“A deserter,” reported one of Glaucon’s mentors; “he says he has important news.”
“Wait!” ordered the general, making the iron spoon clack steadily.
“The weal of Hellas rests thereon. Listen!” pleaded the nervous Athenian.
“Wait!” was the unruffled answer, and still the iron spoon went on plying. The Spartan lifted a huge morsel from the pot, chewed it deliberately, then put the vessel by. Next he inspected the newcomer from head to toe, then at last gave his permission.
“Well?”
Glaucon’s words were like a bursting torrent.
“Fly, your Excellency! I’m from Xerxes’s camp. I was at the Persian council. The mountain path is betrayed. Hydarnes and the guard are almost over it. They will fall upon your rear. Fly, or you and all your men are trapped!”
“Well,” observed the Spartan, slowly, motioning for the deserter to cease, but Glaucon’s fears made that impossible.
“I say I was in Xerxes’s own tent. I was interpreter betwixt the king and the traitor. I know all whereof I say. If you do not flee instantly, the blood of these men is on your head.”
Leonidas again scanned the deserter with piercing scrutiny, then flung a question.