As they passed from the shadow of the mountain, the sun sprang over the hills of Eubœa, making fire of the bay and bathing earth and heavens with glory. In their rear was already shouting. Hydarnes had reached his goal at Alpeni. All retreat was ended. The thin line swept onward. Before them spread the whole host of the Barbarian as far as the eye could reach,—a tossing sea of golden shields, scarlet surcoats, silver lance-heads,—awaiting with its human billows to engulf them. The Laconians halted just beyond bow shot. The line locked tighter. Instinctively every man pressed closer to his comrade. Then before the eyes of Xerxes’s host, which kept silence, marvelling, the handful broke forth with their pæan. They threw their well-loved charging song of Tyrtæus in the very face of the king.
“Press the charge, O sons of Sparta!
Ye are sons of men born free:
Press the charge; ’tis where the shields lock,
That your sires would have you be!
Honour’s cheaply sold for life,
Press the charge, and join the strife:
Let the coward cling to breath,
Let the base shrink back from death,
Press the charge, let cravens flee!”