He made to kiss the Persian’s dress, but Mardonius would not suffer it.
“Did I not desire you for my brother?” he said, and they embraced. As their arms parted, the bow-bearer spoke three words in earnest whisper:—
“Beware of Democrates.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can say no more. Yet be wise. Beware of Democrates.”
The attendants, faithful body-servants of Mardonius, and mute witnesses of all that passed, were thrusting the skiff into the water. There were no long farewells. Both knew that the parting was absolute, that Glaucon might be dead on the morrow. A last clasping of the hands and quickly the boat was drifting out upon the heaving waters. Glaucon stood one moment watching the figures on the beach and pondering on Mardonius’s strange warning. Then he set himself to the oars, rowing westward, skirting the Barbarian fleet as it rode at anchor, observing its numbers and array and how it was aligned for battle. After that, with more rapid stroke, he sent the skiff across the dark ribbon toward Salamis.