“Climb on the higher rock. The wave does not cover it entirely. Dig your toes in the crevices. Cling to the seaweed. I will return for you.”
He never heard what the other cried back to him. He tore the woman clear of her lashings, threw his left arm about her, and fought his way through the surf. He could swim like a Delian, the best swimmers in Hellas; but the task was mighty even for the athlete. Twice the deadly undertow [pg 160]almost dragged him downward. Then the soft sand was oozing round his feet. He knew a knot of fisher folk were running to the beach, a dozen hands took his fainting burden from him. One instant he stood with the water rushing about his ankles, gasped and drew long breaths, then turned his face toward the sea.
“Are you crazed?” he heard voices clamouring—they seemed a great way off,—“a miracle that you lived through the surf once! Leave the other to fate. Phorcys has doomed him already.”
But Glaucon was past acting by reason now. His head seemed a ball of fire. Only his hands and feet responded mechanically to the dim impulse of his bewildered brain. Once more the battling through the surf, this time against it and threefold harder. Only the man whose strength had borne the giant Spartan down could have breasted the billows that came leaping to destroy him. He felt his powers were strained to the last notch. A little more and he knew he might roll helpless, but even so he struggled onward. Once again the two black rocks were springing out of the swollen water. He saw the Barbarian clinging desperately to the higher. Why was he risking his life for a man who was not a Hellene, who might be even a servant of the dreaded Xerxes? A strange moment for such questionings, and no time to answer! He clung to the seaweed beside the Barbarian for an instant, then through the gale cried to the other to place his hands upon his shoulders. The Oriental complied intelligently. For a third time Glaucon struggled across the raging flood. The passage seemed endless, and every receding breaker dragging down to the graves of Oceanus. The Athenian knew his power was failing, and doled it out as a miser, counting his strokes, taking deep gulps of air between each wave. Then, even [pg 161]while consciousness and strength seemed passing together, again beneath his feet were the shifting sands, again the voices encouraging, the hands outstretched, strange forms running down into the surf, strange faces all around him. They were bearing him and the Barbarian high upon the beach. They laid him on the hard, wet sand—never a bed more welcome. He was naked. His feet and hands bled from the tearing of stones and barnacles. His head was in fever glow. Dimly he knew the Barbarian was approaching him.
“Hellene, you have saved us. What is your name?”
The other barely raised his head. “In Athens, Glaucon the Alcmæonid, but now I am without name, without country.”
The Oriental answered by kneeling on the sands and touching his head upon them close to Glaucon’s feet.
“Henceforth, O Deliverer, you shall be neither nameless nor outcast. For you have saved me and her I love more than self. You have saved Artazostra, sister of Xerxes, and Mardonius, son of Gobryas, who is not the least of the Princes of Persia and Eran.”
“Mardonius—arch foe of Hellas!” Glaucon spoke the words in horror. Then reaction from all he had undergone robbed him of sense. They carried him to the fisher-village. That night he burned with fever and raved wildly. It was many days before he knew anything again.
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