“Victory to the king!” thundered the thousands. Confident of triumph, Mardonius suffered the ranks to be broken, as his myriads rushed onward. Over the Asopus and its [pg 428]shallow fords they swept, and raced across the plain-land. Horse mingled with foot; Persians with Tartars. The howlings in a score of tongues, the bray of cymbals and kettledrums, the clamour of spear-butts beaten on armour—who may tell it? Having unleashed his wild beasts, Mardonius dashed before to guide their ragings as he might. The white Nisæan and its companion led the way across the hard plain. Behind, as when in the springtime flood the watery wall goes crashing down the valley, so spread the thousands. A god looking from heaven would not have forgotten that sight of whirling plumes, plunging steeds, flying steel, in all the æons.
Five stadia, six, seven, eight,—so Mardonius led. Already before him he could see the glistering crests and long files of the Spartans—the prey he would crush with one stroke as a vulture swoops over the sparrow. Then nigh involuntarily his hand drew rein. What came to greet him? A man on foot—no horseman even. A man of huge stature running at headlong speed.
The risen sun was now dazzling. The general clapped his hand above his eyes. Then a tug on the bridle sent the Nisæan on his haunches.
“Lycon, as Mazda made me!”
The Spartan was beside them soon, he had run so swiftly. He was so dazed he barely heeded Mardonius’s call to halt and tell his tale. He was almost naked. His face was black with fear, never more brutish or loathsome.
“All is betrayed. Democrates is seized. Pausanias and Aristeides are warned. They will give you fair battle. I barely escaped.”
“Who betrayed you?” cried the Prince.
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid, he is risen from the dead. Ai! woe! no fault of mine.”
Never before had the son of Gobryas smiled so fiercely as when the giant cowered beneath his darting eyes. The general’s sword whistled down on the skull of the traitor. The Laconian sprawled in the dust without a groan. Mardonius laughed horribly.
“A fair price then for unlucky villany. Blessed be Mithra, who suffers me to give recompense. Wish me joy,”—as his captains came galloping around him,—“our duty to the king is finished. We shall win Hellas in fair battle.”