* I ' i TTT 
 
 1 Jrljll 
 
 SB\RnAN 
 
 AIU)LINE DALE 
 SNEDEKERw 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 PS 3537.N37S7 
 
 The Spartan 
 
 3 1924 021 693 167 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 6931 67 
 
THE SPARTAN 
 
LEOI-K," 
 30LC<1 
 
 On Skiron's Cliff 
 
THE SPARTAN 
 
 BY 
 
 CAROLINE DALE SNEDEKER 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^OT* ■v, Bfj^uW' 
 
 
 
 Garden City New York 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1912 
 
 •■Hm^Sa 
 
Copyright, 1912, by 
 
 DOUBLEDAT, PaGE & COMPANT 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of 
 
 translation into Foreign Languages, 
 
 including the Scandinavian 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 WHO BY HER ENTHUSIASM FOR HELLAS AND THE 
 
 GREEKS ENCOURAGED MY CHILDHOOD DESIRE 
 
 TO TELL THE STOHY OF ARISTODEMOS 
 
 AND TO MY HUSBAND 
 
 WITHOUT WHOSE CRITICISM I COULD NOT HAVE 
 WRITTEN THE TALE 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The writer gratefully appreciates the welcome which 
 this story has received from many men and periodicals 
 whose judgments are of the greatest value. After living 
 so long with Leonidas and Aristodemos, endeavoring to 
 comprehend them, it was a delightful surprise on ' re- 
 turning to find how many people of the twentieth century 
 are interested in the life of those far off days — the most 
 vital in all human history — and to realize again how 
 keen, unspoiled and modem are the scholars who special- 
 ize in things Greek. 
 
 She wishes to acknowledge her debt to Mr. Martin 
 L. D'Ooge of the University of Michigan, Mr. Charles 
 B. Gulick of Harvard University, and Mr. Arthur G. 
 Leacock of Phillips Exeter Academy, for encouragements 
 and fundamental discussions. Also to Mr. Edward 
 Delavan Perry of Columbia University, Mr. Milton 
 W. Humphreys of the University of Virginia, Mr. 
 Walter Miller of Tulane University, and Mr. Philip 
 Van Ness Myers of College Hill, Ohio, for many careful 
 criticisms of which she has availed herself in the present 
 edition. 
 
 In the spelling of Greek names the aim has been to 
 secure some slight sense of Greek sonorousness and 
 strength as against the hisang of "C "s and the degrading 
 of vowels with which we have become familiar through 
 
PREFACE 
 
 the Latin. This was not ventured in the case of very 
 familiar names. The result is inconsistent and perhaps 
 indefensible. 
 
 The new title of the book will be foimd a little less mis- 
 leading than the former. One must perhaps know our 
 hero well before "Coward of Thermopylae" can become 
 an affectionate paradox. 
 
 Cakoline Dale Snedekeb. 
 
 1912. 
 
I. 
 
 n. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 VI. 
 
 vn. 
 vni. 
 
 IX. 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 xn. 
 xni. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 XV. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 XX. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Pbologue — The Sacred Way 
 An April Journey .... 
 Aristodemos Meets a Hero . 
 Hollow Lacedsemon . . . 
 Whom Apollo Karneios 
 
 Crowned 38 
 
 An Ancient Childhood . . 
 The Hunt in Taygetos . . 
 
 The Escape 
 
 And Sparta Has Her Say . 
 For the Honour of Artemis 
 At a Place Called Marathon 
 The Springtime of Hellas 
 The King is Dead . . . 
 The Violet Robe Changes 
 
 Handc 145 
 
 The Gathering Storm . . 
 The King and the Ephors 
 The King's Guard Marches 
 The Hills Fought for Hellas 
 Auopsea, the Chimneyhole 
 
 Path ....'... 214 
 A Sacrifice to Ormuzd . 236 
 
 Thermopylffi 246 
 
 In the Wake of War . . .257 
 A Mother in Sparta . . . 271 
 Through an Archaic Land . 295 
 The Unsatisfied Curse . . 808 
 Grecian Hospitality . . . 816 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTES PAGE 
 
 XXVI. An Arkadian Interlude 331 
 
 XXVII. The Place of Golden Tripods 343 
 
 XXVIII. The Pythia Speaks 363 
 
 XXIX. The Singer of Delphi 371 
 
 XXX; At the Oracle's Bidding 379 
 
 XXXI. A Philosopher in His Garden 390 
 
 XXXII. Through Unwilling Seas 406 
 
 XXXIII. Hellas in Amis at Last 425 
 
 XXXIV. The Saving of Greece 438 
 
 Epilogue • . . . 460 
 
 Herodotus's Account of the Coward of Thermopyte . 465 
 
-'^^■■■ 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 On Skiron's Cliff .... Frcmtispiece 
 
 For the Glory of Artemis . . . 114 
 
 Aristodemos came to the last cliff-turn and, 
 looking back, waved his staff to them 
 in farewell ..... 328 
 
 The Place of Golden Tripods ... 346 
 
THE SPARTAN 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 The Sacred Way 
 
 IT IS a wonderful road that leads from Athens north- 
 west through the open country to Eleusis, a road of 
 dim wood-spaces and gnarled olive orchards that still 
 renew their bloom. It has glimpses of sea, blue as 
 sapphire, of islands with sharp crests against the sky, of 
 temples asleep in the bright sunshine, and of tombs that 
 crumble away with soft gray shadows. One of these 
 covers the dust of a woman loved once beyond an em- 
 pire's wealth. 
 
 It is a road of dreams, as fragrant of memories as a 
 spice garden. It leads away and away, farther than 
 Eleusis, into the dim-locked centuries of the past. And 
 save for the past of Jerusalem it has the richest past in 
 the world. For before it fell asleep it was "The Sacred 
 Way" of the Eleusinian Mysteries — those rites of 
 Demeter and Persephone that were the highest religious 
 experience of the Greek, and survived as his latest com- 
 fort. 
 
 3 
 
4 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Here the great, keen heart of Hellas went longing and 
 seeking. The deep hopes that stirred and troubled 
 them they here sought out. One must almost weep 
 in thinking how they came, so eager, so childlike, groping 
 for the eternity that was not their lot to fathom. 
 For their gods were happy gods who turned away with 
 loathing from the death of men, and gave no promise 
 of the bright sun to those who went down into the hollow 
 earth. "Farewell," says the dying Hippolytos to his 
 delicate goddess, as she turns away from him. "How 
 easily dost thou forego our lifelong friendship!" 
 
 Before setting out, the Mystics went down into the 
 purifying sea. "To the sea! To the sea, ye Mystai!" 
 was their caU. 
 
 They came forth pure for the mysteries, men and 
 women bearing with them the image of a nursing child, 
 symbol of new life, and calling it by name, "lac, O 
 lacchos ! lac, lacchos ! ' ' 
 
 They came dancing, full to overflow with a discerning, 
 penetrating life, a kind of genius given not to an indi- 
 vidual but to a whole race. They hit with divine and 
 childlike accident, what we still reach for with labouring 
 fingers. 
 
 The distance to Eleusis might have been covered in 
 four hours. But the Mystics progressed slowly, stopping 
 now at a bridge, now at a tree or shrine. At each place 
 they had some time-rich ritual to be said or danced or 
 sung. Sometimes their religious ecstasy, rising like a 
 fountain jet into the light, tumbled back again in spark- 
 ling laughter, riotous fun, peltings of flowers, rude jests 
 uncontrolled. 
 
PROLOGUE 5 
 
 After nightfall they came to the Temple precinct 
 where the priests received them. Chantings and songs 
 filled the air, torches flared in the darkness, or trailed 
 backward with flame and smoke as the swift dancers 
 bore them. Now there were haltings and callings in the 
 dusk. All was life, bustle and happy confusion. 
 
 Then they passed within. The doors were shut, 
 leaving the silent world and the sea. One heard now a 
 muffled shout of surprise sounding out into the moonlight, 
 now a fragment of song when some portal was opened 
 and quickly closed again. The air became faintly fra- 
 grant as incense burned within. The very moonlight 
 seemed to listen and expect. 
 
 But what the sacred secrets were, no one has told. 
 Out of that careless seeming crowd, generations of such 
 crowds, was not one babbler. The precious seal of silence 
 was pressed down, and we stand without, wishing and 
 questioning. 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
 
 An April Journey 
 
 IT WAS an early April morning; four hundred and 
 ninety three years before Christ. At sunrise, the in- 
 variable starting time of the early rising Greek, two 
 travellers, mother and son, passed out of Athens by the 
 Thriasian Gate, upon the Sacred Way. They were a 
 strangely mated pair. The mother, a Spartan: her high 
 borne head and wide, square set shoulders bespoke it. 
 Even her new widowhood, marked by her rough shorn hair, 
 could not wholly cloud the thought of the return to 
 Sparta, which gleamed in her eyes, a telltale joy. 
 
 The boy was all Athenian, with never a feature of his 
 mother save her golden hair. He was spare with the thin- 
 ness of ten years, but showing already the deftnesspf step, 
 arid delicate control that Athenian training gave. There 
 was more of widowhood in his young face than in his 
 mother's. He had looked on death, he had lost his own; 
 and his eyes bore in them a look of inner awakening that 
 does not often come to one so young. 
 
 6 
 
AN APRIL JOURNEY 7 
 
 They took their way, with their eight necessary slaves, 
 through the gray olive wood. Here the momiag air 
 took on a certain drowsiness and mystery. A few level 
 sunbeams crept into the wood along the ground, picking 
 out now a spray of myrtle, now a fantastic root — for 
 the olives were old — and now pausing in irresolute 
 brightness upon a glistening bit of moss, wet with some 
 hidden spring. The leafy canopy seemed full of whispers, 
 and the boy was not without his prayer to the shy 
 dryads that almost visibly haunted the place. 
 
 The travellers crossed the Kepmssos, musical with its 
 spring fullness. By the streamside a thousand violets 
 opened their eyes, and gave to the bank a dim blue 
 shining. They paused and washed hands before stepping 
 into the stream. For then, happily, many things were 
 sacred. Gradually they left the olive wood, and began 
 to climb the arid slope of Ai^eos, a thistly place, where 
 they had much ado to keep the brown donkey, that drew 
 the mother in the little cart, from turning aside to his 
 prickly repast. The road mounted narrow between two 
 rocky walls until they stood isolated upon the height, with 
 all Attica falling away below them. Here was the last 
 sight of the city. 
 
 The boy looked back upon Athens, as has every travel- 
 ler these countless generations since. It was a little 
 Athens then, a few houses huddled at the base of the 
 Acropolis — an Acropolis wheife no Parthenon yet smiled. 
 But how he loved it! Oh, with all the rich racial love 
 that the immortal Parthenon was some day to express! 
 He could see Hymettos, mist-blue behind the bold cut 
 crag of the Acropolis, and he recalled the wild thyme 
 
8 THE SPARTAN 
 
 flavour of its honey, his chief sweetmeat. All his life 
 that fragrance was sweet to him. He saw on the low 
 ground south of the city the massive, half finished 
 columns of the Tyrant's temple to Zeus, looking almost 
 as lonely and ruinous then as it does to-day. 
 
 He even caught a glimpse of his own gymnasium, 
 Kynosarges, far beyond the eastern gate, dazzling in the 
 morning hght. Beyond that, a glint of the Eur^|K5s'. 
 And still beyond, shadowy against the sky, the Euboean' 
 hills. His love was in his eyes as he looked. His mother, 
 standing impatiently by him, the slaves, waiting with 
 pathetic slave patience, could not but see the thoughts 
 in his tender child face. Had he been two years older, 
 his mother had never brought him thence. 
 
 He turned suddenly, his eyes blurred with tears, and 
 went down the farther slope. AU the way his yoimg 
 feet planted themselves stubbornly and his roimd golden 
 head drooped in silence. But his sorrow was his own, 
 and he gave no voice to it. There seemed to be in the 
 child certain precious things that he would not share. 
 
 A full hour they walked in silence, only the slow shuffle 
 of the slaves, the stepping of the donkey, the rattle of 
 the little cart, breaking the morning quiet. At last, 
 on a turn, the sea appeared. The boy caught his breath 
 at the stretch of intense blue washing to its shore in 
 lines of pearly surf. The Gulf of Salamis lay spread below 
 them, island-locked, innocent yet of battles. Upon 
 it the gay flock of Athenian shipping was busy with the 
 opening of spring, the sails flying ever faster and faster, 
 as the wind freshened. 
 
 Later the little company stopped to drink and say a 
 
AN APRIL JOURNEY 9 
 
 prayer beside the Sacred Fig Tree, that first of fig trees 
 which Demeter herself gave to mortals. Over it pious 
 hands had reared a Hght roof upon slender columns. 
 Near by was an almond tree lifting its crooked branches 
 amid a veil of pink blossoms. How it glowed in the sun! 
 What a fragrance it shed about the place! It had scat- 
 tered a rain of petals at its foot. 
 
 With quick impulse the boy buried his hand in these 
 and flung them aloft. Then, with sudden ruth, he 
 gathered them together, and offered them to the naiad of 
 the spring. Standing, he made his prayer, lifting as 
 in a cup the shattered blossoms. "The Naiad will be 
 sorry and she will keep them alive on her bosom," he 
 said as the petals floated on the surface of the pool. 
 Indeed, the life of the boy himself was not unlike the hfe 
 of the pool, quiet-seeming above, but ever fed and 
 freshened secretly. 
 
 The road now skirted the shore. Here the untouched 
 sand was smooth as satin, save for a bright shell here and 
 there. As the afternoon light grew soft they passed a 
 rude image of a sea-god stuck lonely, slanting, in the 
 loose beach. It was scarcely more than a post roughly 
 carven and hewn. But from it fluttered a net left 
 there by some fisherman thankful for a safe return from 
 his perilous harvesting. Then, in the evening coolness, 
 they came to Eleusis itself, and, weary with the first 
 day's journeying, stopped at the nearest inn. 
 
 "Eleusis!" The boy slept lightly with the thought 
 of it. "Wonderful Eleusis!" He rose before the sun, 
 threw on his short chiton and then his full himation, 
 pulling the white folds over his shoulders modestly to 
 
10 THE SPARTAN 
 
 « 
 
 hide his arms. Then he went forth. All the earth was 
 
 still, save for a drowsy note now and then from a laurel 
 thicket, and the steady, soft lapping of little gray waves 
 waiting for the dawn. He washed in the tingUng sea, 
 and hastened on. The grim walls of the sacred precinct 
 rose before him shutting him out from dear and wonder- 
 ful secrets. His father had been a Mystes. Had he not 
 come home with shining eyes from the autumn festival? 
 
 How still it was. The brown crag against which the 
 temple stood rose ruggedly above the place. Over the 
 wall he saw a cypress-tip waving almost imperceptibly 
 in the gentle air as if moved by winds too faint for 
 mortal sense. The akroteria that topped the temple 
 roof began to gleam in the dawn, strange figures painted 
 red, blue and gold; the blessed Demeter, Kore the maid, 
 Demophon, the little child that the goddess sheltered 
 in her bosom what time she walked the earth. To the im- 
 aginative boy they seemed to move with the glancing light. 
 
 "But they are alive," spoke the child aloud. "They 
 step with their feet and their eyes see!" 
 
 "Do they.!*" said a kind voice at his side. And the 
 boy started, seeing a young man, athletic, wholesome, 
 with curling locks and wearing the short, free dress of 
 the torch-bearing priest. 
 
 "Hail to thee. Servant of holy Demeter!" said the boy. 
 
 The greeting was both reverent and gay, as if he had 
 said, "All the glory of the rising sun be upon thee!" 
 The man could not but smile. He looked the little figure 
 up and down, from his white, upturned forehead to his 
 light, sandalled feet. 
 
 "And who art thou that worshippest so early?" 
 
AN APRIL JOURNEY U 
 
 "I am Aristodemos son of Lykos." 
 
 "Lykos of the tribe of Pandion?" asked the man 
 eagerly. "I knew him well. He was high among the 
 Mystai. Thou art indeed his son, and as like him as 
 stars are alike ! " 
 
 "Nay, but this star is among the living, and that one 
 shines in the realms of the dead," said the boy quiveringly. 
 
 "Yes, yes. Who hath not known of his untimely 
 going ! Whom the gods love — " the priest mused. " But 
 come, child. Thou canst not go within; but thou shalt 
 walk with me, and afterward break thy fast by the 
 Sacred WeU." 
 
 They walked together past the temple precinct, around 
 the curve of the bay, and into the fields of waving barley 
 — those sacred fields where men first learned to plow. 
 The boy was quiet at first, but gradually he talked, 
 answering the torchbearer's questions, chnging to his 
 hand and walking close to him. He talked of his father, 
 of the boys at school, of his gymnasium, and even 
 of his own shy ambitions there. 
 
 "But it takes many years, my father said, to make a 
 man beautiful in all his acts, in the run, the jump, the 
 disk throw." 
 
 It was full day as they returned and stopped by the 
 Sacred Well of Kallichoros, where the maids were wont 
 to weave in a ring the sacred dance to Demeter. About 
 the well was a circular pavement set for their flying feet. 
 Near by in a shaded place a slave had set their morning 
 meal. 
 
 "Now thou must keep without the gates," said the 
 priest kindly. "But when thou art a man thou shalt 
 
12 THE SPARTAN 
 
 be of the Mystai, and go within and see such wonden 
 as the gods vouchsafe to men." 
 
 As they finished the meal a slave came running. 
 
 "The Spartan Makaria is searching everywhere for 
 her son. She is in liaste to be off on her joumqr." 
 
 The boy looked into the torchbearer's face. 
 
 "Must I go?" he asked. 
 
 "I fear thou must, since thy mother sends for thee." 
 
 Aristodemos rose reluctantly from the small table, 
 and slowly put aside the fig and little barley cake, half 
 eaten. The priest thought it was of these he was thinking. 
 But suddenly he lifted his bright head, crossed over to 
 where the man sat, and threw his arms about his neck. He 
 kissed him ^£un and again, then turned and ran quic^^ 
 down the road, not looking back at alL 
 
 And as the priest gazed after him he found his own 
 eyes wet with sudden tears. 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Aristodemos Meets a Hero 
 
 THE second day's journey was easy and without 
 event. They passed the so-called Flowery 
 Well, where Demeter had sat so weary, looking 
 for her lost Persephone, when the three damsels came, 
 and fetched the goddess to their home as the nurse of 
 their little brother. 
 
 All the country side was full of Demeter. Her august 
 footsteps seemed but yesterday to have passed that way; 
 her gentle presence was upon the land even now. For was 
 not spring itself the blossoming of her joy? Every flower 
 by the road, every field ripening for the harvest, was the 
 utterance of the goddess's soul reanimate with gladness 
 at the return of her daughter from the dead. 
 
 The road was in constant striving with the hills. Now 
 they thrust it to the very edge of some wave-washed cape, 
 now suffered it to hug close at their base. And now the 
 hills themselves suffered invasion as the road climbed 
 steeply up and wound among the headlands above the sea- 
 ls 
 
14 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Makaria was more wearied in her jolting cart than the 
 boy, whose eager interest kept him leaping the way. 
 They arrived at Megara late in the afternoon, and 
 Makaria went to rest. But Aristodemos hasted to bring 
 sacrifice to Pandion, his tribal hero, who was buried there. 
 
 He went scornfully enough through the town. Megara 
 was noted even in those fresh early years for the bigness 
 of its private houses. "They build for themselves," 
 said the Athenians, "as if they were to live forever, and 
 eat as if they were to die to-morrow." 
 
 He ascended the bluff on which the grave of Pandion 
 stood, carrying in his childish hands his gifts of sacrifice. 
 They were simple enough — a bit of cedar wood for a 
 flame and for sweet savour to the dead, two honey- 
 cakes withheld from his midday meal, a measure of barley, 
 and a wool fillet of costly purple dye, for he felt that one 
 gift should be more than a day's treasuring. So he made 
 his sacrifice, burning the sweet-smeUing wood in the 
 afternoon sunshine and scattering the barley while he 
 prayed and asked protection for the journey that yet lay 
 before him. As he turned away he noted the grave of 
 Prokne, King Pandion's daughter. For after all, this 
 was but the family burying place of that ancient king. 
 
 Thinking of Prokne, his ancestress, Aristodemos went 
 quite into a dream. For Prokne had been turned into 
 a nightin'ale, and through her he himself was blood 
 related to the birds. Never a swallow twittered under 
 the eaves, but he half expected it to speak plain. And 
 once his father had watched him with reverent eyes as 
 he left his hand and, creeping into the thicket, called 
 softly to the nightingale singing there: 
 
MEETS A HERO 15 
 
 "Grieve not so, dear nightingale! I will be thy son!" 
 
 And now as he walked down the hill into the stranger 
 
 city, he chanted softly an old Homer song, his accustomed 
 
 hand lifting itself all unconsciously and plucking an 
 
 imaginary lyre. 
 
 "Even as when the daughter of Pandareos, 
 
 The hroym bright nightingale. 
 Sings sweet in the first season of s'pring 
 
 From her place in the thick leafage of trees. 
 And vnth many a turn and trill 
 
 Pours forth her full voiced music. 
 Bewailing her child, dear Itylos, 
 
 Whom on a time she slew with sword unvntting — 
 Even as her song. 
 
 My troubled soul sways to and fro." 
 
 Child that he was, what did he know of "troubled 
 swaying of soul?" Yet he chanted very softly the song 
 he had learned at school. 
 
 Next morning at break of day they started forth. 
 And well might Aristodemos offer a prayer, for the hardest 
 stage of the journey now lay before them. They left 
 behind them the cart, because of the steepness of the way, 
 and Makaria sat upon the donkey's back, not a little 
 cross at the prospect of the toil. 
 
 The road still led them close to the sea, and among the 
 tombs of Megara, famous tombs, some of them. But 
 their thoughts were upon the Skironian Rocks, that 
 difficult pass between the sea and the cliff. The uncon- 
 scious donkey, plodding along with bent head and sway- 
 
16 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ing ears, who could not "look before and after," was the 
 only happy one of the party. 
 
 As for the old slave, Antiphon, who brought up the 
 rear, his complaint was loud — not loud enough to reach 
 Makaria, but poured into his little master's ear, with 
 whom he had certain privileges. For in Athens Antiphon 
 had been paidagogos to the boy, and had gone with him 
 to school of mornings, carrying his lyre and his small wax 
 writing tablets. From Antiphon's lips Aristodemos had 
 heard the story of Prokne; aye, and many a tale of the 
 gods that his father would ill have liked the boy to hear, 
 so careful was Lykos to bring only the nobler stories to 
 his son's hearing. But Antiphon babbled all; the story 
 of Ion, of Hippothoe, old superstitions, fragments of 
 demon worship that had come down from the Pelasgians. 
 Children were like to hear much in those days that is 
 kept from them now. 
 
 "And to think," complained the old slave, as his staff 
 clicked unceasingly upon the hard road, "to think that 
 I should go to Sparta, and at my years ! Thy father had 
 never brought me this journey." 
 
 "That I believe," assented the boy, a thought sadly. 
 
 "Sparta! Why, they treat the slaves like dogs there, 
 even the good ones. Though I doubt they have good 
 ones! Now thy father, he was ready with his jest. 
 Many's the time he has set us all a-laughing. No sour 
 looks from him — no sour looks!" And the old man 
 shook his head dolefully. " But now — now in my 
 age I shall be cuffed, beaten, burdened " 
 
 The boy's eyes flamed. 
 
 "No!" he cried. "Thou shalt not be cuffed. Thou 
 
MEETS A HERO 17 
 
 art my slave, and I shall grow older, and then thou shalt 
 be free." 
 
 "Yes, yes, little Master. And when thou growest 
 older I shall be naught." ^ 
 
 Antiphon laboured groaning up the rocky path. Slave 
 though he was, Aristodemos could not resist giving him 
 a tug up the steep incline. He felt very tender toward 
 the old man, thinking on his present piteous unwillingness, 
 and how obedient he had always been. But as the boy 
 laid hold of the arm, so fragile under its rough sleeve, 
 he began to look at Antiphon with a narrow, definite 
 gaze, with a sudden clear consciousness of him, his 
 crooked shoulders, slow legs and withered hands. Would 
 he ever become like that, so helpless, so apart from love- 
 hness and health? A thought almost of despising came 
 over him — not of the old man but of his eld. Better 
 almost to die as his father had died than to live so crooked, 
 so numb to life. Involuntarily he ran ahead, and took 
 pace by his mother's donkey. 
 
 The path became narrower and steeper. The sea fell 
 away below them to the left while on their right the 
 rocky wall rose precipitous, encroaching nearer upon the 
 path, which finally hugged close against the cliff. 
 
 At noon they stopped to rest and eat in a steep wood, 
 and then set out again, finding themselves indeed on the 
 very Skironian Rocks. The thin pine forest seemed set 
 e4gewise upon the face of the cliff. The trees mounting 
 upward hung finally above their heads, flinging out gaunt 
 green arms agaipst the sky. Then even these gave place 
 to the bare wall with the sun beating upon the tawny 
 rock. Here and there a great mass had given way, leav- 
 
1-8 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ing a staring white rent in the yellow cliff, obstructing 
 the path with rubble. But the fallen bulk of it could 
 be discerned below, far down by the sea's edge. A terror, 
 as of a great gesture with which nature had broken silence, 
 seemed in it yet. It gave to the immovable mountainside 
 a menace not its own. 
 
 The travellers scarce dared to look out over the sea, 
 so high were they above it. The very horizon seemed 
 lifted with them. And to-day it was so blue, the blue 
 of a low-burning flame Aristodemos thought, one far, 
 intense level from which the eyes shrank back. 
 
 The slaves picked their way fearfully, and even the 
 donkey lifted each foot with care lest he plant it on a 
 rolling stone. Aristodemos, oppressed with the silence 
 and awe of the place, began to sing. 
 
 "Best spend thy care in looking to the path," said his 
 mother. "One false step would be thy last. We were 
 fools not to go by sea!" 
 
 She had scarce spoken when there came a great shaking 
 of a thicket, a scuffle on the stones, and suddenly, black 
 before them, stood men — eight or ten of them — but 
 they seemed an army. Like an avalanche they fell, 
 so unlooked for, so impassable. 
 
 Makaria gave a sharp cry of despair. Shrewd enough 
 in a possible outcome, she saw here no escape. The 
 stout slaves shrank against the wall, hiding behind bur- 
 dens, and old Antiphon, from whom the boy expected some 
 faithfulness and spirit, crept with unwonted nimble- 
 ness over the cliff's edge and hid him on a shelf below. 
 
 It happened that Aristodemos was walking in advance » 
 He looked the leader full in the face ^od spoke first. 
 
MEETS A HERO 19 
 
 "Art thou really a robber?" 
 
 The tone was not without pleasure. The man was 
 a sight indeed for an imaginative boy. The heavy 
 face, the eyes that peered from a matted black of 
 locks, the squat body with its covering of skins, and 
 above all the bright hoops of earrings that dangled 
 viciously. 
 
 The man grunted and stopped, attracted by surprise 
 like a dull animal. So dark and heavy he seemed over 
 against the fair alertness of the child. 
 
 "And what dost thou want?" came the quick voice 
 again. 
 
 "Thy goods and gold, little fool." 
 
 "But it is thou art foolish!" answered the child with 
 merry triumph. "We have neither goods nor gold. 
 Dost think we would bring treasures this way to leave 
 them with thee? Not while the blessed Athena guides 
 us!" 
 
 "Yes, but ye have them," returned the robber, with 
 an impatience that boded ill. 
 
 "Yes, but we have them not," persisted the boy. "If 
 we had, we had sent them by sea. But we be poor folk 
 now. My dear father is dead, and ere he died all our 
 fortune was lost through a trick." 
 
 The childish voice broke a little, and quavered off, 
 especially as the man reached past him and seizing a 
 bundle from the donkey's back, flung it on the ground, 
 and tore it fiercely open. It was soon disclosed — 
 Makaria's robe and the chlamys or cloak of the boy, laid 
 aside for the heat. With an oath the man kicked them 
 over the edge. Down they tumbled, fluttering, catching 
 
20 THE SPARTAN 
 
 on rock and bush, and one himation of scarlet floated 
 with a puff, bellying, rippling out over the bright sea. 
 
 The pitifulness that was growing in the boy faded at 
 the sight. 
 
 "What vile manners!" he said, almost with a laugh. 
 "What was the use to do so?" 
 
 The man seized a second pack and went on with his 
 work. But the boy bent over him, full of interest. 
 
 ^'Thou'rt a big robber," he said, "but canst not be a 
 good robber this once?" 
 
 The man grunted, his hands among the cookery pots. 
 
 " — And oh!" said the boy, remembering old tales, 
 "art thou Skiron's son, perchance?" For Skiron was 
 the prince of robbers. 
 
 "Yes, I be." And the man rose and started forward. 
 But the child placed his little body directly in his path. 
 He had never been crossed or resisted, and hardly imder- 
 stood. 
 
 "Dost thou live here summers and winters too?" 
 
 The man paused and looked down. 
 
 "Well, ye be poor folk. But ye be not af card." 
 
 "Why should I be afraid? Ye are country folk. I 
 am an Athenian." And up went the slender chin. 
 
 "Will ye listen to that!" quoth the robber, bursting 
 into laughter and turning to his men. The child's 
 ignorance of danger amused him. He planted himself 
 astride the path to play as a cat with a mouse. 
 
 "Why do ye live here in this wolfish place? Have ye 
 never heard of Athens?" 
 
 "Never," said the man, with a backward wink. 
 
 "Poor man! Poor man! Hast never seen the Agora 
 
MEETS A HERO 21 
 
 where men buy and sell, and where thou hearest the 
 news?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor the Kerameikos?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor the olive branch — the first, first olive branch 
 that Athena gave us? — And, oh, Harmodios and Aris- 
 togeiton! Has never seen them?" 
 
 The man stiU shook his head. 
 
 "They stand near the market place, and oh, so fair 
 and new! And they will kill the tyrant. But they are 
 of bronze, you know, and the cunning Antenor fashioned 
 them. Ah, I wish thou mightest look upon them!" 
 
 "That do not I!" said the outlaw, significantly. 
 
 "But thou must go!" the boy prattled on. "Then 
 thou wilt sing that song — dost know it?" And he 
 burst out with the little song so popular in Athens: 
 
 "In a myrtle hough shall my sword be hid. 
 Thus Harmodios and Aristogeiton did. 
 The day they struck the tyrant down 
 And made this Athens a freeman's town." 
 
 It was a catch full of rhythm. Out over the silent 
 places the high boyish voice rang with merry sweetness, 
 and his light feet tapped the tune. At Makaria's nod 
 a slave stealthily brought a lyre and followed the melody 
 with a twanging, all faint and thin in the open air, but 
 jnough to add spirit to the boy. Verse after verse ho 
 sang, for the skolion was endless, one of those melodies 
 sung everywhere and added to at will. Faster and faster 
 
22 THE SPAETAN 
 
 ran the lay. The boy now was the tyrant, now the 
 patriot, and all in vivid acting. 
 
 "Ever their fame shall be and brighten. 
 Dearest Harmodios and Aristogeiton, 
 Because they put the tyrant down 
 And made our Athens a freeman's town." 
 
 He finished breathless. 
 
 "Now, wilt thou go to Athens? " he said, seizing the 
 man with both his strong little hands. 
 
 But the man stood quite still, bending upon him a 
 helpless" look, half fear, half awe. Lives there a Greek 
 who is not moved by music? 
 
 Presently he said, "I thank ye, little Master, for thus 
 singing to me." 
 
 "Oh, I sang not for thee. Robber, but for the glory 
 of dear Athens." 
 
 Then there was a quick turn of thought in the volatile 
 mind, and the child took from one of the slaves a bundle, 
 and opened it with eagfer fingers. Antiphon had wrapped 
 it for him, and he trusted the old man to remember his 
 especial delights. 
 
 "Here it is," he said at length. "Honey, my 
 last, sweet piece of it. Take it, O Skiron. This 
 is Hymettos honey. And when thou hast tasted, 
 thou wilt surely go to Athens. Fate can not keep 
 thee!" 
 
 The man took the gift in his great rough hand, and 
 sucked one finger where the golden liquid ran, gazing 
 the while at the eagerness in the child's gray eyes. 
 
MEETS A HERO 23 
 
 Then quite carefully he laid the honey down, and, 
 wrapping together the broken bundle, handed it to 
 Makaria. 
 
 "Thou shalt go free," he said, and hugged the cliff 
 for them to pass. 
 
 "An Athenian asks no passage from thee!" said the 
 boy proudly. "Farewell, Skironides!" And as he went 
 down the path he turned waving his hand at the rough, 
 silent company. 
 
 "Farewell, farewell!" called the men. 
 
 "Farewell Athenian!" called the leader. 
 . And thus, for the last time and from the lips of a rude 
 outlaw, was Aristodemos called by the dear name of 
 Athens. 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Hollow LacedcBmon 
 
 THE travellers wound quietly down the narrow 
 ledge toward the level shore. It was character- 
 istic of Makaria that she spoke no word of the 
 robbers. She seemed to have forgotten the incident as soon 
 as it was past. One of the slaves, drawing near the boy, 
 caressed his arm timidly, as slaves will, and began to say: 
 "Brave little Master, this day hast thou saved us alive." 
 No sooner were the words dropped from his lips than 
 a sounding whack on the ear silenced him, and Makaria 
 pointed him to the rear. She did not propose to have her 
 little son spoiled by slave flattery. But she might have 
 spared her pains, for the boy was more unconscious than 
 she. He was living still in the skolion, humming it over, 
 stepping lightly to the controlling rhythm. Indeed, the 
 little fellow was at that moment forming a new stanza 
 of his own. He looked up with quiet wonder at his 
 mother's onslaught, and put it down in his mental cata- 
 logue as one of the vagaries of women, 
 
 24 
 
HOLLOW LACED^MON 25 
 
 The Isthmos which they were now traversing was a 
 barren place. Presently they heard shoutings from afar; 
 then coming nearer, groanings and creakings, sounds of 
 dragging and of scraping over the rock. They were at 
 the famous portage where the ships of prospering Corinth 
 were dragged across from the Gulf, to be set free again in 
 the yEgean. Truly the poor ship looked a prisoner, with 
 her hull set heavily upon rollers, her painted dragon 
 figurehead rearing high in the sunshine and grinning 
 impotent sarcasm upon the toUing men. Now she quiv- 
 ered to her very mast as they bent to the ropes and hauled 
 with chanting chorus, and she with another groan moved 
 forward — she who had leaped so lightly on the sea, so 
 responsive to every touch of the swift, invisible wind. 
 
 The boy laughed at the sight, little thinking that long 
 years after this would be a very figure of his own life 
 dragged through an element not his own. 
 
 They left behind the ship and the chanting, and came 
 to the place of the Isthmian games, waiting in that far 
 day for Pindar's songs. For Pindar had not yet sung 
 here, though his heart was lifting and pulsing songs 
 yet to be. Aristodemos, however, thought not of songs 
 but of deeds. They came into the white, deserted stadion, 
 in its pretty dell, with its empty seats and running place 
 all fragrant with wild thyme. The whole place breathed 
 of contests. One almost heard the whirr of the brazen 
 diskos singing through the air from some young uplifted 
 hand. 
 
 The boy's breath came quick. He took his mother's 
 hand in one of those rare moments when he opened his 
 heart to her. 
 
26 THE SPARTAN 
 
 " Mother, shall I ever come here and really be an agonist 
 or maybe win the crown of pine?" 
 
 His heart was all on fire, wishing it. 
 
 "Yes, my son," answered Makaria. "I do think so. 
 But for thee it is well not to think of the crown but of the 
 struggle. Many days of ceaseless labour wilt thou 
 give?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. Mother. I shall give them! I shall give 
 them!" 
 
 "Perhaps thou wilt run. Thou hast good legs. Thy 
 mother before thee was a runner in Sparta and won the 
 prize." Makaria's face lighted as it had not lighted 
 these years. Then she fell silent with thoughts of her 
 girlhood. 
 
 In the precinct itself was an avenue leading to the 
 temple. Here Aristodemos dropped his mother's hand, 
 shrinking to himself with an instinct of joy in the place. 
 On the right side of the way stood a dark procession of 
 pines pluming their lofty tops against the blue. They 
 were the sacred tree of the Isthmos. Darkness and con- 
 templation breathed from them, and the boy felt deeply 
 their mood of awe. But on the other side of the way 
 all was life, for even then many victor statues had been 
 set up, a row of slender, long-haired boys. 
 
 Was it the victor statues, the running place, the approach 
 to Sparta? Something put into Makaria a sense of the 
 past. As they now took the road leading westward to 
 Corinth city, she refused to mount the donkey, but strode 
 along with head set square, and with that stately gliding 
 which girls use who bear brimming jars upon their heads 
 from fountains. Thus Makaria shook off the bonds that 
 
HOLLOW LACEDiEMON 27 
 
 Athens had put upon her, and took again the free, athletic 
 life of Sparta. 
 
 She would not pause at Corinth. Before dawn she 
 started with her train upon the Argos road. They passed 
 Mycenae, stopping only at the tombs of Agamemnon 
 and his father Atreus, dear to the hearts of those who love 
 great deeds. There they saw the grave of Kassandra, the 
 mad prophetess whom, all unwilling, the king brought from 
 Troy to his own destruction. The tombs even then were 
 hoary with age and rich of memory. But the simple 
 travellers little recked, as they passed, of the treasure 
 buried beneath their feet; gold fashioned with cunning 
 fingers into every semblance of leaf and flower and delicate 
 fish, handiwork of an era already locked into myth, whose 
 doors have gone ajar these latter days, and we peep in 
 and wonder at those bright children of a far distant past. 
 
 Upon the sixth day they came to Argos, pasture-land 
 of horses. It was not a joyous place. And the boy fell 
 back upon his inner thoughts, which dwelt ever with his 
 father. As his mother freshened he seemed to droop. 
 The lovely head with its clustering gold, cropped close 
 in his father's memory, began to sink. The sandalled 
 feet which had brought him so many miles seemed weary 
 of the way. 
 
 "What ails thee, my son?" said Makaria. "What 
 ails thee?" she asked again, for he had given no answer. 
 
 "My father, always my father!" The child turned 
 away and covered his face quickly with his garment. 
 
 Makaria was not quite impatient with the boy. Yet 
 she seemed to brush aside every thought that kept her 
 from what she had to say. 
 
28 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Now is no time to grieve, as we near our journey's 
 end," she said. "I have somewhat to say to thee." 
 
 Aristodemos nodded, and she went on. 
 
 "Thou didst well there on the rocks. Wast wiser with 
 the robbers than thou knowest. But it is not right now 
 that Athens be ever on thy tongue." 
 
 "But Athens is my own!" replied the boy, uncovering 
 his face. 
 
 "No; Sparta is thy own. Art thou not thy mother's 
 son? Thy father is dead. I am living." 
 
 The boy turned to her with a puzzled look, his face 
 still wet with tears. 
 
 "Thy father left no wealth. For him, thou wouldst 
 have been in poverty little better than a slave. So 
 Athens served thee. Now comes Sparta. By the gracious 
 gods my uncle is moved to send for thee. Dost thou 
 understand?" 
 
 "It was for thee he sent," said the boy, remembering 
 his mother's incoherent joy when the messenger arrived. 
 
 "No, for thee. Thy uncle has no child, and he is old. 
 Two sons gave their lives in battle, and one is dead of 
 plague. Unto thee the wealth shall come, the allotment 
 of land, the goodly land with Helots tilling it. Not paltry 
 gold such as Athens counts wealth. Therefore it behooveth 
 thee not to speak of Athens. Set it behind thee in thy 
 heart, even as thou hast upon the road." 
 
 The boy walked silently, and Makaria saw his hand 
 clenched in the folds of his dress. The fire of anger had 
 dried the tears and set the young face aflame. 
 
 "It may be that I shall be brought not to speak," he 
 said at length. "But of dear Athens I shall think. Yes, 
 
HOLLOW LACED^MON 29 
 
 I shall think, and shall dream at night. And my father 
 — nay, he lives more than thou!" His voice rose to a 
 ring of wrath, and he strode away at a distance. Not 
 that day nor the next could his mother get word with him. 
 
 It was from Tegea that they set out for their last 
 day's journey. Here a storm gathered out of the sunrise. 
 The wind swooped down through the valley like a living 
 creature, seized olive trees that lifted gray, affrighted 
 hands, laid hold upon the little band and set their garments 
 thrashing about their ears. 
 
 To Aristodemos the storm seemed good, something to 
 struggle with as he could not struggle with unseen Fate. 
 Even the thunder among the hills, the far borne voice of 
 Zeus, did not affright him, though he wondered what the 
 great Father might be saying up there in his lofty spaces. 
 He did not see his mother's face alight with pride as she 
 watched him stride along through the tempest, so strong, 
 so uncomplaining, though the cloak lost over Skiron's 
 cliff left him chill and wet. 
 
 It was a little after noon when Makaria cried out: 
 
 "Here! Here it is! See! Oh, at last!" 
 
 Upon the rugged slope stood a cairn of stone, and 
 beside it a Hermes, "Guardian of Ways," half pillar and 
 half man. 
 
 She flung herself at the pillar, her face a-rain with tears. 
 She touched the image with her hands. She spoke to 
 the god in words all broken with joy. 
 
 "Blessed Herm! My country! Oh, my country!" 
 And upon her hands and knees, with wet garments wound 
 close about her, she kissed the ground again and again. 
 She had never so kissed her son's face, not at least since 
 
30 THE SPARTAN 
 
 he could remember. This was her Lacedaemon. At 
 last they stood upon its sacred soil. 
 
 All that afternoon, as they followed the road south 
 down the bed of the river Oinous, Makaria seemed in a 
 dream. No roughness of the way, no pools left by the 
 rain through which they waded ankle deep, no tangle 
 of fallen trees across the path — nothing could stay her. 
 She put the branches away with a mighty hand. She 
 strode the loose, shppery stones impausing. Her long 
 ten years of married exile were drawing to a close, and 
 she would fain have crushed the last few hours into 
 moments of time. 
 
 At last the road emerged. They clambered up a little 
 hillside, and there, before them in the sunset light, lay 
 the whole circle of hollow Lacedaemon, and Sparta in 
 the midst, "Sparta, breeder of men." 
 
 Makaria gave a little sharp cry, then stood in seeming 
 quiet. It was indeed a view to contemplate. Beyond 
 the narrow plain Taygetos rose. First, lesser hills with 
 shadow-purple gorges and flash of leaping streams, then 
 the mighty slope, soft with its forest multitudes. Above, 
 on the vast, bare cliffs hung the tired battalions of the 
 storm, heavily purple in the golden light, casting shadows 
 broad as counties over uplands and ravines. And above 
 the clouds, at the sheer zenith edge, gleamed the peren- 
 nial snows, peak upon peak, billowing away and away in 
 upper air like a visible god-place unsullied by mortal 
 tread. In such fashion do the awful hills o'ershadow 
 Lacedaemon, and close her in from the world. 
 
 But it was not at the hUls ithat the Spartan woman 
 looked, not even at the plain with golden harvest breast 
 
HOLLOW LACED^MON 31 
 
 high, where olives here and there flung lengthened shadows 
 across the grain. She saw only the town itself. It looked 
 to Aristodemos small and mean enough. But to her 
 eyes its every roof was dear. 
 
 She marked on their little hills the separate villages 
 of which Sparta was formed, Kynosoura, Mesoa, and 
 Pitane where she herself was bred. In the midst the 
 "Bronze House" gave back the sun from its metal plates — 
 that ancient temple which had stood since Homer's day. 
 This side the city shallow Eurotas wandered among his 
 rushes, those rushes which Spartan boys were wont to 
 gather for their beds. Down the river on the hither 
 bank Therapne, burial place of kings, rose on a hill, with 
 Its temple to Spartan Helen. 
 
 Suddenly Makaria turned to her son. 
 
 "What thinkest thou?" 
 
 Aristodemos knew not what to reply. 
 
 " Nay — speak out ! No fair-seeming walls ? We have 
 a saying, 'The youths are Sparta's walls and their spear 
 points her boundaries.' Come!" 
 
 Hand in hand, with slaves trailing after, they crossed the 
 river by the little well-known bridge and made their way 
 through the sweet-smelling wheat fields in the gathering 
 night. They followed the street along the Acropolis, 
 where the people stared curiously after them, passed 
 through the Agora, and turned down a narrow way. 
 
 Aristodemos could hear his mother breathing in the 
 dark as she paused before a low lighted door. She re- 
 moved her veil and the aged porter howled with dismay. 
 
 "Blockhead!" said Makaria. "I am no ghost, but 
 Makaria come home again. Go tell thy master." 
 
32 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Very stately she stepped over the threshold, folded her 
 veil and laid it away in its old accustomed place, motioned 
 the slaves to their quarters, opened a chest in the comer 
 and looked carefully at the garments woven by the slaves, 
 and inspected the carded wool, of which there was a 
 plentiful supply. She took up the wonted household 
 duties as though she had been gone but a day. 
 
 The boy stood shyly by the door, oppressed by the low, 
 ill-lighted room. The home in Athens had been simple, 
 but this was rough and not even clean ! The house showed 
 no place for leisure like his father's inner court with its 
 font and altar. 
 
 A slow footfall approached and the uncle came in. 
 At first he could not see in the light, and beetled his white 
 brows at Makaria and the boy as he set his staflf against 
 the wall. 
 
 "Well," he said without greeting. "Thou'st come back 
 to Sparta. Show me the boy." 
 
 Aristodemos stepped before him and stood blushing 
 as the old man looked him up and down. 
 
 "Fair enough," he said at length. "The hair is thine, 
 Makaria. The boy is Spartan. I hope thy head's not 
 full of nonsense. Hey, boy?" 
 
 Tears of pure shyness stood in Aristodemos's eyes. 
 He had never before been commented upon, and knew 
 not what to reply. 
 
 "I have been taught of a good master," he faltered. 
 
 "Ay, the mischief's done, I'll be bound. Dost sing 
 and twiddle at the lyre?" 
 
 "Nay," said Makaria, championing her son. "He is 
 a good lad, Gylippos." 
 
HOLLOW LACEDiEMON 33 
 
 "Let him answer — let him answer!" growled the old 
 man. 
 
 "I think it honour," said Aristodemos steadily, "to 
 sing even as did my father." 
 
 "Thy father.? I am now thy father. I never played 
 the lyre. Not I!" 
 
 The boy looked up into the shrewd old face, but his 
 voice quivered low as he said: 
 
 "Thou fatherest me with taimts, GyUppos. Thou 
 knowest that I speak of Lykos of Pandion's tribe. My 
 first dear father is he. Do ye of Sparta forget and dis- 
 honour your dead?" 
 
 "Do you young of Athens advise the aged?" retorted 
 the old man, while Aristodemos hung his head in sudden 
 shame. He had been wont to be silent before his elders. 
 But Gylippos put his short, bony finger under the boy's 
 chin and lifted up the blushing face. 
 
 "There, there! Thou hast well answered. Go and wait 
 for me at the door." And before he realized what was 
 doing Aristodemos stood without, the warm stars above 
 him, and Taygetos impending like a great shadow in the 
 sky. 
 
 A hand was laid upon his shoulder, a timid hand whose 
 very trembling was familiar. 
 
 "Antiphon!" he said eagerly. 
 
 "Little Master, little Master!" and the timorous hand 
 moved up and down the boy's arm. "Art thou in need 
 this night?" 
 
 "No, Antiphon, not I," came the clear answer. But 
 the boy moved closer to the form in the dark. 
 
 "Hast thou thought ill of me, Son of Lykos?" 
 
34 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Of thee, Antiphon? And why?" 
 
 "That day upon Skiron's Rock, when I deserted thee 
 and hid — " 
 
 "Nay, I thought not of it." Aristodemos spoke 
 tenderly, as to a child. "Thou art old, and age is fear- 
 some." 
 
 "No; not that. Master. It was this rather." Anti- 
 phon brought out a small bag. "I had this by me, and 
 would save it for thee." 
 
 "But what is it? Honeycake or — " 
 
 "No, do not laugh that I give thee a gift," pleaded 
 the slave. "It is gold. Thou wilt need it." 
 
 "Not here in Sparta! But how hast thou gold, Anti- 
 phon?" 
 
 "In this way. Thy father was fain to let me buy my 
 freedom, seeing I had been thy paidagogos. And every day 
 I we.nt a while to the Kerameikos and hired me to" a potter 
 and turned the wheel. Pots large and small grew under 
 my hand. This is the price thereof." 
 
 He tried to force it into the boy's hands. 
 
 "Take it, little Master," he insisted. "It is thy father's 
 gift. My hands that did the work were his." 
 
 But the boy quickly spoke as the master. 
 
 "No; slave earning I will not take. Thou shalt use 
 my father's gift for thyself." 
 
 But the old man shook his head. 
 
 "All the journey this was a joy to me carried in my 
 breast. I thought thou wouldest take it. But old Anti- 
 phon will bury it in the earth underneath his bed. And 
 some day the little Master will ask for it, and old Anti- 
 phon will have it ready." 
 
HOLLOW LACEDiEMON 35 
 
 He turned away as the door darkened with the figure 
 of Gylippos, who took the boy by ithe hand and walked 
 him away without a word. They crossed the deserted 
 Agora and turned down the Apheta Way. The old man 
 gave no hint as to where they were going. He walked 
 strongly, his bare feet making no sound on the beaten 
 paths, his old woolen mantle flapping against the boy's 
 arm and face. Aristodemos could scarcely believe him a 
 rich man, still less a ruler of the state, as he really was. 
 
 Upon a stretch of level ground they came to a long, 
 low building, lighted by a single smoking torch, as one 
 might see through the open door, and from the glow atop, 
 for there was no roof over the centre. Muffled sounds 
 were heard within, a smothered laugh, a quick-vented 
 vocal breath as at the break of efPort; then scuffles, 
 vigorous but guarded. 
 
 As they reached the door, a dodged missile, a bundle 
 of rushes, hit Gylippos full in front. 
 
 "Ho, there!" he roared. "Who is our diskobolos?" 
 
 Whereat silence fell. Every boy scuttled to his place, 
 and before the old man and his charge had passed the 
 threshold the barrack was in order." 
 
 "A fine greeting to an Ephor of your city!" said Gylip- 
 pos. "Wakeful nights make unsteady men.. Rules are 
 to obey!" 
 
 An older youth, one of the captains of companies, 
 stood forth, taking the reprimand. 
 
 "The fault is mine. Father," he said. "I will take 
 punishment for them." 
 
 "Come," interrupted Gylippos. "I have brought a 
 boy for you to choose into a company." 
 
36 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Quite unnecessarily, it seemed to Aristodemos, the 
 uncle pushed him forward. He stood, scarce knowing 
 where to look. The Spartan boys, with a single swift 
 step, formed into companies, each with its ilarch, a youth 
 of nineteen or twenty, in front. Thin, sunbrowned boys 
 they were, from ten to twelve years old, barefoot, bare- 
 legged, wearing the single unbleached garment cut short 
 above the knees. There was about them the trim swift- 
 ness of antelopes, and the shy lustre of the antelope look 
 in their eyes. 
 
 The first ilarch put the vote to his little company of 
 fifteen. 
 
 "Ayes!" he called in the heavy silence. 
 
 Then "Noes!" Upon which came a full, imited shout. 
 
 Aristodemos's heart gave a quick leap. A hot flush 
 of shame shot over his whole body. His forehead grew 
 wet, his hands cold. 
 
 Gylippos pushed him toward the next company. 
 
 A second time fell the sharp shout of "No!" 
 
 A third and then a fourth company rejected him. 
 
 Suddenly, with a fierce sob, he turned upon his 
 uncle. 
 
 " No !" he cried. " The son of Lykos will not be scorned 
 like a market slave! I will sleep in the street. And 
 to-morrow I will " 
 
 He started like a flash for the door, only to be caught 
 and held fast by one of the strong young ilarchs. But 
 Gylippos was speaking. 
 
 "The boy is right. He is my nephew and is come to be 
 my son." 
 
 And while Aristodemos still struggled in the ilarch's 
 
HOLLOW LACEDiEMON 37 
 
 arms the "Aye!" was shouted from a company down the 
 line. Then the ilarch set him in their midst. 
 
 He looked up. His uncle was gone. His new comrades 
 stood about him tittering at his flushed face and heaving 
 chest. Then they lay down upon the small heaps of 
 straw that were their beds and forgot him. Indeed, he 
 might have stood there all night among the sleeping 
 ones but for the ilarch of his company. 
 
 "Euiytos," he orderd, "bring that straw that Demonax 
 threw." 
 
 A lithe, black haired boy leaped up and fetched it. 
 
 "Lay it there." 
 
 Then, turning to Aristodemos and pointing to it in the 
 comer, he said to him, "There is thy bed." Not a word 
 of welcome, nor a " Good-night" to the lad who all his life 
 had known the pectiliar tenderness of an Athenian father. 
 
 Late in the night the ilarch sat up, roused by an 
 imaccustomed sound. He was a faithful shepherd of the 
 host. He rose and passed softly down the line of sleeping 
 forms to where the new boy lay. But he lay quite still, 
 curled close to keep warm, the pale moonlight on his face. 
 
 And the ilarch returned to his rest, wondering what 
 it might have been. 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 Whom Apollo Kameios Crovmed 
 
 HOW came this boy to be so parented, at once of 
 Sparta and of Athens? Sparta was not used 
 to wed outside her borders, least of all with her 
 growing rival state. His father Lykos would have ex- 
 plained it in a word. "He was born of a song." 
 For to him it always seemed that the wistful beauty of 
 his own youthful singing had gone into the boy and lived 
 again. The child was indeed born of a great love impulse, 
 one of those divine, unlooked for happenings that flash 
 into life. Surely Kairos made him, that tip-toe god of 
 golden opportunity or perhaps laughter loving Aphrodite 
 who turneth upside down the plans of men. 
 
 It chanced that twelve years before Aristodemos's 
 journeying to Sparta the young Lykos had travelled that 
 same road. That was the year when Athens met the Boeo- 
 tians by the Euripos and vanquished them, taking seven 
 hundred captives. The city of the gray eyed goddess, 
 freed at last from tyrants, was lifting her head and begin- 
 
 S8 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 39 
 
 ning with young joy her noble race, while Sparta looked 
 on with jealous eyes, nursing the hatred that was finally to 
 ruin Greece. 
 
 But at festival times all such jealousies were put aside 
 in the common honour of the god. Especially was this 
 true of the Kameia, at which lyrists and rhapsodists from 
 all Hellas gathered in Sparta to sing in contest and win 
 the laurel crown. 
 
 This year there came from Athens five men of iioble 
 race; Neokles, whose restless child Themistokles was then 
 eight years old, young Xanthippos, Kleotes, and Lykos, 
 who brought with him Piadar, his dearest friend. Pindar 
 was the Theban lad who was already astonishing his old 
 master in Athens with his bold, youthful songs. Pindar 
 was come a fledgehng, silent yet, to listen to the rest. 
 
 Lykos was the youngest of the singers, yet of them he 
 alone was come to Sparta with a bit of statecraft in his 
 heart. All through their journey he had times of 
 silence when he would walk behind the others alone or 
 grasping Pindar's willing hand. He would stride along 
 thus, sometimes for hours, in deep absorption, his fine, 
 low forehead puckered to a frown, his head bowed, twisting 
 his ruddy nether lip between his thumb and finger. 
 The boy Pindar would watch him with the trustful awe 
 which the very youthful give to those they love. Then 
 the mood would pass, and Lykos would shout ahead to 
 his fellows some merry comment of the road that would 
 set them all a-laughing. They were glad enough to get him 
 with them again. Light hearted in his talk, deadly earn- 
 est in his scheme, nothing was farther from Lykos's 
 thoughts than falling in love. 
 
40 THE SPARTAN 
 
 They arrived at Sparta the night before the feast and 
 early in the morning were abroad, their bright flowing 
 dresses showing gaily among Sparta's sober crowds. 
 Athenians were of a curious nature, always prying and 
 questioning like children into the least as into the greatest 
 things. These men saw much and commented freely 
 among themselves, while the Spartans scowled and set 
 them down for chatterers. 
 
 It was a bright sunlit morning of Grecian midsummer, 
 a morning when it was well to take the cool early hours, 
 before Phoebus should reach his height and the heat 
 begin. Above the little town slept the great moimtain 
 bulk, the morning clouds visibly whispering down its slopes, 
 the far peaks gleaming with their remnant of winter's 
 snow. In the busy city the Spartans passed them with 
 the absorbed, unconscious smile of those who are hastening 
 to pleasant sacrifice. Along the ways the young men were 
 pitching tents of skins. For at the Karneia the men of 
 Sparta lived in tents as on the eve of battle, and all 
 things were done in military order as the herald annoimced 
 them. The Kameian Festival was War-in-Ritual. 
 
 The Athenians took their way southward through the 
 busy Agora, and strolled down the Skian Road. Now 
 they turned aside to see that exceeding ancient temple of 
 bronze which dazzled in the sunlight, now stopped at the 
 circular Skias where the Spartan assemblies were held. 
 Here they saw han^g upon a pillar the lyre of Terpander, 
 whom the Spartans had punished for adding new strings 
 to the lyre. 
 
 "An thou wert Spartan, Pindar," said Lykos laughing, 
 "we would soon see not thy lyre but thyself hung up by 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 41 
 
 the toes. The Laconians could never bear thy free 
 imaginings." 
 
 "Hush," said the boy, pressing sensitively closer to 
 his friend. "How that soldier scowls at us!" 
 
 " 'Tis his hair that scowls," laughed his friend. "Don't 
 let it fright thee. 'Twas doubtless combed for last year's 
 festival. These Spartans in their roughness are as affected 
 as our very coxcombs!" And he passed lightly on, 
 carrying the others with him. 
 
 Soon they neared the god, Apollo Kameios, that an- 
 cient precious xoanon of wood. He was one of those 
 statues upon whom is the mystery of great age. Doubt- 
 less from his place he had seen the bright haired Menelaos 
 in his restless preparation when men were setting forth 
 to Troy. He stood without temple, scarred with the 
 passage of uncounted years, a rudely carved stiff figure 
 beside the busy road. To his altar on this his day came 
 all the sacrifice of Sparta — silent flocks pattering their 
 little feet in the dust, cattle whose mellow lowings seemed 
 to question what would soon befall. 
 
 Here the Athenians were as reverent as the Spartans. 
 As they approached the altar, there met them full face a 
 troop of barefoot maidens, calm creatures of the morning, 
 full of life and strength. They wore the white Spartan 
 shifts, girdled high and flowing softly to their lovely knees. 
 On their heads were great shadowing baskets heaped 
 brimful of flowers. They had been up among the hills 
 in the dim hush of dawn visiting cool gorges and gather- 
 ing iris, roses of second bloom and trailing vines. 
 
 Before the Apollo they halted. The foremost of them, 
 raising her arms with an easy sweep, lifted lightly down 
 
42 THE SPARTAN 
 
 the basket from her head and gave the sweet smelling 
 blossoms to the god. 
 
 Then Lykos suddenly remembered that in Spartan 
 streets noble virgins were wont to go unveiled. 
 
 The maiden stood bareheaded, crowned like a goddess 
 with her golden hair, the rich colourful golden of the south. 
 It parted rippling down her temples like the hair of Hera, 
 was drawn softly back under a fillet into loose knot behind. 
 It curled, glittered, fairly played with the sun, and gave 
 to her whole figure a sense of lightness and of wings. 
 
 Lykos's soul suddenly went into his gazing eyes. All 
 unconscious, absorbed in the girl's beauty, he actually 
 spoke to her aloud. 
 
 "Daughter of golden haired Menelaos, how fair art 
 thou!" 
 
 She looked toward him, but not as if she saw him, her 
 thoughts stiU busy with her prayer and sacrifice. Perhaps 
 she was accustomed to such praise. Presently she lifted 
 the great shallow basket to her head again, and swuiig 
 easefully up the street. ^^ 
 
 "Come, Lykos, come!" said Kleotes, plucking the 
 dreamer by the hand. "There are other sights in Sparta 
 besides barefaced girls. Why, Lykos, thy hand is trem- 
 bling. See here, old fellow!" 
 
 But Lykos turned his head away. 
 
 "The gods forbid ! Thou are not in the snare of Aphro- 
 dite?" 
 
 "No — no," said Lykos confusedly. "I know not — " 
 And to the amazement of his fellows he broke away in 
 the direction the maid had taken. 
 
 He came up with her in the Agora, but he dared not 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 4S 
 
 speak again. He watched her threading her way through 
 the crowd, balancing with unconscious skill the basket 
 on her head. Every motion of the fair child endeared her 
 to him, so that as she walked he called down blessings on 
 her head. He felt as if the gods themselves walked with 
 her, unseen but keenly near. 
 
 She turned down a narrow street into the Pitane district, 
 and like a foolish boy he trailed on after her. At her 
 door, next to the ancient house of Menelaos, she stopped, 
 lowered her basket and turning, was for the first time 
 aware of Lykos. For a moment she looked, half in cur- 
 iosity, half in scorn, at his delicate hands and long violet 
 robe. Then suddenly she knew that he had followed 
 her all the way and that he loved her. As who would not 
 know, seeing that light in his eye? 
 
 With a laugh of new found power she bounded into the 
 house. And oddly enough, all the brightness passed out 
 of the sunshine at that moment, and all the pleasure out 
 of the festive rites. Lykos had never in all his life felt 
 so alone, so strangely melancholy. He stood irresolute 
 in the narrow way, gazing at the door that had closed her 
 away from him. Simple Lykos! For all his Athenian 
 cleverness, it did not occur to him to look at the little 
 upper window where the curtain stirred. 
 
 Later Lykos came upon his friends by the river. Pin- 
 dar ran to meet him. 
 
 "Well, Lykos, dearest Lykos!" laughed Kleotes. 
 "Hast really come back at last? Why, we have inspected 
 all the relics in three temples!" 
 
 That day Lykos studiously followed his friends about 
 the city. But he was not their careless, laughing Lykos. 
 
44 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He seemed to himself to be looking at the new sights 
 through a veil that made them far away and altogether 
 unimportant. Finally, he broke away from them, and in 
 the late afternoon found himself on Colona Hill pacing up 
 and down. 
 
 What had he to do with this foreign Spartan girl.!* Why 
 so unable to control his thoughts? She was beautiful 
 of course, beautiful as one of Antenor's new statues, 
 beautiful as a flower or a boy^this was high praise from 
 Lykos. But why had that virgin look so utterly confound- 
 ed him? A Spartan girl indeed! He shook shoulders 
 vigorously and hurried back to the town. But not to 
 his friends. 
 
 He hurried to the little, narrow street again and 
 stood looking at the wooden pillars of Menelaos's house. 
 Suddenly with a rush of gladness he heard her voice in 
 her home next door laughing and singing like a thrush. 
 
 "Makaria," came a voice of authority, "sing not so 
 loud." 
 
 "But, Mother, it is festival time." 
 
 "The gods can hear, sing thou never so soft. Besides, 
 there is a stranger in the street will hear." 
 
 "But, Mother, I have looked. There is no one there." 
 
 Something in the tone made him know that she had 
 seen and that she was taunting him. He turned away 
 red and furious. Yet it was he and no other who next 
 day drew Pindar aside from his fellows and ran with him 
 like a truant around the rocky corner of the Acropolis. 
 
 "Oh, Pindar, Pindar!" he said, throwing his arms about 
 the astonished boy. "This woman, Pindar! Doth she 
 not move like an Immortal? Was ever mortal head so 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 45 
 
 crowned with sunshine? And Pindar, couldest thou but 
 hear her laugh! The music of waters! Maidens do not 
 laugh so in Athens . Speak to me, Pindar !" 
 
 "How can I speak, dear Lykos?" asked the breathless 
 boy. "But I say yes! I believe I could love her myself." 
 
 "No," said Lykos with quick solicitude. "Do not 
 thou love her, Pindar. Let no mere woman mar our 
 vowed friendship!" 
 
 Pindar laughed, a merry, boyish note. 
 
 "Oh, Lykos, Lykos, thou art surely Aphrodite's!" 
 
 "Do not laugh," pleaded Lykos. "No careless word 
 this day!" 
 
 Pindar drew his friend's hand affectionately over his 
 own shoulders. 
 
 "Lykos, hast thou forgot that to-day thou singest 
 for Athens's honour?" 
 
 "Yes, I had forgot," admitted Lykos blankly. "But 
 I shall sing. I shall sing!" 
 
 For a while his earnest eyes looked straight ahead. 
 Then he began to talk in low, hurried tones. 
 
 "Pindar, why do they not understand what is so plain 
 — so plain? They laugh and feast who should be on their 
 knees before the gods. The East will come upon us, boy. 
 I have been in the Ionian Coasts and I know. Sparta 
 must throw aside her jealousy and join hands with 
 Athens. Even then we are but a handful to face the 
 barbarian hordes." 
 
 In a moment the light hearted lover had vanished, and 
 in his place stood the far seeing young statesman. He was 
 prophesying long before its day the mighty struggle with 
 Persia. 
 
46 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "I shall sing," he repeated. "And of a truth for 
 Athens." 
 
 The singers' contest took place in that part of the Agora 
 where the boys were wont to perform their daily choruses. 
 The homely dressed Spartans gathered close about the 
 choral ring and listened intently as each rhapsodist ad- 
 vanced and sang his song. 
 
 And now Lykos stood forth in the orchestra, his soft 
 himation reaching to his feet, his bright lyre ready, his 
 face keen with purpose. He sang: 
 
 "Why do ye hate fair Athens, 
 
 The city by the sea? 
 Whom the gods love, and most of all Athena 
 
 The gray-eyed best loved goddess. 
 
 Who goeth home to her own house 
 
 On Athens's city hilt. 
 Whence is your hate toward her? 
 
 Did not your own aged statesman, 
 
 Hyakinthos the Spartan, 
 
 Journeying to Athens long ago 
 
 In obedience to oracles divine. 
 
 Stay the dread plague of Athens, 
 Sacrificing daughters twain upon the tomb of Cyclops, 
 
 Saving our city from sorrowful death? 
 
 "There died the gentle Virgins, 
 Unwedded yielded up their dear loved breath 
 That Athens might be alive. 
 Therefore of us they are honoured. 
 The fair Spartan Maidens of Healing. 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 47 
 
 "And thou, great Sparta, 
 Shouldst also honour them. 
 Redeem their holy deed. 
 And take thy sister city by the hand! 
 
 "Behold a cloud ariseth in the East, 
 Dark to overwhelm us! 
 Pray ye the gods the Mede o'erwhelm us not! 
 
 "Let Hellas join, let Hellas join together. 
 And when the Mede doth come. 
 Drive him with shouts and with our glittering spears 
 Beyond the wine-dark sea!" 
 
 The song had begun in the Lydian mode and went 
 pleading on to the line "Take thy sister city by the hand," 
 where it suddenly changed to the strength-giving Doric 
 and rose with ancient majesty, a clear toned gale of song 
 ending with a rhythm in which the very clash of spears 
 rang out. 
 
 The Theban boy stood tapping his feet in jubilant 
 impatience to embrace his friend. Not so the Spartans. 
 
 "Broken measures." "Not allowed." "Such free- 
 dom goes to chaos." Then the cold silence of disapproval. 
 
 Lykos stood silent, his lyre trailing in his hand. He 
 was not the first in this slow world to see before his time 
 and to see alone. He dropped his head with a gesture 
 whose bitterness only the Theban understood. 
 
 His eyes fell upon the crowd. He caught a glint of 
 light — that golden head again, the maiden sacrificer 
 of the morning. Taunting scorn was in her look. Lykos 
 kindled at the challenge. The Athenian spirit is wont to 
 leap up and snap fingers in the face of defeat. And when 
 
48 THE SPARTAN 
 
 he lifted up his head and tossed back his hair, they all saw 
 that Lykos would sing again. 
 
 This time it was an ancient nome of Terpander, a familiar 
 modal melody which the Spartans had sung from mouth 
 to mouth out of the hoary past. He flung it at them as 
 if to say, "Then take this that ye can understand!" 
 The old melody with its clear stately step rang new in 
 the freshness and intelligence of his voice. He sang 
 thereto a poem from his heart, created under stress with 
 that easy creation which was possible when the world was 
 young. He took the story of their own Spartan Penelope, 
 when Odysseus came to take her away from Sparta to 
 rocky Ithaca. 
 
 "Penelope was fair and young. 
 And lightly stood she in the chariot 
 Wherewith Odysseus was taking her away. 
 A veil was about her shoulders. 
 But hid not her head of gold, 
 A veil of the snow's whiteness 
 Which she herself had woven on the loom 
 Against her marriage day. 
 
 "For Penelope Was the cunningest 
 Weaver of mortal women. 
 Only the gods weave fairer. 
 And Arachne 
 The maiden who wove too well. 
 
 "Now her father Icarius loved her. 
 And he yet clamoured for her. 
 Clamoured and called her name. 
 He followed her, running in the dust behind. 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 49 
 
 "Then Odysseus turned and spoke: 
 'Penelope, wilt thou choose now 
 Whether thou unit have thy father. 
 The author of thy life. 
 Or whether me, thy loverf 
 
 "To whom Penelope, 
 Being an honest maid and very shy. 
 Answered no word. 
 
 But in silence drew with her white hand 
 Her veil before her face. 
 And bowed her lovely head. 
 
 "In this wise told she him. 
 In this wise made her choice. 
 And Icarius gat him home. 
 But Odysseus took his bride to his own house. 
 
 "Now, therefore, is that place 
 To this day called in Sparta 
 ' The Maiden's Choice.' " 
 
 He closed with a long, sweet note, blended with the lyre 
 tone sounding in unison. Then he was lost in the crowd. 
 
 "Victor! Victor!" clamoured the simple Spartans, 
 quite won out of their stolidity by the character he had 
 put into the ancient song. A young soldier pushed 
 him forward all blushing and confused. One of the judges 
 took a laurel wreath from the foot of the Agora Apollo 
 and set it upon the bowed dark head. 
 
 Then Lykos rose, lifted the crown of sacred leaves 
 from his brow and gave it back to the god. To the 
 
50 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Greek it was honour enough to wear for a moment that 
 divine leafage. The honour and privilege lay in giving 
 to the god again his own. Then Lykos turned quickly 
 from the crowd, seized Pindar by the hand, and hurried 
 off. 
 
 When they were quite alone, he laid his late-crowned 
 head upon the boy's shoulder and wept. No Spartan 
 approval of his song could comfort him for his dear, 
 great purpose, which had failed. 
 
 And the maiden, Makaria. Almost, she thought as 
 she walked homeward, almost she could hate that young 
 Athenian. Yet of what could she accuse him? Of his 
 Athenian laughter and swift, too many words? No: it 
 was rather a certain intensity of open expressiveness 
 from which she shrank, as dumb things will. For she 
 was of the silent, repressed life of Sparta, and that long, 
 intent gaze of his had startled her. Yet, even so, why 
 had she taunted him? That first song was not so ill 
 sung. And the second ! 
 
 He had sung that song for her, there in the open square! 
 Why else had he given Dame Penelope golden hair? 
 Would the others know? she wondered. Her maiden 
 comrades, would they tease her with it to-morrow? 
 
 "Why," she complained to her mother, "why do the 
 Athenians come to our festival at all with their starings 
 and their songs? It is Sparta's festival, and it is our own 
 god we are honouring for the good of our own city. They 
 have no part in it!" 
 
 Yet all that night the Penelope song ran with sweet 
 insistence through her dreams. 
 
 The third afternoon of the festival, as the air grew cool 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 51 
 
 and the great shadow of Taygetos began to creep over the 
 dry, late summer fields, the maidens of Sparta gathered 
 upon the Apheta Way to run their public race. Now the 
 boys of Sparta were slenderer than boys of other states, 
 worn down by the rigour of their discipline. But the girls, 
 bred out of doors and exercised in the sunshine to become 
 the lusty mothers of Laconia, bloomed with a vigorous 
 beauty unknown among the veiled housed girls of 
 Athens. They were a lovely company of wholesome 
 wild roses, if roses could but chatter, laugh and move 
 about with such restless eagerness. 
 
 They were slightly clad, as ready for their flight as 
 birds might be. Their short Spartan tunics bared their 
 knees, and were even slit at the sides to leave movement 
 absolutely free. Arms and necks were bare and brown. 
 Such dress the Spartan girls wore at all times, and with 
 such simple fitness that even the Athenians who ridi- 
 culed could not but know that it served its modest 
 purpose. 
 
 About this group of young creatures stood the matrons, 
 veiled yet eager, inspiring the runners with references to 
 their own early triumphs. The old men and rulers of 
 the city ordered the crowds. The ranks of boys dis- 
 cussed eagerly the coming race. 
 
 "Orsobia will win!" clamoured some. 
 
 "Makaria!" said others. 
 
 But most spoke Argeia's name, their favourite runner. 
 
 Six girls were chosen. They stood a little apart, chat- 
 ting with a certain anxious gaiety. In their midst, 
 Makaria. Lykos recognized her with a quick leap of 
 heart. She seemed so young for the great eflFort, the 
 
52 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "agony" as the Greek called it, which she must put forth 
 alone, in w.hich none could help or further her. She 
 seemed, too, a little apart from the gay mood of her 
 fellows, silent, thinking on the race. Now he saw her 
 lips move, praying to her god. He stood very near her 
 in the crowd. 
 
 "Ei!" called out a Spartan boy. "Makaria never 
 ran at Festival before. Look, she is afraid!" 
 
 Makaria turned defiantly, and as she turned, her eyes 
 met full the gaze of the Athenian, praying with her, as it 
 •seemed, her own half -finished prayer. Her look softened, 
 and she bowed her head to hide it. But as she did so she 
 moved almost imperceptibly nearer to him for protection. 
 
 "Win, Makaria!" said Lykos, speaking low. "Maiden 
 of the torchlike hair, bring thy torch to the goal!" 
 
 The herald called. The girls stood in tense silence, 
 leaning forward, with unsandalled feet upon the line. 
 
 Then the signal! — and they sprang at once, as if six 
 bows had twanged and let six arrows fly. They flashed 
 past Lykos with a rush of wind and stroke of bare feet, 
 creatures of glad efiFort and of flight. Then sped dimin- 
 ishing down the course. 
 
 As for Makaria, she saved her breath and fixed her 
 whole mind upon the goal. Just behind Orsobia she ran, 
 feeling the wind in her face, the cool breeze kissing her 
 neck beneath the flying locks. 
 
 Now she reached Orsobia, passed her with astonishing 
 ease. What a thrill of joy! Could she win? The 
 stranger's prayer — it was a prayer of power! Never 
 had her feet been so light. The life within her seemed 
 to lift and speed her unweighted flesh! 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 53 
 
 Ahead, Argeia strained, with glancing heel and flutter- 
 ing garment. Foolishly she looked back at Makaria. 
 Then the golden-haired shot up and ran breast-even 
 with her. 
 
 Now they were at the Herm. They flashed around 
 it turning sharp, Makaria getting the inner course. 
 
 Homeward they flew. They could hear each other's 
 labouring breath. Greater, greater grew the effort. 
 Makaria felt her consciousness grow blurred, while her 
 obedient legs kept pushing, pushing on mechanically 
 toward the goal. 
 
 But why now was she less aware of Argeia at her side? 
 Was some invisible hand pulling Argeia slowly backward 
 despite the swift-flying feet and the eager, forward- 
 striving body? 
 
 Makaria's heart leaped up. Keen thought came back. 
 With a bound she put herself to the fore. 
 
 Then suddenly she felt herself free. No more in her 
 nostrils the dust of the runners ! Oh, the joy of the sweet 
 evening wind, the clear track ahead, the ever fainter 
 footfalls behind! And oh, the strength of victory, mak- 
 ing her feel that she could never tire, though she ran the 
 length of Hellas! 
 
 Lykos standing near the goal saw them come, Makaria 
 running like a winged thing, eyes a-shine and sweet lips 
 parted with the last supreme effort of the race. Now 
 she made the finish, touching the goal with uplifted hands, 
 breathing deep in her virgin bosom, quite speechless, but 
 laughing in helpless joy at the praises sounding about her. 
 
 "A new runner! Makaria! Makaria!" shouted the 
 crowd. 
 
54 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Oh, Pindar, Pindar!" whispered Lykos. "To see 
 her run, so strong, so fair, so light! What a mother for 
 a noble line!" 
 
 An elder laid the laurel crown of Apollo Kameios upon 
 Makaria's brow, and all the people watched her rever- 
 ently kneeling, praying beside the altar. 
 
 After the rejoicing Makaria eluded her friends and 
 stole swiftly homeward. Across the darkling Agora 
 she went, past the place where the stranger had sung, 
 and into her own narrow street again, stepping lightly, 
 looking this way and that, like a {awn in the forest alert 
 for the hunter. Her cheeks still burned with exultation; 
 her eyes were full of light. Hesitating, lovely, she came. 
 
 Surely that was only a shadow there in the portico 
 of the Menelaos House. No. The stranger himself, 
 his long violet cloak glimmering in the twilight! His 
 head was bowed, yet he was looking at her with that 
 long clear, tender gaze of his. 
 
 She stopped, with lips apart and eyes instantly wide. 
 Lykos came gently toward her, as one might approach 
 a bird fearing it would fly away into heaven. Neither 
 spoke. They were afraid of Aphrodite, in whose spell 
 they knew themselves to be. The goddess was a fearful 
 presence in the gloaming. They held their breath for joy. 
 
 And now Lykos lifted his hand and with reverent fingers 
 touched her hair that he had so marvelled at from afar. 
 
 "My father toucheth my hair," said Makaria quite 
 childishly, "but never as thou touchest." 
 
 "Then have I offended thee, thou lovely Victrix?" 
 asked Lykos, almost with compassion for her tender, 
 fleeting beauty. 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 55 
 
 "No," she answered, softly bowing her shy head. 
 "Didst thou sing that song for me?" 
 
 "For thee and no other. Thou knowest." 
 
