“Whether news has come from the fleets before Artemisium?” spoke Mardonius, galloping close to the wheel.
“Not that. Ah! I remember. Where was Prexaspes? I did not see him near me. Did he stay in the tents while these mad men were destroyed? It was not loyal, yet I forgive him. After all, he was once a Hellene.”
“May it please your Eternity,”—Mardonius chose his words carefully,—a Persian always loved the truth, and lies to the king were doubly impious,—“Prexaspes was not in the tents but in the thick of the battle.”
“Ah!” Xerxes smiled pleasantly, “it was right loyal of him to show his devotion to me thus. And he acquitted himself valiantly?”
“Most valiantly, Omnipotence.”
“Doubly good. Yet he ought to have stayed near me. If he had been a true Persian, he would not have withdrawn from the person of the king, even to display his prowess in combat. Still he did well. Where is he?”
“I regret to tell your Eternity he was desperately wounded, though your servant hopes not unto death. He is even now being taken to my tents.”
“Where that pretty dancer, your sister, will play the surgeon—ha!” cried the king. “Well, tell him his Lord is grateful. He shall not be forgotten. If his wounds do not mend, call in my body-physicians. And I will send him something in gratitude—a golden cimeter, perhaps, or it may be another cream Nisæan charger.”
A general rode up to the chariot with his report, and [pg 249]Mardonius was suffered to gallop to his own tents, blessing Mazda; he had saved the Athenian, yet had not told a lie.
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