“By the Asopus, much to northward. The Hellenes lie to [pg 413]south. Here, Rūkhs, take the noble courier behind you on the horse, and conduct him to the general.”
“Heaven bless your generosity,” cried the runner, with almost precipitate haste, “but I know the country well, and the worthy Rūkhs will not thank me if I deprive him of his share in your booty.”
“Ah, yes, we have heard of a farm across the hills at Eleutheræ that’s not yet been plundered,—handsome wenches, and we’ll make the father dig up his pot of money. Mazda speed you, sir, for we are off.”
“Yeh! yeh!” yelled the seven Tartars, none more loudly than Rūkhs, who had no hankering for conducting a courier back into the camp. So the riders came and went, whilst Glaucon drew his girdle one notch tighter and ran onward through the gathering evening.
The adventure had been a warning. Once Athena had saved him, not perchance twice,—again he took to the fields. He did not love the sight of the sun ever lower, on the long brown ridge of Helicon far to west. Until now he scarce thought enough of self to realize the terrible draughts he had made upon his treasure-house of strength. Could it be that he—the Isthmionices, who had crushed down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads—could faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose? Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet—so swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus—lift so heavily?
As a flash it came over him what he had endured,—the slow agony on the Bozra, the bursting of the bands, the fight for life, the scene with Themistocles, the sleepless night on the trireme. Now he was running as the wild hare runs before the baying chase. Could it be that all this race was vain?
“For Hellas! For Hermione!”
Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.
“Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I cannot fail.”
It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars of gold above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon his forehead. Before his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some kind destiny set a stout pole upright in the field,—perhaps for vines to clamber,—he clutched it, and stood until his sight cleared and the pain a little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the roadway. He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast comfort,—if there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none before dawn. But he had still weary stadia before him, and running was out of the question. Ever and anon he would stop his hobbling, take air, and stare at the vague tracery of the hills,—Cithæron to southward, Helicon to west, and northward the wide dark Theban plain. He gave up counting how many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic words, “For Hellas! For Hermione!” and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last—he guessed it was nearly midnight—he caught once more the flashings of a shallow river and the dim outlines of shrubbery beside the bank—again the Asopus. He must take care or he would wander straight into Mardonius’s camp. Therefore [pg 415]he stopped awhile, drank the cool water, and let the stream purl around his burning foot. Then he set his face to the south, for there lay Platæa. There he would find the Hellenes.