But the lad—author of the commotion—had disappeared completely.
“Behold his fair gratitude to his rescuer,” cried Themistocles, sourly, and then he turned to Leonidas. “Well, very noble king of Sparta, you were asking to see Glaucon and judge his chances in the pentathlon. Your Laconians have just proved him; are you satisfied?”
But the king, without a word of greeting, ran his eyes over the athlete from head to heel, then blurted out his verdict:
“Too pretty.”
Glaucon blushed like a maid. Themistocles threw up his hands in deprecation.
“But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not Homer call them so many times ‘godlike’?”
“Poetry doesn’t win the pentathlon,” retorted the king; then suddenly he seized the athlete’s right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked. Glaucon did not wince. The king dropped the arm with a “Euge!” then extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, “Open.”
One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions [pg 17]approached, Athenian and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon’s forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king’s brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.
“Euge!” cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, “He will do.”
Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance, he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.