 She was trying to understand her own mood, trying to 
 make some excuse for him and for her own swift change 
 of heart. Quite unexpectedly she lifted her head with a 
 direct look into his eyes. 
 
 "Perhaps the gods willed it. Perhaps thou couldst 
 not help loving me." 
 
 Never had boldness sat so fair upon a modest maid! 
 
 Lykos caught her in his arms, and kissed her ardently, 
 cheek and brow and rosy mouth, holding her close until 
 she broke away and with low, happy laughter lost herself 
 in the shadow of her open door. 
 
 Lykos's mind was set. Had not Neokles married a 
 foreigner.'' Was it so strange a thing to marry out of 
 one's own city? He had thought of marriage as for off- 
 spring, a duty to the state, something which his friends 
 might some day arrange for him, but which he rather 
 dreaded as a drag upon his free public activities. He 
 had never talked with a maid nor had he ever seen maiden 
 faces before, save at rare festivals. It had never crossed 
 his mind that he might love as the gods love, or have 
 actual speech with a woman before making her his bride. 
 
 And now, here upon his heart all unwilling, had come 
 so rare a joy, so sweet a gift from the indulgent gods! 
 Anakreon's strains and Psappha's ecstasy! They were 
 all true, after all! He softly sang over the poet's words, 
 wondering at their rich new meaning. No child of the 
 myths reared by shy forest mother could ever be more 
 taken by surprise than he. 
 
56 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He sought out the girl's father. 
 
 Yes, the old man said. Makaria was his youngest 
 child. Yes, and the prettiest. Five daughters were too 
 many, and hence he was a poor man. How much dower 
 would the young man expect? Well, perhaps — yes, 
 he could afford that. The young man was reasonable. 
 He could have her. 
 
 " And when," inquired the Athenian, " can the betrothal 
 be.^ I am in haste to return to Athens.'" 
 
 "When? When.^" repeated the old man. "Why, 
 that's for thee! What unlucky words have escaped the 
 door of thy mouth!" And he tiu^ed his back upon him. 
 So Lykos saw that he must leam something of Spartan 
 marriage customs. 
 
 He learned, to his astonishment, that there was no 
 ceremony whatever; no feast nor torch-bearing, no 
 epithalamion sung in the presence of the immortal gods, 
 no sacrifices save private ones. Instead, he must ^o to 
 her house by night and steal his bride away! It was an 
 ancient custom to which the Spartans had clung long 
 after the other Greeks had forgotten it. 
 
 At first this was a trial to Lykos, who so loved and hon- 
 oured the dignified customs of Athens. But when all was 
 arranged, and the next evening drew on, when the old kins- 
 woman had prepared to receive them, and Makaria 
 herself was ready — then the wild freedom of the symbol 
 filled him with exultant joy. 
 
 The western fires went slowly down beyond the moun- 
 tain. The evening star, like a bright shepherd of the 
 flock, called his glittering multitudes into the. evening 
 sky. The night deepened and grew still. 
 
WHOM APOLLO CROWNED 57 
 
 Lykos stole down the narrow way, stood in the shadow 
 of her house and gave the low signal. At once the door 
 opened, and his beloved stood before him in the starlight. 
 He kissed her in haste, swung her lightly to his shoulder, 
 and ran with her like a deer down the empty street 
 and away. He bore her swiftly across the silent Dromos, 
 past the dark circle of Platanistous's sacred plane trees, 
 past Colona's quiet hill where as a child she had so often 
 gathered flowers and would gather them no more. Then 
 before them glimmered her kinswoman's doorway. Ah, 
 never for any race of her own had the maiden's breath so 
 fluttered in her bosom! 
 
 Over the threshold Lykos lifted her and set her down, 
 and with what tenderness lifted the matron's veil that hid 
 for the first time her lovely face, and saw that deep content 
 which he half feared to claim, lest the immortal gods 
 looking on it, should envy him his joy. 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 An Ancient Childhood 
 
 NOW Athens lay before the simple Spartan girl. 
 To her the house of Lykos seemed wonderful. 
 Simple though it was, it far surpassed the mean 
 houses of Sparta. Instead of earth for a floor it had 
 smooth clean stones set in cement. By the doorway 
 burned at night a lamp of oil, clean and sweet, lighting 
 the narrow passage. It had an open inner court where 
 all the morning the sunlight lay upon the little altar of 
 Apollo, and sparkled in the tiny stream of the fountain 
 where they washed their faces upon rising. Here were 
 planted two small laurel trees, as bringing down the very 
 life of Apollo into the house. These were Makaria's 
 especial care. 
 
 Very cool and fair seemed the rooms as she passed into 
 them, very delicate the fountain that played so softly in 
 the shadows. And above the stairs, the weaving room 
 was cool and spacious. There were the distaffs waiting 
 the ready hand, and heaps of wool like snow upon the floor. 
 
 S8 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 59 
 
 She did not like the slaves' merry famiharity with their* 
 master, and reproved her husband for having left his 
 household untraiaed. But Lykos only stroked her cheek 
 and laughed at her. "Bless thee, wife," he said, "they 
 are old in impudence, and I love them too well to change 
 them now." 
 
 Makaria also found as she grew familiar with the new 
 life that her Athens was practically bounded by the four 
 walls of her home. She could not go forth, save with 
 Lykos's consent; then only with a slave, and always 
 with her himation drawn up over her head, concealing 
 her face. Those pretty feet, accustomed to fly over the 
 course, found the httle courtyard but a scanty place for 
 action. And the square bit of blue above it was but a 
 poor exchange for soaring peaks and dizzy distances. 
 
 "But I can not let thee go forth without a reason," 
 said the perplexed Lykos. "There, there- — do not cry, 
 dear wife! Wouldst not be thought a virtuous woman?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Well, virtuous women are best unseen and at home." 
 
 "No, no, they are not!" wailed the wife. "Oh, I 
 wish I were in Sparta, only to walk just once as far as I 
 could wish!" Struggling, poor thing, like a bird in a 
 cage. 
 
 Used as she was to free society and speech, she iU 
 liked the withdrawing to her own rooms whenever Lykos 
 brought friends to the house. The sitting at wool 
 spinning, which the Athenian women enjoyed, she felt 
 to be a confinement, and unbecoming a free born dame. 
 The women themselves who slipped across the narrow 
 streets to gossip with her when husbands were from 
 
60 THE SPARTAN 
 
 home — what slack, pale-faced creatures they were, 
 talking that haK obsolete dialect which the men of 
 Athens scarcely understood. She despised them, and 
 was so proudly uncommunicative that they soon ceased 
 to visit her. Then they left her alone with her slaves. 
 
 Lykos was generally busy with weighty matters of the 
 city. No Athenian would have thought of spending his 
 time at home with an unlettered girl. But he loved her, 
 loved to sit beside her at the evening meal, loved to toy 
 with her rich hair and call her his beautiful torch bearer. 
 He was patient with her tears and even with her tem- 
 pers, for he was too sensitive to fail of understanding 
 what she felt. 
 
 "There, there, child," he would say with unfailing 
 gentleness. "What a greeting is this for thy husband! 
 But this new life is hard for thee, I know." 
 
 "And who maketh it hard but thou! "retorted Makaria. 
 "Thou hast married a Spartan. Why not let her be a 
 Spartan?" 
 
 At which he would sigh and pass out of the house. 
 Thus foolishly Makaria drove away her best comfort. 
 
 But as the year lengthened there came a great hope 
 into the house of Lykos. Prayers and sacrifices were 
 made to the household gods, and the laurels were kept 
 green with even tenderer care. Makaria, absorbed in the 
 new hope, forgot her childish lamentations and lifted her 
 head with a new, solitary pride. Lykos, coming home, 
 would find her stitting silent in the sunlit court, a dream- 
 ing, intimate look in her eyes. Again he reverently 
 felt the veiled presence of the gods about her, as on that 
 first day of seeing her in Sparta. 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 61 
 
 Then, coming one evening from his grain fields near 
 Prasiai, Lykos saw fastened to his own door post the 
 oHve branch, token that a male child was added to the 
 city. He ran in with throbbing heart. At the thresh- 
 old his old slave nurse met him, and laid in his arms the 
 hour-old boy. 
 
 Makaria, lying in her darkened room, heard his quick 
 cry of joy, then his strong step as he came swiftly across 
 the court, holding his first born in his arms. He stood 
 beside her, bent over her, looking at her with greater 
 gentleness than she had ever seen. 
 
 "Makaria, thou hast well done!" he said. "Hast 
 indeed borne me a fair son!" 
 
 Makaria felt that she should never again be sorrowful, 
 nor tread the common ways of life now that she had 
 brought into the world a perfect man child. 
 
 On the third day the old nurse ran with the little one 
 around the family hearth, putting him forever under the 
 care of the household gods. On the tenth day Lykos 
 claimed him formally as his own son, and named him 
 Aristodemos after the Spartan hero, in honour of his 
 mother. 
 
 "But he shall be an Athenian," Lykos said joyously 
 to those who feasted with him. And an Athenian he was 
 indeed, even to the day when glorious death overtook 
 him, and he left the paths of men. 
 
 Each year added some new sweetness to the child, 
 some delicate charm. A little creature of joy with fair 
 perfect body and a cloud of golden hair. Now he played 
 in the fountain, now tossed the snowy wool above his 
 head so that his mother punished him, now climbed the 
 
62 THE SPARTAN 
 
 roof to watch Athena's mysterious owls that sat so silent 
 there among the earthen pots set at the edge to frighten 
 them away. 
 
 All the joy of the household centred about his comings 
 and goings. The slaves were foolish over him, and Lykos's 
 face lighted and softened at the sight of him. When he 
 began to prattle and walk, Lykos kept him always at his 
 hand. Makaria only kept discipline. 
 
 Her old desire for the open never returned with its first 
 heat after she bore her child. She grew matronly with a 
 certain self-contained practical wisdom that Lykos found 
 good to depend on. She even seemed older than Lykos. 
 Under her rule the household ordered itself like a little 
 state in which there was no sedition. The slaves obeyed 
 her to point of fear, and the boy found a rein upon his 
 impulse which otherwise he would have lacked. 
 
 Now began the sweet, undimmed childhood of Aris- 
 todemos — a half open rose, flowering in that far away 
 ancient spring over which the heavy centuries have 
 closed. Even his own after years shut so suddenly and 
 completely over it that it remained to him a precious 
 thing apart, fragrant and ever young. 
 
 One of his memories from the faint, shadowy years was 
 of waking in the early evening and seeing from the window 
 one of the runners of the Lampadedromia, naked, hel- 
 meted, carrying a shield, bearing aloft a lighted torch, 
 and skillfully guarding the sacred flame even in his flight. 
 It was but an instant. The child saw the shine of 
 the fresh-oiled body, the flash of the polished shield, 
 the streaming flame, and the quick turn around the 
 narrow corner. 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 63 
 
 The boy lay long awake, looking out into the star- 
 Ught, possessed with the joy of that sight. All his life 
 through he felt the symbolism of that altar-lighted flame, 
 so carried and so cared for. 
 
 It was a pleasure of disobedience to steal out of bed, 
 to which he was always sent too early, and find his way 
 down the narrow stair to the locked door of the men's 
 apartments. There, in the andron, Lykos often gathered 
 his friends, not for the elaborate symposia of a later 
 fashion, but for a simple meal begun with the ancient 
 grace of wine poured out to the gods, a simple oppor- 
 tunity for the companionship that gathered round the 
 board. 
 
 Here great matters were discussed — the rebellion 
 against the Persians, spreading then like a conflagration 
 along the Ionian coast, the sending of the twenty Athenian 
 ships to aid their kinsmen. This Lykos urged passion- 
 ately and himself commanded one of the ships that went. 
 Here upon his return they discussed the burning of Sardis 
 and the anger of the Persian king; all the hopes, fears 
 and heart stirrings that were abroad in a world growing 
 ripe for Marathon. 
 
 These things the child could nbt comprehend, and he 
 would finally slip away, sleepy and disappointed. But 
 when they cast off care, and like the children they were 
 sang joyous and holy songs, the lyre passing from hand 
 to hand, then the child stayed kneeling in the dark, his 
 ear against the door. How his soul drank in the sound! 
 Now some booming passage of Homer in his father's manly 
 tones — Hector with legs set wide, hurling the huge rock 
 against the Danaan gates and leaping in with face lik^ 
 
64 THE SPARTAN 
 
 sudden night, Achilles, the dear loved hero weeping over 
 the warrior maiden whom his own spear had laid low. 
 Now he heard a new ode of Pindar, in Pindar's own clarion 
 voice. Again, some tender, melting strain of Psappha, 
 those songs which the Greeks likened to roses for delicate 
 loveliness. 
 
 "As the sweet-apple blushes at the end of the topmost 
 bough. 
 The very end of the bough. 
 Which the pluckers forgot somehow " 
 
 These words Makaria heard the child lisping at his 
 play, and boxed him soundly without warning. She was 
 always prompt at punishment. She guessed what he 
 had been doing. But Lykos never knew that the boy 
 had been listening in the dark while he sang so joyously. 
 
 When Aristodemos came to his sixth year, and his 
 father took him to the little neighbouring school, Lykos 
 was surprised to find the boy able to sing whole passages 
 of Homer and almost aU the odes that Pindar had yet 
 composed. His fitting of metre to musical tones, a 
 delicate matter in Greek music, was often wrong; but 
 his voice had an angelic, high sweetness that struck 
 Lykos with something like fear and made bim say as 
 he walked back to the quiet house, now first deserted 
 of its fledgeling : 
 
 "Makaria, the gods are in it! The Nine Sacred Ones 
 will have their way with our child!" 
 
 Aristodemos was not left to Antiphon as fully as most 
 boys were left to their paidagogoi. As ia his babyhood. 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 65 
 
 his father had carried him before the altars of the gods, 
 kissing his face and rosy body, so now he took him on 
 happy expeditions about the little city, holding the warm, 
 childish hand, telling him the stories of heroes. 
 
 Many a time they toiled up the steep Acropolis, called 
 in those days,"The City." For then it was not so far back 
 to the time when the city had been all contained on that 
 abrupt crag, and timorous herdsmen still drove up their 
 flocks at twilight within its protecting walls. The two 
 looked down over the beloved land. It was rather a bare 
 land even then, but clothed upon with the peculiar trans- 
 parent haze of Attica through which the hills shone 
 purple, rose and rusty gold, while olive groves lay upon 
 the slopes like violet shadows. And they looked out to 
 the islanded sea where it crisped in the morning breeze, 
 or lay sapphire under a sapphire sky. 
 
 The Acropolis of those days was a gentle, pious place 
 approached by rock-cut steps. Atop it was uneven, 
 crossed by many paths, smooth trod of countless genera- 
 tions. Wild flowers nodded in the crevices, and the 
 sacred olive tree, given by the beloved gray -eyed goddess 
 herself, flourished in its sanctuary and was tended by 
 fair young priestesses. The old Pelasgic wall still sur- 
 rounded the place, and there, upon a peak which was 
 afterward levelled, still frowned the hated palace-fortress 
 of Pisistratos, ruinous now, since Athens was made free. 
 
 It was a place to stir the heart of a boy. He saw the 
 ancient house of Erechtheus with its trident-mark where 
 Poseidon struck when he and Athena were contending 
 for the city. He saw the archaic statue' of Athena her- 
 self striding forward wonderfully with spear and shield. 
 
66 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Athena Promachos" they called her — a trustful phrase 
 " Athena-fighting-f or-us. ' ' 
 
 Many altars stood there open to the breeze. From 
 one to another the father and son went devoutly. And 
 Aristodemos keenly felt his father's priesthood, as he 
 brushed aside the ashes of former sacrifice, and ofiFered 
 his own with libations. 
 
 They went into the rich coloured, many colunm.ed 
 temple of Athena, the Hecatompedon. How it glowed 
 in the sunshine, topped with its flying akroteria! In the 
 pediment Herakles contended with the Hydra. Was 
 ever such a serpent ! What joy and terror in his rich coils 
 of blue and green extending down into the very corner 
 of the triangle, and in his high head upreared! How 
 manfully did young Herakles fight him ! 
 
 Beyond the temple was the carven bull set upon by 
 lions. Aristodemos always shrank closer to his father 
 as they passed by. The poor bull crouched with head 
 bent under, the lions with ruinous claws tearing his body 
 and pulling his tail at great length behind while the red 
 blood flowed. Everywhere were mxiltitudes of painted 
 living statues looking out upon the boy from jewelled 
 eyes and smiling that strange archaic smile. There were 
 girl priestesses who had served the virgin goddess, and 
 then passed below, leaving these memorials. One of 
 them, with full red lips and golden hair, looked like his 
 mother. Another he liked for the delicate way she lifted 
 her knitted tunic and stepped forward. 
 
 And there were young Apollos standing stiffly enough, 
 though here a graceful shoulder there an outstretched 
 arm or modelled chest showed the glory of sculpture 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 67 
 
 yet to be. Men were still dealing childishly with the 
 stone, fumbling like children with their tools. Yet in 
 every statue rude or skilled, glowed thought and love of 
 truth and appreciation of the body's beauty. No wonder 
 the boy loved to go there, and felt afterward as though 
 he had walked with the gods. 
 
 Twice during his childhood his father took him to the 
 Agora, where in the early morning all the citizens con- 
 gregated to buy and talk, a place usually thought unfit 
 for boys. In after years he always remembered the 
 bustle and talk, the cries of venders, the rows of Hermes 
 statues standing so silent in the midst, and the colonnade 
 where the more serious minded turned aside to talk in 
 private. And he remembered the ringing of the hasty 
 bell, when everybody stampeded to the fish market 
 beyond. His father showed him the hill and the build- 
 ing where the Athenians gathered to vote, told him how 
 the idle would often loiter at the booths instead of going 
 promptly to the voting, and how the guards would 
 sweep a dirty rope up the place and drive the multitude 
 along. 
 
 "What would you think, my son, of men who had to 
 be driven to their voting.''" 
 
 "I would think," answered the boy, "that they had 
 the hearts of swine and the eyes of moles." Which wise 
 observation the proud father quoted many a day. 
 
 In those years the Dionysiac dance was lifting itself 
 to the borderland of drama. As the two passed through 
 the precincts of the Lenaian Dionysos they would often 
 hear the rhythmic shouting and the beat of dancing feet. 
 Then they would hasten and join the crowd that stood 
 
68 THE SPARTAN 
 
 about the primitive orchestra, a simple circle drawn upon 
 the ground. Once his father lifted him up into a poplar 
 tree to see the play, a favourite viewing place among the 
 simple, happy folk. 
 
 What merry mimicry it was! What leaping of satyrs 
 clad in rough goatskin; what music of wild pipes! The 
 boy tingled with the joy of it. And when the mimetic 
 chorus took up the tale with song, gesture and concordant 
 movement, he quite forgot where he was and almost 
 fell from his perch in the poplar. 
 
 About this time the theatre itself was building, and the 
 boy, sitting among the high, unfinished seats with his 
 mother, saw the dramas of Phrynichos. He even saw 
 a tragedy by the young new writer, ^schylus, against 
 whom there was so much complaint for his changing 
 th.e ancient dramatic rite. "What has this to do with 
 Dionysos?" they complained. The saying . became a 
 proverb. And, "Whither will this young Eleusinian 
 lead us?" 
 
 Whither indeed! 
 
 It was the joyous Dionysiac festival, an early April 
 morning. The wet dew was still upon the rocky seats, 
 the fragrance of the sea blowing across the theatre. All 
 the spectators were crowned with flowers and sat ex- 
 pectant. They had brought baskets of nuts, figs and 
 barley cakes for their noonday meal. For the dramas 
 lasted the day. 
 
 The pageant began. The great story grew before them, 
 terrible and lofty. The people sat breathless. Then 
 suddenly they would burst into loud acclaim and fill 
 the air, and the orchestra with the flowers they threw. 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 69 
 
 And the boy always remembered the choral dancers, 
 moving in a swift ring about the hghted altar, their 
 bright enveloping robes rhythmic in the sunshine, their 
 bare feet lightly treading. The ever swifter movement 
 of the Dionysiac enthusiasm filled his heart. And yet, 
 behind the childish excitement, he had always a vague 
 overpowering sense of the tragedy, the mighty wrong, 
 and the mighty suflEering beyond his childish grasp. 
 And when at dusk they took their homeward way his 
 father's look was never to be forgotten. 
 
 iEschylus! Who shall recall the surprise of his first 
 world-utterance, his mastery as he came new upon a sen- 
 sitive and story loving world.'' Oh, glorious youthtime 
 of Hellas! How much it meant to be a part of that 
 growing life! 
 
 These were city pleasures. There were also pleasures 
 of the land beyond the walls. One day they walked 
 down the beaten road to Phaleron, passing through open 
 fields to the harbour itself. Here the waves came crash- 
 ing up the beach like white-maned steeds and as they 
 broke drew backward as if the mighty sea had reined 
 them in. Then was a soft tinkle among the million wet 
 pebbles quivering in the foam, and the boy, shouting, 
 chased the breakers back and dug delighted fingers into 
 the glistening sands. 
 
 They walked along the margin hand in hand, father 
 and little son, and came to a still cove where two worn-out 
 galleys lay drowsing in perpetual quiet, their ribs whiten- 
 ing in the sun. 
 
 "Look at them," said Lykos with true seaman's 
 instinct. " Think how trim they once leaped the wave. 
 
70 THE SPARTAN 
 
 visiting the busy ports of men. Now those whom they 
 served have cast them aside, worn hulks drowning here 
 in solitude. So it often is, my son, with age." 
 
 And the child, awed by the words, forgot his play and 
 they walked homeward in silence. 
 
 The father did not often sadden him thus. His com- 
 panionship, like that of most Athenian fathers, was 
 almost childlike. He was a father whom a child would 
 delight to honour, so young himself, so quick of laughter, 
 so free, yet full of dignity. His personal beauty drew 
 the child. On his face the growing thoughtfulness of 
 Greece had set a wonderful manly gentleness. The black 
 locks hung about his ears graceful as the curling vine 
 of grapes with which they were often crowned. They 
 took the motion of his walk, giving spring to his move- 
 ment. Men knew his bearing from afar, and would call 
 him to hear his speech or have some jest of his to carry 
 with them through the day. 
 
 All his life Aristodemos remembered as though it still 
 rang in his ears his father's voice in the Agora persuading 
 the people to justice or rousing them to the love of state. 
 Yet even in moments of highest passion, when the truth 
 drove hot upon him, when his eyes widened and his head 
 shook back the locks, there was upon the face of Lykos 
 no excess, and his dress, falling in folds about his shoulders 
 and feet, was not disturbed. He mounted his height as 
 a god does, hasteless and controlling. 
 
 And the son remembered those quiet hours when the 
 father came from talking with those great "lovers-of- 
 wisdom" from Ionia sojourners in Athens, and sat long in 
 quiet, a deep thoughtful light in his eyes. Then would he 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 71 
 
 talk of things the child could little understand; the mys- 
 tery of beginnings, those strange new thoughts that men 
 across the sea were pondering, turning for the first time 
 from the mere joy of Uving to the meaning of life itself. 
 
 Lykos searched his own spirit for the first principle 
 ofNatiure, that clue which the Greek panted for with a 
 passion that we moderns can little understand. Oh, 
 that he might gather the AU into the One, find all 
 in the one great cause, air, heaven, growing earth, the 
 heart of man, the very gods, even the nothingness of death ! 
 
 As he spoke of death he would take the child quickly 
 into his arms and hold him with a kind of fear that was 
 not ignoble. 
 
 "Live thou!" he would say passionately. "It is not 
 long ere a man goes down into the silent ways of death. 
 But if his son live and his seed survive he shall have hfe 
 upon the earth, remembrance still in the light of day, 
 and sacrifice to the deathless gods in his behaK!" 
 
 Most of all was Lykos glorious in his singing — a 
 singer first before all else, though he knew it not. For 
 in those days men thought not of the song nor of the statue 
 nor of the speech. They looked beyond them. The 
 song was for Apollo, or maybe for some lesser god. The 
 statue was a gift to Athena, and the honey-sweet speech 
 was for the saving of the state. And just because they 
 thought not of these gifts as their own they had them so 
 abundantly. For the song is mortal and comes from 
 mortal lips that to-morrow may be silent. But the god 
 makes beautiful the gifts that to him go, and gives to them 
 inlmortal character beyond the singer's own. 
 
 It was Lykos's habit each afternoon to go to the gym- 
 
72 THE SPARTAN 
 
 nasium for that full exercise of body which was deemed 
 the duty of every Hellene. The Lyceum of those days 
 was a shady grove watered by the Ilissos. It had been 
 newly ornamented by Pisistratos. It had its foimtain 
 of Panops and its peristyle for resting after toil. Like all 
 scenes of Athenian activity it was a sacred place. *It 
 was dedicated to ApoUo. 
 
 Here Lykos came one warm afternoon in March, a 
 wholesome, joyous figure, with his little oil flask in his 
 hand. He greeted his friends with smile and ready words, 
 stripped his sunbrowned body and boimd his hair more 
 closely in its fiUet. What a sense of life there was io 
 this free moment before activity! 
 
 He engaged Xanthippos and Neokles in a race, which 
 was always his favourite exercise. They ran swiftly 
 down the course and back again, Lykos in the lead. As 
 they neared the goal a certain Arkesilaos, a clumsy fellow 
 who was always breaking rules, dove across the stadium 
 before the runners. He had been practising the Pyrrhic 
 dance and still had his spear and bore his shield upon his 
 arm. Lykos crashed full into him, and the other runners 
 with great momentum plunged down upon the two. When 
 the mass was disentangled, shield, spear and men, Lykos 
 lay as dead upon the sand. 
 
 They raised him tenderly, and bore him to the covered 
 portico where they laved his face with water and rubbed 
 him vigorously. 
 
 Presently he opened his eyes with his own bright smile 
 and sat up. 
 
 "It is nothing," he said, passing his hand across his 
 forehead. "I shall have bruises to-morrow, but I can 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 73 
 
 enjoy to-day." So he went on with his exercise, and later 
 took his way home with his friends. 
 
 He sat rather quietly at the evening meal, and went 
 early to bed. Old Antiphon going in for the last services 
 to his master found him in a deep sleep, his arms and legs 
 twitching strangely. Antiphon looked him over lovingly, 
 but with a slave's instinctive timidity did not awaken him. 
 
