“Swift, godlike runner, swift;”—they were so close they could catch the Eastern accent—“the Most High give you His wings!”
Glaucon saw Lycon turn on the shouter with a scowl that was answered by a composed smile. To the highly strung imagination of the Athenian the wish became an omen of good. For some unknown cause the incident of the Oriental lad he rescued and the mysterious gift of the bracelet flashed back to him. Why should a stranger of the East cast him fair wishes? Would the riddle ever be revealed?
A trumpet blast. The Oriental, his wish, all else save the tawny track, flashed from Glaucon’s mind. The rope fell. The three shot away as one.
Over the sand they flew, moving by quick leaps, their shining arms flashing to and fro in fair rhythm. Twice around the stadium led the race, so no one strained at first. For a while the three clung together, until near the lower goal the Mantinean heedlessly risked a dash. His foot slipped on the sands. He recovered; but like arrows his rivals passed him. At the goal the inevitable happened. Lycon, with the shorter turn, swung quickest. He went up the homeward track ahead, the Athenian an elbow’s length behind. The stadium seemed dissolving in a tumult. Men rose; threw garments in the air; stretched out their arms; besought the gods; screamed to the runners.
“Speed, son of Conon, speed!”
“Glory to Castor; Sparta is prevailing!”
“Strive, Mantinean,—still a chance!”
“Win the turn, dear Athenian, the turn, and leave that Cyclops behind!”
But at the upper turn Lycon still held advantage, and down the other track went the twain, even as Odysseus ran behind Ajax, “who trod in Ajax’ footsteps ere ever the dust had settled, while on his head fell the breath of him behind.” Again at the lower goal the Mantinean was panting wearily in the rear. Again Lycon led, again rose the tempest of voices. Six hundred feet away the presidents were stretching the line, where victory and the plaudits of Hellas waited Lycon of Lacedæmon.
Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. They saw Glaucon’s shoulders bend lower and his neck strain back, while the sunlight sprang all over his red-gold hair. The stadium leaped to their feet, as the Athenian landed by a bound at his rival’s side. Quick as the bound the great arm of the Spartan flew out with its knotted fist. A deadly stroke, and shunned by a hair’s-breadth; but it was shunned. The senior president called angrily to the herald; but none heard his words in the rending din. The twain shot up the track elbow to elbow, and into the rope. It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust. All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence.