Artazostra flung back the gold-laced cap and let the sun play over her face and hair.
“We are Aryans,” was all her answer.
He understood, but even whilst he was reaching out to catch her bridle that their horses might run together, he saw her lithe form bend. The arrow from a Laconian helot had smitten through the silvered mail. He saw the red [pg 437]spring out over her breast. With a quick grasp he swung her before him on the white horse. She smiled up in his face, never lovelier.
“Glaucon was right,” she said,—their lips were very close,—“Zeus and Athena are greater than Mazda and Mithra. The future belongs to Hellas. But we have naught for shame. We have fought as Aryans, as the children of conquerors and kings. We shall be glad together in Garonmana the Blessed, and what is left to dread?”
A quiver passed through her. The Spartan spear-line was close. Mardonius looked once across the field. His men were fleeing like sheep. And so it passed,—the dream of a satrapy of Hellas, of wider conquests, of an empire of the world. He kissed the face of Artazostra and pressed her still form against his breast.
“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!” he shouted, and threw away his sword. Then he turned the head of his wounded steed and rode on the Spartan lances.