“Excellency,” spoke Glaucon, in his best court Persian, “I am a courier to the Lord Mardonius. If you are faithful servants of his Eternity the king, where is your camp?”
The chief started.
“On the life of my father, you speak Persian as if you dwelled in Eran at the king’s own doors! What do you here alone upon this road in Hellas?”
Glaucon put out his hand before answering, caught the tip of Rūkhs’s lance, and snapped it short like a reed. He knew the way to win the admiration of the Barbarians. They yelled with delight, all at least save Rūkhs.
“Strong as he is brave and handsome,” cried the Persian. “Again—who are you?”
The Alcmæonid drew himself to full height and gave his head its lordliest poise.
“Understand, Persian, that I have indeed lived long at the king’s gates. Yes,—I have learned my Aryan at the Lord Mardonius’s own table, for I am the son of Attaginus of Thebes, who is not the least of the friends of his Eternity in Hellas.”
The mention of one of the foremost Medizers of Greece made the subaltern bend in his saddle. His tone became even obsequious.
“Ah, I understand. Your Excellency is a courier. You have despatches from the king?”
“Despatches of moment just landed from Asia. Now tell me where the army is encamped.”