 Next morning the sleep had deepened into full uncon- 
 sciousness. All day he lay so. The physician seemed 
 helpless and said that Lykos would never rise again, 
 perhaps not even waken. Aristodemos sat by his father 
 too bewildered with terror to be aware of grief. 
 
 On the second morning the beautiful dark head began 
 to turn from side to side upon the pillow. Then the 
 sufferer began a low incessant moaning that hurt the very 
 heart of the boy. Toward evening, Lykos opened his eyes 
 with a dim,eloquent look upon them all. Makariabegan to 
 wail and beat her breast and pull her hair down over 
 her face. 
 
 "Do not so — do not so," said Lykos feebly. And they 
 drew her thence, still loudly wailing. Aristodemos with 
 great effort held himself steady for fear of like banishment. 
 
 Now his father looked at him, a long, loving look. 
 
 "Kiss me, my dear son," he said very slowly. Aris- 
 todemos bent over him. 
 
 "No, upon my mouth." And the child kissed the 
 cold lips again and again. 
 
 Presently, looking still into his face, Lykos asked: 
 
 "Aristodemos, where art thou?" 
 
 " I am here — here ! " cried the boy piteously frightened. 
 
 "Yes? Then kiss me that I may not so forget." 
 
74 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos wound his arms about his father's neck 
 and kissed him fervently. 
 
 "Forget forget " repeated the faint voice. 
 
 He seemed trying to form a thought upon the word. His 
 flickering consciousness caught — then — dropped it again. 
 At last, pleading with voice, and look, he whispered: 
 
 "Thou wilt — not forget — forget me — my son.?" 
 
 "Oh, never, never!" sobbed Aristodemos breathlessly, 
 now raining tears upon his father's face. 
 
 Lykos did not close his eyes again, but fixed them upon 
 his son as if, but of all the rich worid that had been his, 
 he alone remained to him. As he lay so, a sudden pain 
 passed across his features, and with a movement unutter- 
 ably pathetic he caught the covering and drew it up 
 over his face. It was the delicate last act of the Greek, 
 hiding from the living the face of death. So, with a long, 
 tired sigh, the bright soul of Lykos fared forth into the 
 place of shadows. 
 
 He lay upon his couch in the andron, silent where he 
 had once filled the place with song, his head crowned with 
 the myrtle, his feet, once so light, set toward the door 
 whence he was to go forth for the last time. Looking 
 at him so, the child could not think him dead, though 
 strangely far away. 
 
 As night deepened the great reality began to possess 
 the boy with pity and longing. He had heard of the dead. 
 They were like bats, chattering in the dark abyss, or 
 fluttering up against the closed gates of life — futilely, 
 for to them there was no light of the sun nor joy of grow- 
 ing things. 
 
 When, in weariness he began to sink to sleep be won- 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 75 
 
 dered if his father had felt so, dying — and then he was 
 broad awake again. Finally, toward morning he fell 
 into heavy sleep. 
 
 Before daybreak they were up and about their sad 
 duties, for the sun must not be polluted by looking upon 
 the dead. They washed hands in the lustral water by 
 the door and went out into the dusk. They trod the 
 crooked pathlike streets a sorrowful procession, the 
 shrouded dead in their midst borne by loving hands. 
 The people looked out of windows as they passed, awak- 
 ened by Makaria's lamentations for her dead. But 
 Aristodemos, walking in advance as became the head of 
 the house, was quite silent and looked forward with awed 
 and tearless eyes. 
 
 Now and then he caught a glimpse above the houses of 
 the familiar Acropolis cliffs where the two were never to 
 walk again — cliffs touched with the faint white of earli- 
 est dawn. As they passed out of the city the larks sprang 
 from the wet grass and circled up into the abyss of sky, 
 where stars still shone through the dewy azure. By the 
 side of Aristodemos walked his father's young friend 
 Pindar. They came to the tomb in the rocky hillside 
 and stopped in awed silence, set down the dear 
 burden, and sacrificed to the dead a bird, symbol of 
 the flying soul. They placed upon the tomb a rude image 
 of Hermes, conductor of the dead, archaic, made of wood. 
 
 Aristodemos wondered at it with vague pain in his 
 heart, thinking how his father had loved the beautiful 
 new images of the gods. Could he see this one, this 
 mere block of wood? Would it pain him to have it 
 there continually above his narrow house? 
 
76 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Something in Aristodemos's eyes as they turned away 
 struck his father's poet friend. He took the boy's hand 
 quickly and walked awhile in silence. Then he said: 
 
 "Thou art thinking of death, child.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And thou so young! Canst thou not wait.!* Oh, 
 boy, it is too difficult for thee!" 
 
 "I must," said Aristodemos, with stifled voice. "My 
 father is dead. I must think of him." 
 
 "I too must think of him," the poet repeated musingly. 
 "And I have thought long years, and know nothing as 
 yet. All lies on the knees of the gods." 
 
 "But that does not help!" cried the boy pitifully. 
 
 "That does not help! Dost thou know that indeed so 
 early?" And the young man gazed down into his eyes 
 with infinite pity. 
 
 "My child," he said gravely, "listen to one who 
 has thought much upon the gods. There be many 
 evil tales of Zeus, evil tales even of Apollo. Fling such 
 tales from thee. To speak evil of the gods is pitiful 
 wisdom. We mortals do not understand. But believe 
 not evil of the gods! Now it is thine to sacrifice in thy 
 father's stead. Do it gladly unto all the gods, but 
 especially unto Apollo, who keepeth men pure. And 
 remember that thy father was of Eleusis, and of the 
 Mystai we may say: 
 
 " Blessed is the man who hath seen these things 
 Before he goeth under the hollow earth. 
 He knoweth the end of life. 
 And he knoweth its god-given origin." 
 
AN ANCIENT CHILDHOOD 77 
 
 The boy listened so thirstily to those words that Pindar, 
 motioning the others on, turned aside into a grove of 
 oUves. And there, not upon the breast of his mother 
 but in the arms of the gentle Pindar, the boy wept 
 out his grief. 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 The Hunt in Taygetos 
 
 ARISTODEMOS awoke in the Spartan barrack 
 with the white dawn in the east, the wet dew 
 on his hair. The lank brown boys were up and 
 scuffling about him throwing on their garments. Their 
 toilet was neither long nor careftd, and Aristodemos had 
 to make haste to get on his own white chiton, a service 
 he had never done for himseK, and to fasten his worn 
 sandals beneath his feet. 
 
 Now like a flock of noisy birds they were off. They ran 
 across fields to the Eurotas. Here they flung off garments 
 again and one and all jumped shouting into the stream, 
 Aristodemos with the rest. They frolicked wildly in 
 the running water. The sun rose and glistened upon 
 :heir backs, and far up the sky the snowy mountain ridge 
 took fire. 
 
 "Hey, there," cried one. "Did ye ever see a diving 
 fish? He's marked gold on the head and thinks he's 
 better than all the fish of the sea." 
 
 78 
 
THE HUNT 79 
 
 "Where is he? Where is he?" called the others. 
 
 "' Here he is ! " And with a sudden turn, the boy grabbed 
 Aristodemos by the back of the neck and pushed him 
 under. 
 
 But Aristodemos had been a swimmer from 
 three years old and had buffeted with surf before 
 now. Quick as a frog he kicked the boy off and, 
 opening his eyes under water, turned and caught 
 his tormentor's ankle. He came up puffing, but drag- 
 ging his enemy sputtering and impotent behind 
 him. 
 
 "Here's a lobster," he shouted. "See him come back- 
 ward!" Then, before the boy could catch him he dived 
 away, and came up almost across the stream. 
 
 The boys laughed uproariously. 
 
 "Oh, Demonax! Ducked by the little stranger! 
 Ha, ha! At him! At him again!" 
 
 But Demonax was stiU blowing and shaking his 
 ears. 
 
 And now the boys scrambled noisily out. They flung 
 on their tunics with no attempt at drying. And Aris- 
 todemos missed his own white tunic among the soiled 
 gray ones of his fellows. There was a dirty Spartan 
 shift in its place, and when the boys were dressed 
 no one was left naked. So he rightly judged that 
 his own had been changed by authority. He pulled 
 it on over his wet skin with scorn and trooped off 
 with the rest. So he was lost among them, only the 
 glint of his golden hair distinguishing him in the 
 Spartan crowd. 
 
 They came back to quarters. The tables had been set 
 
80 THE SPARTAN 
 
 each for its company of sixteen. The boys took their 
 places in silence under their commanders. Then, at 
 a sign, they all began to chant, with strong, foot beaten 
 rhythm, the Lycurgus Laws: 
 
 " When ye have builded a temple to Zeus, 
 
 To Syllanian Zeus and Syllanian Athena, 
 Divided the folk into tribes and clans. 
 
 And established a Senate of thirty persons, 
 
 Including the two Kings, 
 Ye shall summon the folk to a stated assembly 
 
 Betvjeen Babrike and Krannon, 
 And these shall have the deciding voice." 
 
 and so on through the whole seventy-two laws. 
 
 Music and law were well enough, but Aristodemos was 
 wonderfully hungry. He thought he could have eaten 
 a whole sheep of sacrifice. Yet when the singing was 
 done, only scanty portions of barley bread were brought 
 in, with bowls of steaming broth, the black-blood 
 Spartan soup. Aristodemos took the first mouthful 
 hungrily. But not the second. Bah! It was vile with 
 vinegar and salt. 
 
 He pushed it aside, famished as he was, and betook 
 himself to bread of which he tried to get a sufficient 
 quantity to appease his hunger. 
 
 After breakfast the boys marched to the field where all 
 the youth of Sparta were assembled. The companies 
 took their positions, Aristodemos, wondering, among them. 
 The sharp commands in the harsh Doric dialect came 
 down the line of officers from mouth to mouth. With a 
 great united movement the drill began. 
 
THE HUNT 81 
 
 Aristodemos was familiar with the Pyrrhic or weapon 
 dance, as practised by the Athenian boys. But this did 
 not help him to understand the military drill and battle 
 evolutions, or to take turn and step with the others. 
 Again and again he was flung out of line or left in the rear 
 by a sudden shift. The disharmony of his movements 
 hurt him as much as the sharp reproof. He had never 
 in his life been awkward. He turned scarlet and felt like 
 to die of sheer chagrin. 
 
 At last it was over, and the boys, with many a covert 
 jeer at him, were marched away to the Dromos. Here 
 they were put to gymnastics, running, leaping, spear 
 flinging, wrestling, while the old men looked on leaning 
 upon their staves, correcting, directing and approving. 
 Here Aristodemos was better matched. He flung his 
 disk to a good distance and leaped as far as the rest. 
 
 He thought he caught a sight of his mother standing 
 near Gyhppos and watching him. But when he looked 
 that way again she was not there. It gave him a great 
 homesickness. 
 
 Long before the noonday meal he was hungry again, 
 and when at last it came it was but an unsatisfying affair 
 of broth and figs. He had heard of "man taming Sparta." 
 
 "Easy enough to tame men by starving!" he thought. 
 
 After diimer was a half hour's rest. Then, to his 
 almost terror, drill once more. In the afternoon the boys 
 were turned loose and Aristodemos's company with its 
 young ilarch strolled out toward Colona Hill. One of 
 the boys slapped Aristodemos on the shoulder. Athenian 
 boys never handled each other, and Aristodemos turned 
 upon him in displeasure. 
 
82 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "What sayest thou, Frog," said Philammon. "Shall 
 we go hunting? Thou'rt hungry? " 
 
 "Oh, no," returned the polite Athenian. "I have 
 well dined." 
 
 "Well, this is free Sparta, and lying is free. But I saw 
 thee turn up thy nose at the soup." 
 
 "Yes, come," said the Uarch. "He who hunts may 
 eat. I'm for a good supper." 
 
 Spears and short swords were found, and unshod and 
 unhatted as they were they set out. One of the boys held 
 a leash of Laconian hounds, thin wolflike brutes, coarse 
 haired and savage. Aristodemos had never hunted 
 before. That was sport for men! And he almost felt 
 himself a man as he stalked along with the others. 
 
 They were boar hunting ! Stories of Meleager flashed 
 through his mind — the famous Kalydonian hunt in which 
 Admetos joined, with Jason, Idas, Castor and Pollux, 
 Nestor — all those great names which but to speak 
 brings up a host of glorious deeds. He remembered 
 how the boar was brought to bay at last, and how 
 Atalante, the beautiful swift huntress, had got the 
 first stroke. 
 
 Oh, if only the boys at the Athens school could but see 
 him now! What it he himself should strike the boar 
 first with the spear which the ilarch had given him, and 
 so get the hide! Involuntarily he brandished his spear 
 and smiled to himself. The ilarch smiled too, and found 
 himself hoping that the boys might not notice the child 
 or spoil his sport. 
 
 They mounted the foot-hills, scrambling over rocks, 
 swinging across chasms by hanging vines, or wading th§ 
 
THE HUNT 83 
 
 streams that leaped and sang downward towards the 
 valley. Athenian boys, though merry enough, were 
 reasonably decorous at all times; but these Spartans, 
 silent as statues before their elders, broke all bounds when 
 they were alone. Aristodemos caught the contagion, 
 and yelled and leaped with the rest. 
 
 "Qiiiet!" called the ilarch. The dogs had caught 
 a scent. Then in a flash they were all dogs together for 
 stealth and keenness and swift running. Just ahead the 
 hounds sniffed the ground with short, excited yelps. 
 Now they grew uncertain. Now, with united cry they 
 caught the trail again and scrambled ever higher up the 
 steep. Aristodemos followed, tingling, breathless. 
 
 Suddenly Eurytos was at his elbow. 
 
 "This way," he whispered. "A short cut." 
 
 Aristodemos turned after him. 
 
 "We'll get there first," said Eurytos confidently. 
 
 "But the dogs — shaU we not need them?" 
 
 "Why? Art afraid?" 
 
 "No, by the Twin Gods!" returned Aristodemos. 
 
 They ran for some time in silence, the baying of the 
 hounds sounding ever farther off and fainter. 
 
 "What wilt thou do?" asked Aristodemos, as at length 
 they slackened their pace for want of breath and Eurytos 
 began to creep with caution. 
 
 . "Do thou go first and spear him well. Then I come up, 
 and plunge my sword, so — " 
 
 "Good! Good!" said Aristodemos. "But it's my 
 first boar!" 
 
 "I'll warrant it," responded Eurytos with a short laugh. 
 
 They came out upon a ledge. Just below them was 
 
84 THE SPARTAN 
 
 a little field flat enough for grain. There the Perioikoi, 
 or Spartan serfs, were beginning the harvest. Far down 
 below the rim of the field they could- see the plain of 
 Sparta, and narrow Eurotas winding to the Laconic Gulf, 
 and still beyond, even a glimpse of Aphrodite's Cythera, 
 gleaming far ofiE, white like silver in the blue waves. 
 
 "Slaves!" muttered Eurytos, shaking his sword at the 
 harvesters, with that curious hereditary hatred of the 
 Spartan toward the serf which, of coiu:se, Aristodemos 
 could not understand. "Keep to your work a bit, and 
 we'U — " 
 
 "Now, Aristodemos," he said a few moments later, 
 "do as I say, and no questions." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 Eurytos wound his way skilfully through the wood 
 without the cracking of a twig or the moving of a branch. 
 Presently he dropped almost upon his knees, so that the 
 low underbrush quite hid him, and Aristodemos had 
 much ado to keep him in sight. Had Meleager ap- 
 proached his boar in such a fashion? thought the puzzled 
 boy. But perhaps this was the Spartan way. 
 
 Then on a sudden they came upon a poor little stone 
 hut, and a barn, also of rough piled stone. Eurytos held 
 up a warning finger and looked at him with such fierce 
 earnestness that Aristodemos asked no question. 
 
 They glided back of the hut, through the garden> 
 pitifully small, guarded by its tiny deity, a rude phaUic 
 Priapos, god of fertility. They approached the barn 
 from the side, so as not to be seen from within. Still 
 more cautiously they entered. No one was there. 
 
 Hanging from the roof beam was a side of mutton, fresh 
 
THE HUNT 85 
 
 killed. Against the wall lay a small bag of barley meal, 
 evidently the last saving from the old year, with which 
 the Perioikoi hoped to tide over the interval to the 
 approaching harvest. 
 
 Eurytos seized this bag, swung it to Aristodemos's 
 shoulder, then, cutting down the mutton and throwing 
 it upon his own back, he pushed Aristodemos out of the 
 door before him. 
 
 "To the left, where we came! Quick, fool!" he whis- 
 pered, running ahead of Aristodemos. 
 
 Aristodemos was too dazed for a moment to comprehend 
 what it all meant. But Eurytos's retreating figure was 
 too plainly that of a thief to leave him long in doubt. He 
 dropped the bag as if it burned him, and with cheeks 
 on fire with shame rushed after him. He quickly caught 
 the burdened Eurytos. With a blow he sent the mutton 
 flying, then faced him in front, for he scorned to attack 
 him in the rear, and crying, "Thief! Thief!" flung him- 
 self bodily upon the boy. 
 
 Eurytos reeled backward before the sudden rush, but 
 he grappled Aristodemos so that they both rolled to- 
 gether upon the ground. For quickness they were about 
 equally matched, but Eurytos was older and stronger. 
 Fortunately Aristodemos was on top and by watchfulness, 
 and quick blows he kept his antagonist under. Eurytos 
 fought silently, but Aristodemos filled the air with pas- 
 sionate cries. 
 
 Suddenly, as if the very ground gave them forth, ap- 
 peared the boys, and a moment later the ilarch, with 
 questioning looks. Then the frightened serfs came run- 
 ning from the fields wee^jing and wringing their hands. 
 
86 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Take that, and that!" cried the outraged Aristodemos. 
 "Thief! Robber! Steahng the food of miserable slaves! 
 Oh, how I hate thee!" 
 
 Here with a quick twist Eurytos screwed himself out, 
 aud fixing his teeth in Aristodemos 's arm turned him over 
 and pinned him down. 
 
 "Now — now!" he muttered, and began to beat the 
 golden head mercUessly upon the ground. Aristodemos 
 closed his eyes in faintness. He felt as if black death 
 had leaped upon him. 
 
 Then the weight was lifted. He was free, breathing. 
 Over him the ilarch was holding back the still raging boy. 
 
 "Back, back, I say!" And quelled by the authority 
 of the ilarch's tone, Eurytos stood up, a sorry sight with 
 his bloody head and dirt-covered face. 
 
 But Aristodemos was awake now. "No, no!" he cried, 
 jumping up. "I will fight him still! Don't hold him!" 
 
 " Fool ! " said the ilarch. " He would have killed thee." 
 
 "Yes, yes! But he won! The thief won! I can't 
 have it so!" wailed Aristodemos, making at him. 
 
 The ilarch shook him roughly. "Hast never learned 
 to obey? " he thundered. " Stand still ! " 
 
 He caught Aristodemos in his arms and held him firmly. 
 But there was a tenderness in his tone as he said, "Dost 
 not see that he is bigger than thou? Thou canst not 
 beat him." 
 
 "But he will remember that he has beaten me, and he 
 is a thief! I will fight him. I will!" 
 
 The ilarch did not answer. 
 
 " Come, I will wash thy wound in the spring. That was 
 an ugly bite." 
 
THE HUNT 87 
 
 "It's a dog's way, to bite," said the boy, in disgust. 
 
 "It is a Spartan's way too. Hadst best practise it 
 thyseK." 
 
 "I never will!" 
 
 The young man was now holding the tender bleeding 
 arm over the spring, the water supply of the farm, and 
 bathing it thoroughly. 
 
 "Get a wound clean," he said. "A clean wound goes 
 to sleep. I did not know," he added quietly, "that the 
 boys meant to try thee in the hills." 
 
 Having bathed- the wound to his satisfaction the ilarch 
 motioned the boys to move ahead. The serfs were 
 casting, wondering glances at the golden haired child 
 who seemed to have been defending them. And timor- 
 ously, as if afraid to claim their own, they carried back 
 their mutton to the barn. 
 
 As the company went down the mountain with the lofty 
 peaks towering dizzily behind him, the ilarch kept close 
 to Aristodemos, to prevent him, so the boy thought, from 
 righting himself with Eurytos, who limped ahead. 
 
 That evening in the barrack Aristodemos heard the 
 sound of a stoutly wielded whip outside — but no cries. 
 
 "What is that?" he asked Demonax. 
 
 "Eurytos getting his thrashing." 
 
 "For stealing or for fighting?" questioned Aristodemos 
 again. 
 
 "Neither, simpleton! For getting caught!" 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 The Escape 
 
 THE new boy is quick," said the old Polemarch 
 one day to Aristodemos's captain. 
 "Yes, he is quick enough," replied the young 
 man, "but he is not like our boys. When I command 
 him he seems to weigh and decide his acts. I always 
 feel that he might decide to disobey me. I'm frank 
 to say that he baffles me." 
 
 "He can be transferred," said the Polemarch respect- 
 fully. 
 
 "No — oh, no," said the ilarch with quick energy. 
 "I would rather master him myself!" 
 
 The boys were drilling for the Gymnopaedia, "Feast 
 of Naked Youths." Every morning they marched to 
 the field and danced in ranks the glorious movements of 
 the festival. They wrestled in pairs, with pauses now 
 and again to manifest some beautiful crisis attitude. 
 They swayed forward, backward, like wind-bent grain in 
 June. They stretched to full height, flashing up a thous- 
 
THE ESCAPE 89 
 
 and thin young arms. So light they were, these young 
 creatures of health, they seemed able to leap full free of 
 earth. 
 
 In all this routine there was an undercurrent of excited 
 
 expectancy. " Platanistous Platanistous," the boys 
 
 kept whispering to one another. 
 
 "What is Platanistous?" asked Aristodemos. But 
 the boys did not answer his question. 
 
 Each day the excitement grew. At last one morning 
 the boy battalions were marched out of the city down 
 the southeastern road. All Sparta followed. Aristo- 
 demos was full of excited curiosity. They soon reached 
 a sunny meadow in the district of Kynosoura. There 
 was a little circular island-like place surrounded by canals 
 and about the canals the circle of tall plane trees which 
 gave the name "Platanistous" to the place. Two opposite 
 bridges led across to the island, each with its guardian 
 statues which Aristodemos recognized as Herakles and 
 Lycurgus. Surely this was some fine festival. Aris- 
 todemos lifted himself on tiptoe to see. 
 
 He saw two companies of boys, naked and unarmed, 
 march across the bridges to the island. There fell a 
 great silence. The two bands stood facing each other 
 with a strange, growing fierceness. Plainly it was a 
 contest. 
 
 Then, with a great battle shout, the companies rushed 
 at each other, struggling, trying to force each other off 
 the island. It was a splendid contest. Aristodemos's 
 blood tingled to be in the midst of it. Now the two 
 leaders were wrestling. He saw them sway in the equal 
 struggle. But suddenly, with a thud, the Heraklean fell, 
 
90 THE SPARTAN 
 
 and the Lycurgians pushed in a mass over him, trampling 
 and tearing his body. Blood frenzy seized them. They 
 raged like hungry wolves, mad boars. They used fists, 
 feet, teeth, nails. They gouged eyes, tore faces. Who- 
 ever weakened was trampled down. Their eyes grew 
 terrible, their voices hoarse with hate. AU the vaunted 
 self-control of the Spartan youth was gone. The brute 
 beast raged unchecked. 
 
 Aristodemos turned sick and hid his face. It was not 
 for the bloodshed, not even for the killing. It was rather 
 for the bestial uncontrol. "Oh! Oh!" he moaned. In 
 a horror of disgust he broke away. But quickly he felt 
 his shoulders seized. He looked up. The stern face of 
 the ilarch was over him. 
 
 "Stand! Look!" he commanded. "Learn to despise 
 death ! " And he dragged him back into the sight of that 
 degrading madness, into the hearing of that bestial din. 
 
 Several of the boys died next day. "Best so," said 
 the old men, "the true Spartans survive." 
 
 But it was not even Platanistous that made Sparta 
 so loathsome to the Athens bred boy. It was the deadly 
 monotony of the days that followed- They were so alike 
 — like pease rolling out of a pot. Drill, dance, exercise ! 
 Exercise, dance, drill! Even the Spartans said, "Sparta 
 at peace is a sword rusting in its scabbard." 
 
 The boy recalled his bright Athenian tasks, the learn- 
 ing of the old stirring Homer-poems, with their thrilling 
 hazards. He repeated them softly after he had lain down 
 at night, with a kind of fear lest he lose them and with 
 them lose all connection with the world he had known. 
 The Spartan boys had no such songs. Their only whet- 
 
THE ESCAPE 91 
 
 stone of wit was uncouth riddles. The old men gathered 
 about at rest hour and badgered the boys with these, 
 trying to win terse answers. The riddles were grim, 
 and the laughter they provoked grimmer still. Spartan 
 training was all suppression. 
 
 A sense of stifling grew upon the boy. The thoughts 
 he was not to express, the songs he must not sing, the 
 affection which had no outlet — it all maddened and 
 fevered him. He seemed sunk away from light to some 
 sodden level far away from his proper atmosphere. 
 He grew listless, pale. Even his mother, passing him 
 in the street, noted the change. 
 
 "Art ill, son.''" she asked. "Hast pain anywhere?" 
 
 "No. Only I am so tired." 
 
 Makaria went to Gylippos. 
 
 "Uncle," she said, "perhaps the discipline is too severe 
 — thus — at once. Perhaps — " 
 
 "Perhaps he is a weakling," growled the old man. 
 "Hast thou too grown soft in Athens, Makaria?" 
 
 "No, not I." 
 
 But strangely, that word of his mother fired the boy's 
 heart. It was light to a ready torch. Unspeakable 
 Sparta! He could not bear it. He would run away. 
 Why had he not run away before? This very night he 
 would run away! 
 
 He did not know that to leave Sparta was to incur 
 death. Sparta was an armed camp; departure was 
 desertion. He did know that the way to Athens had a 
 hundred perils for a boy alone. But his whole body 
 brightened with the hope. He began to plan. It would 
 be impossible to go penniless. Antiphon's gold — yes, 
 
92 THE SPARTAN 
 
 he would take it of the old man. Now it was the price 
 of his own freedom. 
 
