“Off,” ordered the bristling monarch, “or you die the death yet. And do you, Mardonius, take Prexaspes, who somewhat knows this country, spur forward, and discover who are the madmen thus earning their destruction.”
The command was obeyed. Glaucon galloped beside the Prince, overtaking the marching army, until as they cantered into the little mud-walled city of Heraclea a second messenger from the van met them with further details.
“The pass is held by seven thousand Grecian men-at-arms. There are no Athenians. There are three hundred come from Sparta.”
“And their chief?” asked Glaucon, leaning eagerly.
“Is Leonidas of Lacedæmon.”
“Then, O Mardonius,” spoke the Athenian, with a throb in his voice not there an hour ago. “There will be battle.”
So, whether wise men or mad, the Hellenes were not to lay down their arms without one struggle, and Glaucon knew not whether to be sorry or to be proud.