. Then come two runners from distant provinces in Asia, who are rumored to have done marvellous racing over their native stadia. Back of them all is Dion, with the smouldering flame in his eyes and the long graceful stride. At the end of the second course the same scene of confusion is repeated, and two more runners go down. Stadion after stadion are traversed, and slowly the leaders drop back. By the end of the tenth the six that had brought up the rear are now in the van. Another course, and they begin to draw away from those who have exhausted their strength during the first half of the race. At last there are but five stadia more—the stadia in which the real race is run, the stadia that are the supreme test of a runner's courage and endurance.
Hippomaches tugs at his grizzled beard excitedly. "Fourteen Olympian dolichoi have I seen run in my day," he exclaims to Glaucus, "but never a faster than this. Flesh and blood cannot stand that pace much longer; some one will drop soon, and—the gods send it be not our Dion!"
Philoctetes is in the lead. His teeth are clinched, and the foam lies white on his black beard. A fit embodiment is he of the grim Lacedæmonian spirit which is yet to dominate all Greece. Faster and faster he runs, hoping to exhaust his rival from hated Athens—none other does he fear. A deep-throated roar of encouragement rises from the tiers of stern-faced, impassive Spartans as their champion flashes past them. Shrill cries come from the excitable Greeks of the Asiatic provinces as they cheer on their representatives, who are beginning to waver. But it is vain. Very different is an Olympic dolichos from any race of the provinces, and though struggling desperately, they drop back, unable longer to stand the tremendous strain. One stadion, two stadia, are passed, and the third begun, nor does Philoctetes falter aught in his even, rapid gait. Right at his shoulder glare the eyes of Listhenes, who would gladly give his life this day that Athens might win. There is a great hush as the runners traverse the third course. The supreme moment of the race is drawing nigh. All in a moment Antenor the Corinthian, who has held the third place just ahead of Dion, plunges forward in the very midst of a stride, and falls to the ground with the bright blood gushing from his mouth—his last dolichos run.
"Dion! Dion! See our Dion!" roar the men of Croton; for the boy is gaining. Inch by inch the gap between him and the leaders lessens, and soon Listhenes hears a sobbing breath at his ear, and knows that there is another to dispute the victory with Athens and Sparta.
"'Tis thine own son, O Glaucus!" cried Hippomaches, clinching his hands. And indeed the boy's features have changed. On the white drawn face appears that same intense look of deadly earnestness that made the fiercest boxer fear to stand before Glaucus in the old days. Fatigue, pain, danger, death itself count for naught; the race! the race! and his city's honor! are all that Dion knows. They touch the white stone, and turn back for the last course almost in line.
Back and forth among the hills roll the waves of sound, "Athens!" "Athens!" "Philoctetes for Sparta!" But high over all echoes the cry of, "Croton! Croton! Speed thee, O Croton!" Unhearingly Dion runs. There is a sickening pain in his breast, a taste of blood in his mouth; but the boy's will yet upholds the overtaxed body, dead from the waist downwards, and the gap between him and the leaders widens not.
Far, oh, so terribly far, in the distance is the white stone, the goal of all his life. Above it are the calm uneager faces of the ten Hellenodikæ and the pale priestess, who gazes down at the struggling trio with unseeing eyes from which a thousand sacrifices have seared all of human tenderness. Nearer and nearer the snowy gleam approaches, and still the three runners are almost in line, with Dion a little behind. Suddenly from out of the misty cloud of faces that wavers before the boy's hot unwinking eyes Dion sees his father's, the stern features all convulsed, hears a voice cry brokenly, with a world of anguished pleading in its tone,
"On, Dion! on! Oh, my son—for your city!"