 That afternoon he said: 
 
 "Captain, may I go for an hour to talk with my 
 mother?" 
 
 The captain's face went blank. " With thy mother? " 
 
 The boys broke into a loud laugh. 
 
 "Why, yes — no doubt," said the ilarch quietly. 
 "Belike she hath thy swaddling clothes for thee from 
 Athens." 
 
 The boys yelled in derision. Aristodemos was scarlet. 
 
 "Thou couldst deny me without insult, thou Spartan 
 lout!" he said hotly, and turned away. 
 
 There was breathless silence. What would happen 
 to the new boy now? But to the boys' amazement the 
 ilarch turned scarlet too, scowling and biting his lips. 
 
 " Go to barracks, Aristodemos," he said at length. 
 
 Aristodemos walked away, too disappointed to care 
 for the awful disciplining that must surely be in reserve 
 for him. Plainly there was no way to get at the gold. 
 Well, then he would go empty handed. 
 
 That night he kept awake, a difficult task after the 
 long day's work. Sleep seemed to steal upon him and 
 deceive him making all things unprecious save itself. 
 Fight as he would he found himself several times upon 
 the edge of dreams. Then he heard the boys about 
 him breathing deep. This woke him tense and clear. 
 
 Aristodemos sat up. All about him they were lying 
 lax and still on their rush beds. The barrack was aflood 
 with revealing moonlight, but along the wall there was a 
 deep shadow. If only he could creep into that shadow! 
 
THE ESCAPE 93 
 
 The ilarch was not in his usual place. That was for- 
 tunate. 
 
 The boy was intensely awake. His throat was so 
 full and choked that he could not swallow, but his brain 
 was clear. He waited yet longer, peering at each sleeper, 
 especially at the other ilarchs who lay with their com- 
 panies. At length it seemed safe. 
 
 But now he heard the sentinel's approaching tramp, 
 tramp in the distance. Aristodemos lay down again. The 
 steps drew nearer, coming up the street. Now the steps 
 sounded flat. The sentinel was coming by the blank 
 wall of the barrack, the click of his short sword in its scab- 
 bard hitting against his thigh, the folding and refolding of 
 his metal skirt — all these little noises, unnoted in day- 
 time, sounded out distinct as if analyzed by the stillness 
 of the night. He cleared his throat. What a sudden dis- 
 persal of the silence. But no one was roused, not even to 
 the point of turning over or taking a deeper breath. Then 
 the footsteps died away, and the deep silence closed again. 
 
 Aristodemos would not venture to sit up again. Roll- 
 ing over upon his belly, he crept flat off the rushes and 
 slowly, slowly along the aisle between the sleepers gain- 
 ing at last the shore of shadow, where suddenly he realized 
 that he was breathing again. Then on, on in the dark- 
 ness. Oh, how far away was that square of greenish 
 light that marked the doorway! But he came nearer. 
 Now he lifted himself upon his straight arms to look out. 
 
 He almost cried aloud. 
 
 Across the threshold lay his ilarch. He was stirring, 
 too. Aristodemos dropped prone in the shadow, saw him 
 sit up and shade his eyes with his hand, look over the 
 
94 THE SPARTAN 
 
 sleeping companies, handle his sword and compose him- 
 self, his head upon his arm. So he sank again into 
 light sleep. 
 
 But Aristodemos knew it was useless to try to pass 
 him there, so wakeful, so ready. 
 
 An hour the boy lay motionless, not daring even to 
 go back. But when the moon had sunk below the wall, 
 he crept to his own bed again and there curled up, his 
 teeth chattering as if with cold, his heart aching with 
 the disappointment. 
 
 Next morning the boys wondered why Aristodemos 
 overslept and had to be dragged out by the heels. His 
 face looked pale and pinched as he ate his broth with 
 the rest. At drill his shoulders drooped, and he blun- 
 dered and forgot. 
 
 "Art going back to first days?" said the Uarch sternly. 
 
 The boy bowed his head dully and did not even flush 
 at the reproof. Every time he looked up he met the 
 ilarch's eye — serious, anxious, watchful. Aristodemos 
 was sure of one fact now. The Uarch suspected him! 
 This gave the boy a terrified sense of Sparta's omniscient 
 guarding. Had anyone ever escaped Sparta.^ Puzzle 
 as he would Aristodemos saw no smallest chance ahead. 
 He lost his hope and with it his boyish courage. 
 
 At the rest hour the boys went down the Apheta Way, 
 where long ago Makaria had won her merry race. They 
 stopped by the river near the Royal Tombs, and dropped 
 down in the grass. East of the Eurotas rose the height 
 of Therapne, with its temple to Menelaos and Helen 
 and its strange grave of her brothers. Castor and Pollux, 
 inhabited by them on alternate days. 
 
THE ESCAPE 95 
 
 Aristodemos found a place a little apart from the others, 
 and sat down, elbows on knees, chin ia his hands. Truth 
 to tell, the boy's heart was breaking for his father, yet 
 with a dull sorrow that did not move his tears. After 
 all, what use to go to Athens with no dear face of Lykos 
 to greet him there? Mechanically he broke off one of 
 the reeds of the river, cut it short with his sword and began 
 to blow into it. He cut it shorter and blew again. 
 Why should the note be higher, he wondered dully. 
 Then he tossed the reed over his shoulder. Doing so, 
 he glanced toward the boys. They were lying flat in 
 the grass drowsing in the sxmshine. The ilareh was 
 asleep, weary no doubt with last night's watching. 
 
 Aristodemos's heart gave a great boimd. For a moment 
 he was afraid even to move. Thrai softly stepping among 
 the reeds he cut another whistle, blew it lower and lower. 
 He peered back through the canes. Not one had stirred. 
 And oh, the reeds were blessedly tall and thick! He 
 began to steal unseen among them along the river bank. 
 
 At a narrowing of the stream he stopped. His mind 
 lifted a moment to his goddess. "PaUas," he whispered, 
 "Virgin PaUas!" But he could not form his prayer. 
 He slipped into the stream, leaned forward, and sleek 
 as an otter was across. At the farther bank he crept 
 once more Lato the concealing rushes, there shook his 
 wet head, wrung out his narrow skirt. There was not 
 much about a Greek boy for wetting. 
 
 Then he ran Hke a deer. In a meadow he took an 
 instant's breath, and with furious haste made an armful 
 of daisies. He might meet visitors to the temple. He 
 must have some gift. Then he began to clamber the 
 
96 THE SPARTAN 
 
 hill. Pushing through the underbrush he came upon a 
 deserted path, hesitated a moment, then hoping to make 
 better speed leaped into it and began to run again. 
 
 He had not gone far when the path took a steep turn, 
 and rounding it, Aristodemos saw above him stumping 
 down the hill two old Spartan'^^!phors. Ah, he had 
 done well to prepare a gift ! He dared not turn. Breath- 
 less, but with a cunning new to him, the boy straightened 
 shoulders and marched up toward them. 
 
 They scowled upon him. 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 "Euagoras, son of Lysander," answered Aristodemos 
 unblushing. 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 "To the grave of Castor and Pollux." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "To bring gifts. My mother this morning gave birth 
 to twins. One has died. But the other she wishes to 
 preserve. I go to pray and offer gifts to the Twin 
 Gods." 
 
 He answered without pause. His brain was as clear 
 as the air. The shrewd Athena was surely helping her 
 lying son. 
 
 "Didst thou see the babes brought this morning for 
 inspection?" asked the old man, turning to the other. 
 
 Aristodemos's heart rose in his throat, but he kept 
 an imquivering face. 
 
 "Yes. Two. One was weak and we rejected it. 
 The other we kept. But they were not twins." 
 
 Aristodemos made ready to break and run. But the 
 other answered : 
 
THE ESCAPE 97 
 
 "Yes, Tisander, I think they were. One nurse brought 
 both." 
 
 "Go on, my son," said the old Spartan. Aristodemos 
 bowed his head and walked with a terrible self-com- 
 pelling slowly up the hill. 
 
 Once out of sight he leaped again into the brush and 
 fled on and on, breaking and snapping the twigs, straight 
 away from the temple. On a jutting edge of hill he had 
 a chance to look down upon the river, so calm and clear 
 in its valley. Ei, what was that parting the ripples.? 
 Some animal? The flash of an arm — a dark head. 
 The ilarch! O — oh! Pursuing him! 
 
 Aristodemos cried out, a poor, thin c^y like a hunted 
 creature's, and in a few mad bounds made the hill top. 
 He ran pounding down the farther slope. His breath 
 began to fail. He began to stumble among the stones. 
 He fell headlong, and scrambled up again with bruised 
 knee and dizzied head. Then, even in his madness, he 
 began to reflect how good a start he had. The place now, 
 too, was wild and partly forested. He began to go more 
 slowly, as indeed he must with that fierce stitch in his side. 
 
 Crossing a little stream, he paused for a thirsty mouth- 
 ful, and much refreshed took on a steadier gait through 
 the wood. His delicate face was set with a new in- 
 tensity. He had taken full heart again when he began 
 to hear shouting from afar — his own name, calling, 
 calling. His eyes went wide with fear. The ilarch' must 
 have taken a short cut through the hills. Aristodemos 
 knew that steady glorious speed of his. He had seen 
 him run in the Dromos. The boy could now no more 
 keep ahead of him than could a toddling child. 
 
98 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He thought of turning in his track; but that was foolish 
 with the man almost in sight. He ran on whimpering 
 with bewilderment and came upon a great rock in the 
 wood, grown thick with tangle. Aristodemos dropped 
 near it, crawled into the laurels and to his joy found a 
 tiny hollow. Truly the gods were kind! He lay there 
 swallowing his sobs, stilling his breath, while wonder- 
 fully soon the ilarch himself came bounding past, eagle 
 swift, with flying hair, a terrible pursuer. 
 
 Aristodemos waited. Thoughts of his father flashed 
 upon him. What would he think to see his son hiding 
 like a hunted thing? He was about to creep out again 
 when something — hearing or a sense beyond it — gave 
 him pause. Then through the wood he heard indeed 
 the ilarch returning, saw him coming slowly looking 
 about him even into the trees, and to the boy's terror, 
 beating the thicket about the cliff. 
 
 Not many rods from the boy's hiding he sat down and 
 dropped his head in his hands. Breathless, Aristodemos 
 watched the man. He seemed weary with running and 
 deeply troubled. 
 
 Suddenly there was a scurry in the bushes that set 
 Aristodemos throbbing from head to toes. But it was 
 only the ilarch 's dog, who now came thrusting his 
 black sharp nose between the ilarch's hands, settl- 
 ing down upon his haunches with the confidence of 
 welcome. 
 
 The ilarch patted his black side. Aristodemos could 
 hear him talking to the dog, familiarly, as he did not 
 talk to human beings. 
 
 "Well, old fellow, we've made a mess of it. We've 
 
THE ESCAPE 99 
 
 failed." He rested his cheek, with its short, soft beard, 
 against the dog's head. 
 
 "Thy master is a fool — a fool, Phialo," he said. 
 "With the company we could have caught him. But 
 we couldn't let the boys come, could we Phialo?" 
 
 Even while he feared the young man, Aristodemos 
 could not help noticing the noble slope of his shoulders, 
 and his strong neck bowed in disappointment. How 
 different he seemed now, alone with his dog, from the 
 strong young captain that ruled the company. He began 
 to finger some arrows he had in his hunting quiver with 
 his bow. 
 
 "Why coidd I not shoot?" he mused. "A wound 
 would have stopped him. Ah, the hills have him now." 
 
 Aristodemos shuddered. A little breeze sprang up, 
 stirring the bushes and cooling the boy's face. 
 
 Instantly the dog was intent. He lifted his quivering, 
 black nose, sniffing audibly. He began to bark with 
 short, quick, eager yelps, and dashed into the bushes. 
 
 "Hares, hares?" said the ilarch indulgently. "Must 
 always be thinking of hares!" But he followed the dog, 
 parting the bushes with his hands. 
 
 And there before him, wild eyed and pale, crouched 
 Aristodemos. 
 
 The boy leaped up, but the ilarch caught his wrists. 
 He struggled and turned his face away. He expected — 
 he knew not what. Perhaps death. 
 
 But the ilarch only said, "Boy! Boy!" in a grave way, 
 looking at him. 
 
 "Yes, yes, strike if thou wilt!" cried Aristodemos, 
 unable to endure this pause before the storm. "Thou 
 
100 THE SPARTAN 
 
 art bigger! Oh, why dost thou play the hound?" he 
 added passionately. "What is it to thee that I run 
 away?" 
 
 "What is it to me?" replied the ilarch. "Thouwouldst 
 perish on the road alone." 
 
 "I am perishing in Sparta. It is all one!" 
 
 Suddenly the young man's look changed. 
 
 "Dost thou so hate Sparta, Aristodemos? And me 
 as well?" he added in a low voice. 
 
 Aristodemos looked at him in amazement. And truth- 
 fully came the answer. 
 
 "No. I hate Sparta, But thee I do not hate — at 
 least, not now." 
 
 "Do not hate me, now or any time. For my heart is 
 warm toward thee." 
 
 He drew the boy gently out of the bushes. 
 
 "I would not harm thee, not a hair of thy head. It 
 was to save thee I came." 
 
 The young man seemed half awed at this break in his 
 own reserve. He was almost shy before the boy. 
 
 "In Sparta," he continued hurriedly, "they deride 
 me because I have no boy friend as the others have — 
 no bosom comrade to teach and help and take with me 
 to battle. They choose friends easily. But I — I can 
 not. And when thou camest, thou wert hardly Spartan. 
 But at once I loved thee — .when I gave, thee thy bed, 
 when thou foughtest Eurytos for thine own foolish reasons 
 — even when thou fleddest Platanistous. 
 
 "But why didst thou flee Platanistous?" he asked, 
 looking up. He was sitting on a fallen tree, holding 
 Aristodemos at his knee. 
 
THE ESCAPE 101 
 
 "Because they were fighting like brutish beasts, and 
 not like thinking men." 
 
 "Yes; thou hast always a reason. And fear is not of 
 thee. For these things I love thee Aristodemos!" 
 
 If a god had suddenly spoken the boy could not have 
 been more astonished than at this abrupt taking away 
 of the mask that had hid a friend. He gazed at the man, 
 scarce credulous. He had been so full of the ache of lone- 
 liness that at this unexpected balm he began to sob 
 childishly, stretched his arms and clasped the ilarch close 
 about the neck. 
 
 "Friend, friend — my friend!" he cried in a choking 
 voice. Even so in olden days had the lad Patroklos 
 returned from Death to clasp the great hearted Achilles. 
 Aristodemos clung to the man, hiding his face against 
 his breast, while the dog leaped about them barking with 
 delight. The man caressed the curly head. 
 
 "Hast had rough days," he said tenderly. "Very 
 rough — and wert so little and alone!" 
 
 "But not — alone — now. Not now ! " whispered the boy. 
 
 Later the young man bent back the boy's face, looking 
 into it as fondly as his own father had done. 
 
 "Thou hast much to learn," he said, "and I will teach 
 thee all." 
 
 "Wilt thou teach me many, many songs — and 
 Homer?" asked Aristodemos, looking full into his eyes. 
 
 "I am no singer," said the man humbly. 
 
 "The little temples of Sparta, then, and the shrines — 
 wilt thou teach me all their stories?" , 
 
 "Yes, yes — gladly." The man's lips parted in an 
 amused smile, i 
 
102 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "And oh, my ilarch," said the boy, "speak to me in 
 whole sentences — long ones. I am so tired of Lacoiric 
 saws." 
 
 "Yes. I will tell thee in twice the necessary words, 
 thou foolish boy. But call me not ilarch. To thee I 
 am — Leonidas." 
 
 "Leonidas!" repeated the boy, using for the first time 
 the name that afterward became so dear. 
 
 "I am brother to Kleomenes, the elder king," said 
 the man quietly. 
 
 "Brother to the King! The boys did not tell me. 
 And wilt thou be king some day thyself? " 
 
 "No, probably not. My brother Dorieus is next in 
 succession. Thou wilt never see me king." 
 
 " But I shall love thee, whether king or soldier. " 
 
 "We shall be soldiers together," said Leonidas with 
 shining eyes. "Thou my defender and I thine, and only 
 swift death shall part us!" 
 
 He took his short sword from its scabbard, pricked his 
 own right arm, then that of the boy, and let the blood 
 drop, mingled, into the earth. It was the ancient 
 covenant of brotherhood. 
 
 "The gods have seen it," he said. "We are brothers 
 now." 
 
 Taking the boy's hand he led him toward Sparta. And 
 there, where law never could have held him, love easily 
 led Aristodemos back. 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 And Sparta Says tier Say 
 
 NEXT day, at the last leap of the choral dance, 
 the ilarch turned, walked directly through the 
 deep breathing ranks to Aristodemos, took 
 his hand and walked away with him. 
 
 It was an explicit act, and the eyes of the company 
 followed him. 
 
 "The Twins be gracious!" gasped Demonax. "And 
 Leonidas hath chosen him a friend at last!" 
 
 "He was long enough at it to have done better!" sneered 
 Eurytos who had not forgotten his flogging over the 
 mutton stealing. 
 
 The boys ran to the corner of the Agora looking down 
 the Apheta Way whither the two had walked. They 
 were as curious as a flock of village girls when a swain 
 begins to show favour. 
 
 Aristodemos looked up with questioning eyes at the 
 friend who walked silently beside him. 
 Leonidas answered his look. 
 
 103 
 
104 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Did I not tell thee that I would show thee the shrines 
 of Sparta?" 
 
 They were both of them excited, keenly alive. The 
 morning sky above them was like a great crystal bowl 
 of azure uplifted to a dizzy height. In after years 
 Aristodemos never saw such a sky without the repeated 
 heart leap of this happy hour. 
 
 "See this temple — two storied," said Leonidas. 
 "Those who come to Sparta exclaim upon it. To us it 
 is familiar. " 
 
 "I have never seen one temple built upon another," 
 said the boy. "What is the story?" 
 
 "Suppose it hath none," smiled Leonidas. 
 
 "But it hath, it hath! There is no temple without a 
 story!" begged the boy. 
 
 They mounted to the upper temple and bowed before 
 the Aphrodite Morphio. It was a strange image of cedar 
 wood, its head veiled and its feet bound with fetters. 
 The boy asked why the goddess was bound. 
 
 "There is a reason," said Leonidas reluctantly, "but 
 I do not think it is a pious one." For while some in Sparta 
 thought the fetters kept the inconstant goddess from 
 running away, others frankly admitted that they were 
 for punishment. 
 
 In another temple they marvelled at the large "Egg of 
 Leda" where it hung by ribbons from the beams. The boy 
 began to dream. 
 
 "Is it not strange we do not see the gods, Leonidas?" 
 he asked in childish puzzlement. " They are very near 
 and so strong and bright." 
 
 Leonidas looked down at him, half awed. 
 
SPARTA SAYS HER SAY 105 
 
 "I should think it strange to see them, rather," he 
 answered. 
 
 As they neared the next little holy house they were 
 aware of a soft humming within like the sound of many 
 bees. 
 
 "It is the Robe House," explained Leonidas, "where 
 the women weave the sacred robe for Amyklaian Apollo 
 — a new robe every year." 
 
 It was the season for the sacred weaving and there 
 within the large, shadowy room were maids and matrons, 
 pacing softly to and fro in front of several upright looms, 
 looms bright with many coloured threads. It was reaUy 
 the happiest place in Sparta with its merry jest and ex- 
 change of news, its constant activity and its steady growth 
 of a beautiful art work. 
 
 One maiden weaver especially caught the glowing atten- 
 tion of the boy. In mid-floor before her loom she paced, 
 flushed in the warm morning, drawing to her bosom the 
 level wooden rod from which the leashes like lyre strings 
 stretched forward to the warp. Now she reached for- 
 ward holding the rod with her left hand while she flung 
 the shuttle with its trailing thread through the soft purple 
 warp, caught it with skill and flung it back again. She 
 was a lovely active figure, bending, rising again, with 
 white arms flashing out to catch the flying spool. 
 
 Another maiden sitting in the full light of the open 
 door had a finished fabric on a frame before her. She 
 smiled up at Leonidas as he came in, then turned again, 
 absorbed, to her embroidery. Under her quick fingers 
 grew the shape of Apollo himseK throwing the disk, and 
 his dear Hyacinthus — the boy he loved. There was 
 
106 THE SPARTAN 
 
 wonderful action in the divine figure. The bend, the 
 backward sweep of the arm holding the disk, were one 
 with that type that later flowered out at Myron's hand. 
 She laid on her colours as with a brush. There was no 
 suggestion of threads, except that the silk shone as no 
 pigment can. The maiden craftsman was all unconscious 
 of her gift save the joy of it which beamed in her eyes 
 as she worked — a level content that comes only to those 
 whose hours are businessfull and whose dream is coming 
 true. 
 
 Aristodemos had a rare glimpse of her happiness. 
 
 "She looks as if she were singing," was his comment. 
 And he never forgot her. 
 
 "Nay, Gorgo doth not sing," said Leonidas simply, 
 "but she maketh beautiful robes for the god." 
 
 They came out into the dazzling isunhght leaving the 
 women at their sacred work and went back to barracks. 
 
 But it was soon apparent that Sparta looked but sourly 
 upon this new friendship of Leonidas for a half-Spartan 
 boy. "A king's son," they said, "should comrade with 
 pure Spartan blood." Aristodemos was conscious of 
 many a scowl and whispered comment. Leonidas as 
 if unaware of their displeasure devoted all his leisure to 
 Aristodemos and taught him many things. 
 
 Then one evening two old Ephors came into the barrack 
 and summoned the young ilarch. "We will talk to thee 
 of this matter of Gylippos's boy," Aristodemos heard 
 them say; and Leondias, white with anger, followed them 
 off. 
 
 Two days passed, but Leonidas did not return. Even 
 Aristodeinos had not known how desolate the place would 
 
SPARTA SAYS HER SAY 107 
 
 be without him. And as for the boys — "Ay, it was you, 
 you half-breed," snarled Eurytos, giving Aristodemos 
 a covert kick. 
 
 "We had the best ilarch in Sparta," said Philammon. 
 "He shall not go to another company." 
 
 "We'll kill you!" And Demonax made a rush at 
 Aristodemos. The harsh-faced captain in Leonidas's 
 place had a tough job keeping the ugly pack in order. 
 But Aristodemos was too bitterly anxious to heed the 
 harrying of the boys. His friend! His captain! What 
 were those brute Spartans at? Prison — chains — beat- 
 ings? Yes, of course the Spartans would beat even a 
 king's son to force him from this friendship. Thus the 
 boy tormented himself with guesses, watching the while 
 every turn for a glimpse of the beloved face. There was 
 no sight or hint of his friend. Leonidas seemed 
 completely swallowed up. 
 
 But the fourth morning, as Aristodemos awoke, Leoni- 
 das walked quietly into the barrack. The boys with a 
 great shout sprang to greet him. They caught his hands, 
 shoulders, feet. Demonax threw his arms about him. 
 
 "They shall not take thee from us!" they yelled tumult- 
 uously. 
 
 "No," said Leonidas quietly, "I have come back to 
 stay. In order now!" he commanded sharply. "Look 
 to those tumbled rushes — Quick! It's time!" 
 
 The boys scattered to their duties. Leonidas began 
 to issue the orders for the day. 
 
 Aristodemos stood in his corner speechless, white, 
 the picture of misery. Doubtless the Ephors had regu- 
 lated Leonidas. To them he, Aristodemos, was naught. 
 
108 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Now Leonidas must choose some other boy, perhaps 
 this Demonax — or even Eurytos. Desperate anger 
 seized him. 
 
 Leonidas was sending out a band for fresh rushes. 
 He seemed imaware of the white quivering figure in the 
 shadow. But as the boys left the doorway he turned 
 quickly and walked over to Aristodemos. 
 
 He laid both hands on the thin trembling shoulders 
 and looked long and loAongly into the upturned face. 
 
 "To-day," he said quietly, "we wiU work at thy 
 spear-throw. We have lost three days." 
 
 But Leonidas never told what befell in those three 
 days. 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 For the Honour of Artemis 
 
 MONTHS lengthened into years. For Aristode- 
 mos and his captain these years were full of 
 the strenuous activities of Spartan comrade- 
 ship — spearmastery, which Leonidas gravely taught him 
 all one sultry summer, skill of bow, swordsmanship, nice- 
 ties of drill which the boy would miss in the general dis- 
 cipline. Through aU this training ran the impulse of their 
 mutual soldierhood and the glorious battle peril to which 
 they both looked forward. All day they were together, 
 and at night, upon rush heaps, side by side, the boy's hand 
 would reach out and lie in the strong soldier palm 
 through the stUl hours of sleep. It was the saving of the 
 boy, for Sparta herself afforded him no life. 
 
 These days the stranger singers who came to the 
 Kameian festival noticed among the stolid Spartan faces 
 one intent face with eyes dilated, a boy tall and gaunt 
 with growth, who did not applaud with the rest but 
 gazed and moved his lips. But even the singers who 
 
 109 
 
110 THE SPARTAN 
 
 remarked him could not guess how Aristodemos drank 
 in their songs as one who must go thirsty for a year again. 
 And having listened, Aristodemos would wonderfully 
 remember, through silent repetitions and singing aloud 
 in the hills. Sparta had naught for a growing mind. 
 He must snatch everything froni chance comers. He 
 dared not miss a single song for his meagre treasury. 
 
 All this troubled Leonidas. 
 
 "It is better to listen to songs and to judge the 
 rhythms," he said, "than to sing too much thyself. 
 That is for poets and such like." And one day he found 
 Aristodemos by the river side trying with great distaste 
 to clean out an ill-smelling tortoise shell. 
 
 "What is this?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I am no Spartan, nor soldier; nothing, nothing 
 — not even a poor singer now. To-day in the chorus 
 my voice broke. It is gone — gone! I shall forget 
 everything!" The boy flung himself face downward 
 on the grass. 
 
 "Was it a lyre thou wouldst make?" asked Leonidas, 
 picking up a ram's horn that lay beside the shell. 
 
 "Yes, a lyre — and thou wilt call it a folly!" 
 
 Leonidas stroked the bowed head. 
 
 "When the child is half and the man is half," he said 
 musingly, "strange toys are needed. Though never saw 
 I so evil smelling a toy." 
 
 "But it will be clean when I scoop out the creature and 
 wash it." 
 
 "Nay, boy. I will get thee a well made lyre." 
 
 "Get me a lyre?" asked Aristodemos, incredulous. 
 
 "Yes. Put the horns into the tree hollow and come. 
 
FOR HONOUR OF ARTEMIS 111 
 
 Demonax wants thee in the Dromos. But," added 
 Leonidas anxiously, "I would not have the Polemarch 
 know of thy restless doings. He might seek his own 
 remedy. And it is too soon for that." 
 
 It was but a few days after this that the Polemarch 
 himself came into barrack and beckoned Aristodemos with 
 his finger. The youth scrambled up from his place at 
 the mess and presented himself. The old man searched 
 his face and said in a low voice: 
 
 "Artemis Orthia requires thee. Thou makest thine 
 offering next full moon." 
 
 Aristodemos looked at the man for a moment stunned. 
 He could make no answer. He well knew what the 
 notification meant. Aristodemos had often seen on the 
 low marsh lands south of the city where the mists stole 
 in at evening and the sun beat hot all day the Sanctuary of 
 Artemis. The image it enshrined was that very one 
 which Iphigenia had tended in the Tauric land. And 
 among the Taurians, so the Spartans said, the xoanon 
 had acquired a taste for blood. Therefore every year 
 they scourged certain boys before the altar so that blood 
 might flow upon it and the image be appeased. Some 
 accused the Spartans of scourging the boys purely for 
 the discipline. At any rate the Spartans bestowed a 
 prize upon the boy who best endured. 
 
 This, then, was the meaning of the Polemarch. Aris- 
 todemos was to be scourged before the altar the following 
 month. 
 
 The Polemarch's eyes followed the boy as he returned 
 to mess. It was time to look after this adopted son of 
 Gylippos. 
 
112 THE SPARTAN 
 
 But Aristodemos finished his breakfast and save for 
 a slight paleness in his browned cheeks gave no hint of 
 disturbance. Even in the choral dance he leaped lightly, 
 and if his gestures seemed a little loose and ill directed 
 he was not different in this from other boys of fifteen. 
 
 At the first moment of freedom he walked away west- 
 ward toward the hills. Once in the seclusion of the woods 
 he flung himself down upon the mould with clenched 
 fists. 
 
 "I will not ! I will not !" he said aloud. 
 
 He had seen the rite. He had seen Tisamenos, a tall, 
 thin boy, fall gaspLug under the lash, and die at the altar 
 foot. 
 
 Was he afraid of death? No; he would gladly have 
 died for the State with such men as the devoted Boulis 
 and Sperthias. Aristodemos well remembered the day 
 when the preposterous trousered Persian heralds had 
 appeared in Sparta with their demands for submissive 
 earth and water, and how the Spartans had flung them 
 screeching into a well to get earth and water for them- 
 selves. And he remembered how the portents and the 
 Sacred Laws had demanded two Spartan lives to expiate 
 the herald lives destroyed. He could even now see the 
 two devotees leaving the altar hand in hand for the jour- 
 ney to far Persia, while the awestruck city gazed in silence 
 after them. Gladly would he have died with Sperthias 
 and Boulis. Death could be a joy, death with a purpose. 
 But this wanton suffering leading no whither! 
 
 His keen mind, the inheritance from his Attic fathers, 
 awoke and lifted itself with the problem, dividing the 
 justice from injustice, the foolish from the purposeful. 
 
FOR HONOUR OF ARTEMIS 113 
 
 Ah, the shameful mutilation of the scourge! He had 
 seen in Sparta men with scarred backs and welted faces. 
 And he knew that these marks were no fair-earned battle 
 scars. They were mere deformities. And now he was 
 to be thus wantonly marred! 
 
 For the first time since he had loved Leonidas he 
 again thought of escape. 
 
 It was long after the evening meal that Leonidas, 
 searching in great anxiety, found him pacing back and 
 forth hke a young lion in the wood. He had worn 
 a path where he had walked. 
 
 "I wiU not do it!" he said in a voice that was all edge. 
 
 Leonidas had not yet spoken. 
 
 "I did not expect thee to turn afraid," he said bitterly. 
 
 "I am not afraid!" said Aristodemos in the same loud, 
 expressionless voice. 
 
 "Then why refuse the pain?" 
 
 "I do not — But such vile pain! Fit for barbarians!" 
 
 "And what of thy talking? Thou wouldst so gladly 
 die with Sperthias and Boulis. And this is not even 
 death." 
 
 "Sperthias and Boulis! Do not speaktheir holynames!" 
 
 He stopped before his friend. 
 
 "Ye gods in Olympos! Dost thou not see the differ- 
 ^„^^. 
 
 "Yes," said Leonidas, "I do see a difference. But 
 can we prevent the image crying out for blood? We do 
 our best. Oh, but thou grievest me!" 
 
 "Do not say that ! Do not say that !" cried Aristodemos, 
 struggling with his heavy breaths. "Thou art my friend, 
 always my friend. But this scourging is not for me." 
 
114 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "No, no," repeated Leonidas slowly, "not for thee." 
 Then he fell silent once more. 
 
 But the boy uneasily broke in again. 
 
 "What will they do in Sparta when they find that I 
 am gone?" 
 
 "Dost thou not know what they will do.''" 
 
 "No," wonderingly. 
 
 "When a youth fails his man friend who hath taught 
 him is punished for him. He is accountable." 
 
 "But they will not punish thee, Leonidas!" 
 
 "Will they not.^" returned Leonidas, with a gleam of 
 a smile. Then he added solemnly, "Child, it is not for 
 that I care." 
 
 At this, quite unexpectedly, the choked stream of the 
 boy's affection leaped free. 
 
 "Leondrion — Leondrion!" he cried, using the name that 
 no one else dared use with him. "Oh, I have denied thee, 
 I have denied thee!" He wept in passionate repentance. 
 
 Leonidas was always a little confused by such extrava- 
 gance of emotion. 
 
 "Nay, thou hast broken no oath. Do not speak such 
 words in thy haste. The gods' ears are sharp." 
 
 Leonidas sat beside him speaking no word until Aris- 
 todemos grew quiet. Then he said: 
 
 "Thou shalt not suffer unready. There are still many 
 days in which to train and harden thee. That shall be 
 my work." 
 
 So in the days that followed Aristodemos received, 
 over and above the Spartan discipline, a special tough- 
 ening at the hands of his friend. Every morning runnings 
 and liftings, every afternoon rubbings and beatings, until 
 
FOR HONOUR OF ARTEMIS 115 
 
 the muscles grew hard and malleable and the skin was 
 as tough as a panther's. From its very activity it was a 
 joyous companionship in spite of its sombre purpose. 
 Aristodemos's afifection warmed and expanded anew. 
 Never again was he to mistake the quiet aloofness of his 
 friend. To be sure, Leonidas would often sit without 
 a word the while the boypoured forth some rapturous new 
 enthusiasm. But Aristodemos could always be certain that 
 later, perhaps in a breathing space between wrestling 
 or as a spear left his hand, Leonidas would make answer. 
 He never spoke without sight and insight. 
 
 As the day of the trial neared, Leonidas watched his 
 charge with increasing solicitude. It was the boy's gaiety 
 that now troubled him. 
 
 "But," said Leonidas severely, "to-morrow is the day 
 of Artemis." 
 
 "Then be not in league with the Goddess to make it 
 to-day," retorted the boy with a nod. 
 
 The morning came, and Leonidas scanned the boy at 
 breakfast with grave misgiving. He was pale as ivory. 
 The muscles which Leonidas had hardened with such 
 care seemed powerful and quick, but not brawny hke 
 those of Demonax and Alpheos, who were also in the 
 trial. How thin he looked! His delicate chin had a 
 tremour about it. 
 
 "Eat!" he commanded in a whisper. "Leave nothing!" 
 
 Late in the morning, when the sun was hottest, the six 
 boys who were to endure the scourging set out at the 
 head of the procession from the Market Place. They 
 were decked as for sacrifice, quite naked and crowned 
 with willow garlands. They passed Aphrodite's double 
 
116 THE SPARTAN 
 
 temple, the Leda Shrine and the Robe House, silent this 
 festival morning, and sp out of the town. 
 
 Before them, quivering in the hot air of the river 
 meadow was the temple of the Moon Goddess. In front 
 of it stood a broad marble altar decked with willows and 
 bearing the Xoanon itself. This image, stiff, erect and 
 crude, had already that cold look of face which later 
 became distinctive of the Virgin Huntress. 
 
 Every altar has an aspect of quiet waiting. But this 
 altar was cruel in its quietude. The broad sun shone daz- 
 ling on its white surface. At its side waited also a tall 
 Virgin Priestess, whose long, bright yellow robe hung 
 folding about her feet. Directly in front of the altar, 
 on a low platform, stood the officer with his ready 
 scourge. 
 
 In utter silence the procession drew near, in silence the 
 Mx boys moved to their place before the altar, their heads 
 bowed, their young backs shining with the sweat of the 
 long walk. Leonidas saw with concern that Aristodemos 
 stood last of the six. 
 
 The priestess made long prayer, then suddenly she 
 turned, took the ancient image from its place and lifted 
 it with both hands high above her head. It was the signal. 
 The first boy mounted the platform. 
 
 Then the officer lifted his great arm, and swept down 
 the sounding lash. 
 
 The young Spartan did not wince. He only shifted 
 his position a little that the officer might strike more 
 straight. Then he stood motionless while the terrible 
 scourge cut the air, blow after blow. Aristodemos forgot 
 his own impending trial in pity for the boy. Bloody 
 
FOR HONOUR OF ARTEMIS 117 
 
 welts appeared across the slender boyish back, at sight 
 of which a deep breathing went through the crowd, and 
 the Priestess's eyes shone, cruel and bright, with a premo- 
 nition of ecstasy. 
 
 At last the strong flogger rested. The boy walked 
 unsteadily away into the embrace of his company. 
 
 "He did not fall! He did not fall!" the awed crowd 
 whispered. And, " The prize ! The prize!" 
 
 Demonax next advanced. Demonax had developed 
 into a beautiful youth, bronze-dark, lithe and full of 
 strength. His beauty unconsciously touched the officer 
 and the blows fell not quite so quick nor hard. 
 
 "Oh!" moaned the Priestess, the image lowering in 
 her hands. "So heavy! So — heavy! Beware of the 
 wrath — !" For the heaviness of the image measured 
 the weakness of the blow. 
 
 And Demonax stamped his foot. 
 
 "Spare not, fool!" he angrily cried. 
 
 And so the pitiful rite went on with its sad misappre- 
 hension of its God, that old ignorance which in some new 
 form so easily resettles in men's minds whenever loving 
 Deity has lifted it away. It was that old instinct of self- 
 torture, of bribing the god, of paying for a grudged bless- 
 ing. Even in the face of the gentle Christ men utilize 
 His sufferings to barter for their souls in a sort of heavenly 
 market place. 
 
 Suddenly Aristodemos awoke to the realization that 
 his own turn was come. Alpheos had faUen and was 
 being carried off seemingly dead. As in a dream he 
 mounted the three steps and stood on the low marble 
 platform close to the stained altar. He shuddered 
 
118 THE SPARTAN 
 
 as he saw the blood dripping from the faded willow 
 garlands. 
 
 Then like fire the first blow fell. 
 
 He swayed Uke a reed, cried out sharply, then clenched 
 his fists and stood erect. 
 
 The scourge twisted like a snake about his shoulders. 
 It stung as if its poison were red hot. Each stroke at 
 first came in agony distinct. Then the pangs merged 
 and the great anguish pervaded his whole body. 
 
 Then, stroke! stroke! stroke! again. That intermin- 
 able rhythm! He thought that he could bear the pain 
 of it, if it were not for that vile singing of the thong above 
 his head. Blood poured over his shining skin. 
 
 "As when some woman of Maionia 
 Staineth ivory with purple. 
 So thy thighs were stained 
 And thine ankles beneath." 
 
 The crowd grew breathless, for Aristodemos still kept 
 his place, standing with fixed eyes and expressionless face. 
 
 Suddenly he fell. 
 
 Again that strange, reheved sigh passed through the 
 blood-fascinated crowd. Leonidas sprang forward. But 
 before he could reach the altar, Aristodemos had struggled 
 to his knees, then up to his feet. Looking straight into 
 his friend's eyes he smiled to him, a curious, bright, 
 intimate smile, and gave his back once more to the scourge. 
 
 Some minutes more the lash rose and fell. At last the 
 boy sank silently down and did not move again. 
 
 Leonidas was instantly over him with shaking hands, 
 weeping for the first time in his life. And Makaria, 
 
FOR HONOUR OF .IRTEMIS 119 
 
 running with unwonted access of love, gathered him up in 
 her arms and carried him, so strong was she, to a litter, 
 while she cried loudly: 
 
 "He is dead! Oh, my son! My son!" 
 
 But Leonidas pushed her away and felt about the boy's 
 heart. 
 
 "No," he said. "He liveth. But the Gods alone know 
 how long he wiU live!" 
 
 "And the Crown!" interposed the smiling, satisfied 
 Priestess. She stepped down to the litter and laid the 
 "Willow Crown of Artemis" upon the unconscious face. 
 
 Then Leonidas himself with his Helot carried the silent 
 litter to Gylippos's house. 
 
CHAPTER TEN 
 
 At a Place Called Marathon 
 
 TWEL^'E long days and nights Leonidas bent aver 
 the unconscioas boy. 
 "It is for me he dieth," he said, while that 
 smile at the altar smote heavily upon his heart. 
 
 Men and women came to ask after the "Bomflnikes," 
 the Altar Victor. "Xev<ir before," they told Makaria, 
 "did one fall under the scourge and afterward rise again-" 
 
 A fever set in on the second day, and Aristodemos 
 lay with cheeks bright red and body paling from unao- 
 quaintance with the sun. He looked small and childish 
 there on his narrow bed, more like the little boy who had 
 come from Athens than the growing youth of Sparta. 
 
 ^lakaria was favoured with the unexpected sight of a 
 king's more kingly brother bending over her boy and 
 dressing his wounds with careful fingers, while the tears 
 ran unheeded dowTi his cheeks and beard. 
 
 Sometimes for hours Aristodemos would call the name 
 of his friend, a slow, unending calL Sometimes he would 
 
 120 
 
AT MARATHON 121 
 
 b^ him to forget that he had forsaken the altar and fled 
 the scourge. 
 
 ■"The scourge was hard,"" he would plead childishly. 
 "Thou canst not know how hard it was. Leonidas!" 
 
 "But thou toobst the sconi^e, and nobly. Dost 
 thou not remember, little one?" Leonidas would inge 
 with breaking heart. 
 
 But long before the sick one could be conTinced, his 
 fevered mind would be up and away. TTi^ whole ddirhmi 
 was a search for his friend, save one day when his fever 
 went low. Then AristodenMK wandered aQ day long with 
 his father, prattling child-talk in Attic Greek. 
 
 It was while Aristodemos was stHl in the dim inaccess- 
 ible places that the city of Sparta was suddenly startled 
 to its very centre with news. An Athenian herald, 
 Pheidippides, who had run all the way from Athens in 
 two days, stumbled pale and forspent into the Agora. 
 The Spartans carried him in thdr arms to the rulers. 
 
 "Men of Lacedaemon,'" he gasped between labouring 
 breaths, "the Athenians implore you I Hurry, hurry to 
 their help ! Do not let our most ancient State be enslaved 
 by barbarians! Eretria, look — Eretria is already taken 
 and ruined. And Greece is weakened by the loss of no 
 mean city!" 
 
 The so long dreaded Persians had come at last ! 
 
 Now it happened that this was the ninth day of the 
 month. It lacked yet two days until the full moon. 
 Of course no godfearing Spartan could set out upon an 
 expedition until after his full moon. Therefore they 
 said, as they sat in slow, solemn council: 
 
 "After two days; after two days." 
 
122 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "But do ye think the barbarians will observe to wait 
 for your cursed full-moon?" cried the Athenian in passion- 
 ate entreaty. "They are upon us! TheMedes! Do ye 
 not hear? Stronger many times are they than all the 
 states of Greece. By sea they come! By land they come 
 also. Think how close they are! The burning of 
 Eretria lighteth up the very sky of Athens. Two days! 
 Why, the barbarians will have razed Athens in your 
 damnable two days." 
 
 A few of the Spartans, Leonidas among them, urged 
 an immediate start. But the mass prevailed, and the 
 precious two days were lost. 
 
 On the third evening, at the first peep of the clear full 
 moon, the army marched. They hurried night and day 
 to reach Athens. But, while they were yet marching, 
 the Athenians and their allies had met the Persians at 
 a place on the eastern shore called Marathon. And 
 Marathon had been won! 
 
 The day after the battle the Spartans arrived at a city 
 which was delirious with joy. 
 
 "We have sent the Mede back!" cried the Athenians. 
 "With our single arm we have sent him back! Ye were 
 not needed in this inatter, O ye Spartans. But go and 
 look!" 
 
 So the envying Spartans passed through the city and 
 marched on to the Marathon plain, so covered with the 
 dead, with strange, outlandish dead, that the Spartans 
 could only gaze in silence. MUtiades, the Greek general, 
 had vowed to Artemis a he-goat for every slain enemy. 
 But there were not enough he-goats in Attica to make 
 good that vow ! It was a wilderness of death. 
 
AT MARATHON 123 
 
 In the midst were gathered glittering heaps of spoils 
 — gold rimmed shields, garments of precious purple, 
 swords, with ruby-crusted hilts. At the head of the guard 
 which kept these riches stood the noble figure of the honest- 
 est man of Athens, Aristides, whom they loved to call 
 "The Just." 
 
 As for the Athenians, they looked into one another's 
 awed faces, saying: 
 
 "Not so strong are we! The invisible Gods fought 
 upon our side!" 
 
 It was indeed a power invisible that had won them their 
 victory, the power of the Greek mind, a sort of diviner 
 Herakles vanquishing the vast Python of the oriental 
 army, ^schylus was in that fight, and Aristides, and 
 probably Antenor, leaving his sculptor work. And 
 Phrynichos, who had been writing fiery dramas of the 
 Persian peril, had laid down his war-compelling pen to 
 take up war itself. 
 
 Is it wonderful that such men as these came home 
 awestruck at their own achievements, humble yet proud 
 as gods, their hearts vision-sown as a spring garden, potent 
 for a blossoming which has been the world's unending joy? 
 
 Such were the things the Spartans saw at Marathon 
 and at Athens. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that Aristodemos, awaking one 
 day from his long illness, was aware of his beloved warrior 
 coming in heated from the march, his crest sweeping the 
 low ceiling of the room, who told in excited words how 
 Athens had met the arch-enemies of Hellas at Marathon, 
 and driven them back over seas; and how, after the man- 
 ner of a miracle that city was become the saviour of Greece. 
 
CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 r^* Sprinff-Time of Hettas 
 
 ''Grant ther: Lc-.th feet so ligf-.t 
 To pass ikroii!fh life." 
 
 Pindar. 
 
 Jk ITER the pacing of the fev«', Aristodemos 
 i-^k recovered quickly. His well-tiained body soon 
 -*- -^ mended and righted all its wroacj. But no 
 slighted Aiistodemos wa^ he 'who took up the Spartan 
 life again. Now he was Aiistodemos the Altar Victor. 
 Crowned of Artemis. He was never laughed at now. 
 He was in a manner consecrate. As he walked along the 
 narrow streets, tis arms modestly hidden in his cloak, 
 "carrying virgins in his eyes" (the Greek phrase for the 
 pure look of youth) the Spartan boy?, who so passionately 
 loved honours, would whisper, "Our Bomonikes." 
 
 But better than honours was his own sense of 
 victory. He could oidure! Oh. the uplift of it! He 
 had now no dread of Spartan life. Its very hardness 
 was become a delight, for he had mastered it. He had 
 
 H4 
 
SPRING-TIME OF HELLAS 12.5 
 
 beaten the Spartans at their own game. His hard-got 
 strength was his owrj. Pindar has voiced this divine 
 effrontery of youth : 
 
 "He thai hath lately won glory 
 In the time of his mceet youth. 
 Is lifted on the wings of his strong hope 
 AnA soaring valcjur. 
 His thoughts are above riches." 
 
 But indeed, all Hellas was youthful then. It was 
 the potent brooding springtime of a nation. Her great 
 works were not yet, but all the stuff of them was in Greek 
 hearts. Never was an awakening more splendid or fuller 
 of creative joy than this awakening after Marathon. 
 Everywhere new thoughts were budding and fresh desires. 
 Poets fared from city t<^> city, their hearts aflame with 
 half formed melody. Statues hitherto straitened in 
 eastern or Egyptian bands were opening eyes, freeing 
 hands and arms as if they were alive. The first "Philo- 
 sophies," then wonderfully new, came whispering across 
 the sea from Ionia, hazarding their bold guesses at the 
 central principle for the whole universe, and widening 
 men's hearts with a glad surprise like the surprise of a 
 child who for the first time looks up aware of the fathom- 
 less blue sky. ITiere was a springtime exuberance in 
 everything men did and thought. 
 
 Boy though he was, Aristodemos was subtly stirred 
 by this mighty impulse. Not all the barriers of Sparta 
 could keep it from him. In a note of song, a festival 
 enthusiasm, an expression of some powerful stranger 
 
126 THE SPARTAN 
 
 face, it spoke to him; and the heart of the stripling 
 leaped up responsive. 
 
 Happy is he whose youthtime is coincident with such 
 youthtime in the world. 
 
 Aristodemos's first act upon attaining complete 
 soundness was to sacrifice and give thanks to the Eiu^otas. 
 Rivers, with their ceaseless flow, were ever associated 
 with the flowing Ufe of youth. He proceeded willow- 
 crowned to the stream. In the still morning there 
 followed him his stately mother, his friend Leonidas, his 
 Helot slave newly assigned to serve him, Gylippos, still 
 walking hke a man of arms, his old eyes twinkling with 
 pride, and behind them all Antiphon, bent double with 
 years and burdens, scarce able to move his aged legs along 
 the way. It was a devoted, intimate procession, each of 
 them blessed in the youth's blessed victory. 
 
 As he stretched forth his hands, dropping his gifts 
 into the stream, his mother noted a new grace, a strength- 
 f ul sureness of gesture which she had never seen in him 
 before, which was to be the peculiar charm of his manhood. 
 
 That evening Makaria brought forth from a deep 
 chest the precious violet himation of his father and gave 
 it to the boy. Even in Lykos's day this festal robe had 
 been carefully laid away in wild thyme, the scent of which 
 now, like the veiy presence of his father almost over- 
 came him. He took it with trembling hands and dared 
 not put it on, though Makaria urged him, so bright and 
 close in that moment came Lykos, that gladsome figure. 
 
 Old Gylippos watched with keen, peering eyes. 
 
 "Hast no love of Athenian finery?" he said chuckling. 
 "A Spartan shift is good enough for thee, eh lad?" 
 
SPRIXG-TBIE OF HELLAS 127 
 
 "Yes, Father, I think so indeed," answered Aristode- 
 mos modestly. He was thinking, though, how little 
 worthy he was to wear his father's mantle. 
 
 Gylippos, weU satisfied, stalked away to the Dromos. 
 
 This river ceremony to which the old man had walked 
 so proudly proved to be his last forth-faring. That same 
 morning while watching the boys at their disk throwing 
 he began to totter and fall, and they bore him home agaia 
 to Makaria. There he lay through the winter months, 
 filling the hut at first with his irritable demands. Then 
 he grew gentler, as if death had already touched him and 
 given something of its calm. 
 
 His constant desire now was Aristodemos. Many times 
 a day he must look at the boy, turn him aroimd and 
 approve of him. It was Aristodemos who must rehearse 
 to him aU the news of the Dromos, of disks, race, leaping. 
 Nor would he take his slender sick-man fare save from 
 the boy's hand. Aristodemos had never thought to 
 love him until now. 
 
 He died in the first springtide of the year, as the old 
 are wont to die — sleeping. Aristodemos wept at his going. 
 Henceforth he himself was the head of the house. Though 
 like all active Spartans he continued to live ia barracks. 
 
 Makaria these days moved very proudly through the 
 Spartan streets, and followed her son's doings with an 
 almost servile admiration. 
 
 "Thy mother loveth and honoureth thee," remarked 
 Leonidas. They were throwing the disk in the Dromos, 
 where Aristodemos's skill was gradually creeping up to 
 the record of his friend. Aristodemos paused, thought- 
 ful, with bowed bead, disk in hand. 
 
128 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "She loved me not when I was poor and unheeded. 
 I think it is my victory she loveth more than me." 
 
 Leonidas gave him a quick look. 
 
 "I would not have thought that," he said. 
 
 The boy seemed* to have an inherited keenness that 
 forced him to see, whether he would or not. 
 
 At eighteen Aristodemos passed out of the ranks of the 
 boys. He became a "Youth," an "Ephebos," as they 
 called it. The very word was charmed. For to the 
 Greeks the stripling at the wonder-verge of manhood 
 was the most beautiful thing in the world, the most 
 appealing. They spoke of him with a sort of awed tender- 
 ness such as we use toward young maidens. It was the 
 sacred season — this brief period of early bloom, of un- 
 bounded expectancy. Was it not a breath upon mortals 
 from the gods, making them godlike for a little time, a 
 mysterious sweet light making the youth himself, while 
 it rested upon him, a holy thing? 
 
 Therefore the youth must enter upon it with certain 
 symbolizing acts and sacrifices. Spartan youths then 
 for the first time allowed their hair to grow like Spartan 
 men. 
 
 Aristodemos's golden locks had long ago been clipped 
 in the mourning ritual for his father, and their continued 
 shortness had always seemed to the boy a kind of love- 
 sign which his invisible father might perhaps see and be 
 glad of. He now let them grow with a certain ruth. 
 Soon they were a golden abundance framing his spare 
 calm face. When he exercised he must needs draw them 
 close in a woolen fillet, as was the habit of Spartan youths. 
 
 And with his lengthening locks there came an inde- 
 scribable change upon the boy, a loveliness of shoulder. 
 
SPRING-TIME OF HELLAS 129 
 
 a firmness and glow of flesh so living as to seem scarce 
 fleshly at all. It was that fateful approach of manly 
 perfection, the evanescent grace mysteriously blooming 
 out of the awkwardness of the Greek boy, his very 
 awkwardness being transmuted into a beautiful shyness, 
 an almost reverence, in all he said and did. 
 
 In this newness of life Aristodemos had an easy erect- 
 ness, as if upborne by his own living breath. Every 
 ripple of his body was vital. When he ran, his feet 
 had a Hermes lightness; when he hurled the lance, it 
 was with a buoyant directed strength into which passed 
 all the training of the years. Even when he stood upon 
 the throwing line mentally measuring off the course for 
 his gleaming diskos, the very fingers of his upraised left 
 hand showed themselves light, separated, defined, ready 
 to obey the finest motions of his wit. 
 
 And the joy of him all centred in his face, in the calm 
 forehead where life had set no pain, in the clear eyes with 
 their trick of looking beyond, in the full rich mouth with 
 its habit of thoughtful smiling as if from an inner gay 
 repose. His was not the face we usually think of as 
 Greek — the Hellenistic face with the thin lips and atten- 
 uated nose. It was the fuller, manlier face of the early 
 time, a face of purpose and control. 
 
 Aristodemos began now to visit the altars of the gods 
 with wistful new prayers. The Deathless Ones had 
 grown strangely real to him, no longer the mere bright 
 forms of his childhood, but clear-known persons who loved 
 and sorrowed, knew and cared, a vast and ever-present 
 company. 
 
 Of them all it was Apollo who stood forth to his growing 
 
130 THE SPARTAN 
 
 mind as his own god, the ineidtable ideal of the young 
 Greek. Pindar long ago at Lykos's bnrial had spoken of 
 Apollo in words wbich as a little boy he coald not under- 
 stand. But now the youth understood. Through his 
 waging needs and knowledge he knew his god! When a 
 melody would sing itself through his brain he would say, 
 "Apollo hath touched me," with the instinct to look 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 For before the eyes of his mind Apollo stood dear, a 
 fair young man with trim, dose-filleted head, vitally 
 young like the worshipper himself, but taller and more 
 glorious than any mortal youth could be, erect, with full 
 breathing chest and neck like a fair column, and with 
 that face of imperturbable, calm brightness. 
 
 To the adoring youth ApoUo was not the god of music's 
 ecstasy alone but of music's law- — indeed, the god of 
 all well-ordered thoughts and actions. Aristodemos 
 knew that look of the god's eyes — knew it as if he had 
 met him — that look of noble rebuke too calm for wrath, 
 full of a pKjwer that was almost sad, almost but not quite 
 lo^^ng. It was Apollo who stood and stretched out his 
 great quiet hand over contendiag men and restless 
 passions, and always upon his face was that look of dig- 
 nity and calm restraint. 
 
 But whole periods would come when Aristodemos 
 would not think of the greater gods at sdl, but rather 
 of the thousand little ones who suffered with the change 
 of seasons, and whose loves and sorrows were aU uncured. 
 Often in the late afternoon Aristodemos would start out 
 fuU-breathed for a run, for his energy was ineshaustible. 
 Leaving the lowlands behind he would swiftly dimb the 
 
SPRING-TIME OF HELLAS ISl 
 
 Taygetos by a wild gorge he knew. Here every shadowed 
 glade had its peeping faun, its possible satyr. Merely 
 to go into the forest was to set free in his mind a hundred 
 stories which he implicitly believed, stories which awak- 
 ened his keen young sympathies, his admiration, wonder, 
 questioning. He had a power of imaging which kept 
 him all aglow. 
 
 Through this gorge poured down a wealth of noisy 
 waters taking fearful leaps into black pools whence they 
 sent up their deep-voiced thunder. Then they poured 
 out again over the boulders with laughter at their own 
 invincible purity. The nymph of such a stream — what 
 a wild, sweet creature must she be! Sometimes the youth 
 loved her, sometimes feared her, as he sat by the joyous 
 tumult. 
 
 From these cool shadows he could look down over the 
 level Spartan plain with its silvery olive stretches, "the 
 holy bloom" which wherever found was Athena's, 
 and which always brought to Aristodemos the very 
 breath of his childhood. Sometimes glancing through 
 the near, slant forest spaces he almost fancied that he 
 saw the mighty Virgin herself with stately feet moving 
 in the godlike folds of her dress, coming tranquilly down 
 the glen to him. Then his very breath would stop. For 
 gods had been known to seek out their faithful worship- 
 pers and even claim them utterly. 
 
 It was in this mountain wilderness that Aristodemos 
 began to practise his art of singing and song-making. 
 His necessity for expression urged him to a patience of 
 effort that would have amazed his simple hearted Spartan 
 comrades. Song after song did he make, though never 
 
132 THE SPARTAN 
 
 one that spoke his heart. His voice, too, he tried, low 
 and high, but it never rang true to the imagined sound 
 within. And all the while a new self -consciousness held 
 him silent below in the Spartan chorus. 
 
 So he strove alone, struggling to set free his thoughts 
 in song, yet coming no nearer to expression, and seeming 
 at last to lose even the clues of his inspiration. 
 
 But one bright, windful morning the youth-chorus 
 was chanting away at an old Herakles song, beating out 
 the rhythm with their feet. Suddenly above the united 
 tide of song rose a clear, manful voice, not loud but ab- 
 sorbing all the others into its own certainty and sweetness, 
 swinging them out of their heavy rhythm to its own 
 compelling emphasis. Speech it was rather than song, 
 the outgoing of a soul from its depths into the light, a 
 full, unhindered utterance. They needs must be swayed 
 whether they would or not. 
 
 With wondering faces the youths sang through to the 
 end. Then they turned upon him. 
 
 "What, Aristodemos! Bomonikes! Who dreamed 
 that thou couldst sing — and like that!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes! Listen!" cried Aristodemos passion- 
 ately with strangely shining eyes. And breaking into song 
 again he leaped into the centre of their orchestra circle and 
 began to improvise upon the story as he had never im- 
 provised before. He was wildly unconscious of what he 
 did or even that he was singing alone. As Plato says: 
 
 "The poet is a light and vnnged and a holy thing, 
 And no invention is in him 'till he hath been inspired. 
 Is beyond his senses, and in him no longer is his mind." 
 
SPRIXG-TOIE OF HELLAS 133 
 
 How Aristodemos sang! How he acted his song with 
 his quick leapings and his ^"i^-id changing face! He sang 
 of Herakles, the great kindly hero, faring from town to 
 town, helping and healing sorrows. And, as Aristodemos 
 sang, he too fought the nine-headed Hydra, wrestled with 
 Death and saved Queen Alkestis alive, journeyed to the 
 far edge of the world and fetched the golden fruit of 
 Hesperides and flung, as he ended, the almost visible 
 apples into the Spartan throng. 
 
 The youths crowded up to him with wild deUght. 
 
 "Again! Again!" they demanded. "We wiU sing 
 with thee! Thou shalt be our Choragos!" 
 
 He stood a moment shaking his loose locks at them, 
 flushed, laughing, bewildered. Then the dreamful, 
 preoccupied look crossed his face again, and again his 
 voice rang out. 
 
 It was a, song of his own, one of the many that he had 
 almost created in the forest, a song of that impetuous 
 nymph of his own mountain gorge. At the strophe he 
 paused in the growing story. He nodded his bright head 
 to them with a gesture of command. And the chorus 
 in mighty volume flung back his melody, stiU warm from 
 its creation. 
 
 So they sang in swift antiphony until the whole city 
 gathered in happy excitement around the orchestra. 
 Henceforth Aristodemos bore a new name in Sparta. 
 He was called Aoidos — "the singer." And it was a love 
 name. For Aristodemos had given to the star\^ed minds 
 of these Spartan youths something which they had lacked. 
 He was become necessarv' to them. In work, in the 
 games, they sought his companionship. Nothing was 
 
134 THE SPARTAN 
 
 complete without him. And yet they gave him a certain 
 wondering respect. Genius was holy, even in Sparta. 
 
 "I love to see thee companioned," said the large-souled 
 Leonidas. "I am proud when they seek thee." 
 
 "Proud? Thou?" laughed Aristodemos. "But I am 
 loved by the bravest soldier in Sparta! Not that much 
 canst thou boast!" 
 
 But something in the brightness of the face, the joyous 
 nod of the golden head, struck Leonidas with that shrewd 
 ancient fear of the Greeks. 
 
 "Be not so openly glad, Aristodemos," he said. "Re- 
 member the signet ring of Polycrates the fortunate one, 
 which the gods returned to him from the sea before they 
 came to destroy him. Some things the gods will not 
 brook, and for the too-happy man there is no escape, 
 turn he this way or that!" 
 
CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 The King is Dead 
 
 KLEOMENES, the King, had just returned from 
 a disgraceful exile in Arkadia. He had dis- 
 possessed his co-king Demaratos in favour of 
 the weak Leotychides, had tried to bribe the Delphic 
 priestess, and, most infamous of all, had committed 
 sacrilege by burning the sacred grove in which some 
 enemies of his had sought sanctuary. Finally, he had 
 fled from the anger which his evil deeds had aroused 
 in Sparta. 
 
 Recently, however, the Spartans had called him back 
 to his kingdom to keep him from plotting with the 
 Arkadians against his own country. There was but 
 little rejoicing at his return. Now he walked the streets 
 of his city, wild-eyed and restless, his robe disordered, 
 his sceptre swinging in his hand. The people shrank 
 away from him or meeting him cast down their eyes, afraid 
 to look upon a sacrilegious man. The unwary ones he 
 maliciously struck in the face with his sceptre. Upon 
 
 135 
 
136 THE SPARTAN 
 
 which his brothers, Leonidas and Kleombrotos confined 
 him. For by this time he was stark mad. 
 
 "Do not call him 'brother'," urged Aristodemos to 
 Leonidas as they talked together. "He is but thy half 
 brother. I am thankful he is no fuU kin to thee. Thy 
 brother Dorieus was right. This man was never true 
 bom king." 
 
 "Hush!" said Leonidas. "He is sacred, for he wears 
 the crown." 
 
 "But," p>ersisted Aristodemos, "how can he be sacred? 
 He hath committed sacrilege. And Kleomenes was not 
 truly bom as Dorieus and thou." 
 
 He was referring to the story of King Anaxandrides, 
 who was the father of King Kleomenes and of the brothers 
 Dorieus, Leonidas and Kleombrotos. Anaxandrides had 
 married in his youth a wife dear to his heart. No chil- 
 dren had come of the wedlock, but when the Ephors 
 demanded that he put her away he had answered: 
 
 ," It is no good advice that you give me to put away my 
 wife. She hath done no wrong, and I will not." 
 
 Upon which, after much wagging of their wise heads 
 together, the Ephors pronounced, "Keep her, then. 
 But take thee another wife besides. Lest," they added 
 significantly, "the Spartans make some unwonted decree 
 concerning thee. For if thou care not, we at least may 
 not let the Eurysthenid line die out amongst us!" 
 
 The second wife promptly bore him Kleomenes. Now, 
 however, imhoped for joy, the true wife also bore him a 
 son, the high-spirited Dorieus. Again she bore him 
 Leonidas and again Kleombrotos. But the unloved 
 wife bore no more children. 
 
THE KEsG IS DEAD 137 
 
 Dorieus from the first showed the noblest possible 
 temper, excelling all the youths in skill and strength, 
 and gathering devotion to himself by his very na- 
 ture. But Kleomenes grew up gloomy and solitary. 
 He fed naturally upton the crueller customs of the 
 land. AH the unlove of his parents seemed to hve in 
 him. His chosen friends were of vulgar spirit like him- 
 self. 
 
 But when Anaxandrides died the Spartans kept the 
 letter of their law and decided that Kleomenes, as the 
 eldest son, was the rightful king. And Dorieus, who had 
 himself confidently hoped to succeed his father, thereupon 
 found Sparta unbearable. He therefore asked the Ephors 
 to let him found a colony in Sicily. And he had sailed 
 away with a band of young men who were glad to join 
 themselves to him. 
 
 Leonidas gave no sign. If the rule of Kleomenes 
 chafed him, no one ever heard him say so. He laboured 
 on in his absorbed fashion at his daily round. He was 
 not quick to greet and he lacked altogether the knightly 
 fascination of his elder brother. But he had loved that 
 brother with a complete devotion, and grew more and 
 more silent after his departure. Lately the elders and 
 even the Ephors had begun to find themselves turning 
 to Leonidas for his opinion; and no one of them ever 
 thought of questioning his rarely uttered judgment in 
 Dromos or in the Place-of-Meeting. 
 
 About this time the first sinister mutterings of the 
 Persian storm began to reach Sparta from across the 
 ^gean. Xerxes, the new childish ruler of the Medes, 
 was hot to be revenged for Marathon. 
 
138 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos came one day in great excitement to 
 Leonidas. 
 
 "The Persians are coming again!" 
 
 "Will the whipped cur fight again?" said Leonidas 
 contemptuously. 
 
 "But if the cur have a great pack of curs with him, 
 Leonidas? " 
 
 "Nay. Believe not all thou hearest from travellers." 
 
 So Aristodemos went away ashamed of his excitement. 
 
 A little later, however, at a festival, the place was 
 gusty with news. 
 
 "And this time," insisted Aristodemos, "it is the old 
 wine merchant who cometh every year from Kyme. 
 He saith there is no nation in Asia that will not furnish 
 fighting men. One sendeth ships, another boats for 
 bridges. Old Syloson saith th^ are already at work 
 upon a bridge across the Hellespont, an immense bridge 
 of ships such as man hath never seen. Syloson himself 
 carried rope for the bridge from Egypt. Oh, Leonidas, 
 I surely think a great war is befalling ! " 
 
 Leonidas listened in silence, his black brows gathering 
 down over his eyes. 
 
 "Dost thou not believe it!" pursued Aristodemos. 
 
 " The Ephors do not believe it ! They tell us the Medes 
 do but come against Athens and that Sparta, being be- 
 yond the Isthmos, is safe." 
 
 "And thou? What sayest thou?" 
 
 "That none but dolts would say such a thing!" broke 
 out Leonidas wrathfully. "But I find no Spartan that 
 sees. 
 
 "Then thou hast all the while believed the Persians 
 
THE KING IS DEAD 139 
 
 are coming!" cried Aristodemos, throwing arms about 
 his friend. "We'll fight them together!" 
 
 "Yes, we shall fight together, if Sparta doth not hang 
 back behind her hills until the Medes trample her very 
 vineyards. Come, 'I will talk with thee." And the two 
 strode out Colona way to the foothills, and sat them by 
 a stream as turbulent with its rush down Taygetos as 
 their hearts were turbulent with thoughts. There they 
 held deep converse together, the first of many on this ever 
 widening theme. 
 
 "Oh, I would that my father Lykos had lived to see 
 this day," said Aristodemos finally. "Or that he had 
 even lived to die at Marathon." 
 
 "Doubtless he hath left the strife to thee," said Leoni- 
 das. " It is a noble legacy." 
 
 As the friends walked homeward, they scarce knew 
 whether their hearts were fuller of fear for their city or 
 of fearful joy at the deeds they might be set to do. But 
 the summer passed without event. The great Orient 
 seemed to forget its stirrings and lie down again. 
 
 One frosty autumn evening Aristodemos was vigor- 
 ously swinging along toward his quarters. The stars 
 above were pricking through the twilight and the slender 
 moon himg thin-edged and keen against the sky. 
 
 "Hello, Aoidos!" called out Alpheos from the dark 
 within. "Hast seen Eurytos and Demonax!" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, thou'st missed it!" cried Alpheos, eager to 
 tell. "We've had a great hunt and got a monstrous 
 boar. But Eurytos had a near call from old Thanatos. 
 Crazy fellow! He stumbled on the boar alone and tried 
 
140 THE SPARTAN 
 
 to fetch him without help with some famous stroke 
 or other. Tusker turned on him and Eurytos slipped. 
 Gods, he was as good as dead! But before we could get 
 to him Demonax had jumped out of the bush and hewed 
 the boar's head nigh off. Here they come! Here they 
 come!" 
 
 The clamorous rout came shouting up the road, wav- 
 ing their stubby swords. The ponderous boar they 
 carried swinging from a pole, his bristly snout trailing 
 blood along the path. And in the twilight they carried 
 upon their shoulders the merry Demonax brandishing 
 the huge tusks and clashing them together. 
 
 "Sing it! Sing the hunt!" he demanded as Aristodemos 
 ran out to them. And Aristodemos, joining the march- 
 ing crowd, broke into a wild song to which Demonax 
 clashed time with the tusks. 
 
 "Into the forest went I forth, 
 I met a boar with raging jaws. 
 
 Fierce was he, hut fiercer II 
 
 Fiercer II Fiercer I! 
 I smote him with my sword! 
 He fell down in his blood! " 
 
 So they sang it on, far into the darkness. Then they 
 feasted together after the glorious hunt. 
 
 The years had knit Aristodemos very close to these 
 fierce fellows, his table-mates. There were only fifteen 
 of them. Together they had toiled and striven through 
 summer heats and winter snows. Together they had 
 slept, together wakened with the dawn. Together they 
 had suffered the scourging of Artemis. They had had 
 
THE KING IS DEAD 141 
 
 their boyish fights even from that first mormng -when he 
 and Demonax had tussled in the river. But time and 
 close conditions had develojjed a mighty devotion in 
 the little band. And the great Spartan oath of fealty 
 which they had recently sworn to each other was all 
 unneeded after the ceaseless knitting of the years. 
 
 At last after the feasting the torch had to be stamped 
 out and they lay down to sleep. Aristodemos fell asleep 
 instantly and was quite undisturbed when, an hour later, 
 two men tiptoed in among the sleej>ers, shook Leonidas 
 awake and took him out with them. He was therefore 
 all dazed when Leonidas returned alone just before day- 
 break and whispered sharply in his ear: 
 
 "Aristodemos, come! Come quickly. I have great 
 need of thee!" 
 
 It showed how instinctive his Spartan discipline had 
 become that Aristodemos, as he stumbled out all shiver- 
 ing with sleep, asked no questions, but marched along 
 silent at Leonidas's side as if under orders. The dark 
 streets were deserted. They met only one yoimg man 
 stealing back like a shadow from visiting his wife. For 
 Sparta forbade open marriages to the young, but really 
 encouraged them in secret. 
 
 The two came to the river at the very place where the 
 boys had frolicked together that first early morning. 
 The stream flowed darkly in the white dawn as they threw 
 themselves down in the familiar spot. 
 
 Only then did Leonidas turn to his friend and speak 
 in a low, tense voice: 
 
 "The king is dead!" 
 
 "The king?" 
 
142 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Kleomenes. His feet were in the stocks. To-night 
 he demanded a knife. And when he threatened, his 
 keeper was afraid, being only a Helot, and brought him 
 one. With it he killed himself, cutting and horribly 
 hacking his body. Thou wouldst never know him. 
 Oh, it is horrible, horrible! 
 
 "And," he added quickly, "I did not tell thee last 
 night, Aristodemos, not even thee. Word has privately 
 come to me and to the Ephors that Dorieus also is dead, 
 fighting nobly in Sicily." 
 
 "What — splendid Dorieus? Thy brother Dorieus!" 
 And with his quick instinct of love Aristodemos threw 
 both his arms about his friend. 
 
 But Leonidas shook him off and seized his shoulders 
 roughly. 
 
 "Thou art not well awake! Thou dost not see what 
 this means I " 
 
 Aristodemos looked up a bewildered instant and found 
 Leonidas gazing deeply, strangely, into his eyes. 
 
 "Boy, boy!" he whispered. "I am king!" 
 
 And even as he spoke a great change fell upon Leonidas. 
 Was it some divine sense of his lineage from Zeus break- 
 ing in upon him, some sudden consciousness of priestly 
 mediation for the State? Aristodemos saw his face 
 alter, soften, then grow mighty with power and isolation, 
 the power to stand out like a rock upon the coast and 
 take the force of things himself. It was the birth of 
 his kinghood in him. 
 
 Instinctively Aristodemos bowed low before him. But 
 Leonidas lifted him with a swift passion that in him was 
 rare. 
 
THE KING IS DEAD 143 
 
 "No, no!" he cried. "Do not leave me alone! All 
 Lacedsemon is put into my hand. And — and ■ — it is 
 lonely to be king!" It was a cry of great personal need. 
 Yet in it was a dignity not to be broken through. He was 
 speaking now again, thoughtfully, but with that same 
 sorrowful intensity. 
 
 " Yes, I am king. But they are children, our Spartans. 
 Mine, mine is all the care." 
 
 "But Leotychides," said Aristodemos. "He, too, is 
 king." 
 
 But Leonidas shook his head. 
 
 "Leotychides doth not see. The day is full of Fate. 
 Oh, Aristodemos, all Asia is upon us! Yet he doth not 
 see. Our Spartans do not see. The Ephors do not 
 see. I must fight this fight alone, first with mine own 
 people, then with people of the Barbarian. Thus des- 
 perate is my stand. But thou," he added, "thou seest, 
 my ' Listener.' Thou wilt always see." 
 
 He kissed him solemnly, took his hand, and together 
 they walked back to the town. 
 
 Already, though the sun was scarcely risen, the streets 
 were full of folk. The harsh clash of cymbals resounded 
 in mourning for the dead. Women crouched before their 
 doors lifting their wail and beating their breasts. Men 
 were casting lots to determine which of the family should 
 put on the mourning garment. Mounted messengers 
 were clattering off in every direction with notifications 
 of the king's death. 
 
 Leonidas still holding his friend's hand strode through 
 the commotion to the king's house. The citizens stepped 
 out of his way and bowed their heads as he passed. And 
 
144 THE SPARTAN 
 
 as they watched him out of sight they realized that they 
 were glad of him, that they trusted him as they had not 
 trusted a king for generations. 
 
 When the month of mourning had passed Leonidas 
 was crowned. He made his first high-priestly sacrifice 
 for the people. After the crowning and the sacrifice 
 the old Ephors came to him. They had sofnething im- 
 portant to say. The young king, in short, must take 
 himself a wife, and that forthwith. 
 
 Leonidas looked at them with a proud, quiet smile. 
 
 "And if I be already wed?" he said. "And if before 
 many moons, I can give you an heir to the Eurysthenid 
 Hne?" 
 
 The Ephors looked their amazement. 
 
 "Gorgo is my wife," he told them. And his proud 
 face shone. 
 
 At this the Ephors were glad, for Gorgo was the 
 cleverest and best loved maiden of royal lineage in all 
 Sparta. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 The Violet Robe Changes Hands 
 
 IT IS incredible how far away and unreal the "Eastern 
 Danger," with all its menace of huge war preparings, 
 seemed to the Greeks. Athens indeed had some 
 guesses at the menace. But Sparta, in her protected 
 valley, had none. So the little states of Greece prepared 
 no defences, no armies. Instead they but celebrated 
 their festivals a little more faithfully. It were well in 
 any event to honour the gods. Even the young king,, 
 Leonidas, biding his time, knew that he could not yet 
 urge the Spartans. Perhaps he also felt that in the path 
 of such a fate it was good first of all to win the favour 
 of the gods. 
 
 So this spring he, with the other Spartans, entered with 
 especial ardour into the Hyacinthine feast. With them 
 he re-lived that tender ancient story of the youth so 
 beautiful that Apollo himself had been wont to lay aside 
 his celestial aspect to be near the lovely boy. In the 
 meadow of Amyklai, only two short miles from Sparta, 
 
 145 
 
146 THE SPARTAN 
 
 the two, one day, were flinging the disk. Doubtless the 
 God was instructing the lad, just as Leonidas had many 
 a day taught his boy friend Aristodemos. But the god 
 struck Hyacinth with the flying disk and killed him. 
 Then grief most terrible seized the god, who himself 
 could not die. But ere the soul of Hyacinth could flit 
 forth wailing down the steep way of death Apollo caught . 
 it in his hand. 
 
 "For swift the act and short the way 
 Of gods who are eager to an end." 
 
 And Apollo breathed into the soul a new life and set it 
 upon the warm meadow, where it sprang up in likeiless 
 of a flower. And on the purple petals the weeping god 
 wrote his cry of woe, "AI." And now everywhere the 
 soul of Hyacinth springs abroad in the busy fields of men 
 and in far mountains alone, bearing always the grief 
 word of the god. 
 
 The first day the Spartans celebrated the death of 
 Hyacinth with fasting and lament, turning with that 
 curious Greek compassion to their own beloved dead and 
 for them making sacrifice. For in the Greek heart, 
 under all its brightness and easy joy, lay ever this 
 thought of death, a profound and secret melancholy 
 for which they knew no cure. It was never quite fear. 
 Rather, it was a manly compassionate love toward the 
 dead themselves, those languid ones who could think 
 only pale thoughts and feel only half desires. 
 
 Even when the Greeks sang gladdest in the sunlight, 
 this sore pity was tugging at their hearts. Of annihila- 
 tiori they never thought. They were too close to nature 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HANDS 147 
 
 for that, and felt too intensely the imperishing quality 
 of life. But to be away from the bright sun seemed to 
 them a mysterious, eternal illness. As Achilles says, 
 
 "I would rather be the lowest slave among the Living 
 Than rule, a king, among the Dead!" 
 
 So on the first day of the festival of Hyacinth the Spar- 
 tans gave themselves frankly to that thought which they 
 were accustomed to keep fearfully in the background. 
 
 There was one beloved "Dead" to whom Aristodemos 
 gave a devotion which he could not share with the other 
 worshippers. For his father Lykos were all his gifts, 
 and thoughts. His old love had imperceptibly grown 
 through these years into actual worship, as seemed 
 natural and right. 
 
 He hastened away to a lonely meadow-altar which he 
 knew. Faint with fasting he laid the cakes and rich 
 grape clusters upon the altar. Then he lifted the wine 
 cup in both hands and pronouncing "The OflFering to 
 the Dead" turned it and let the rich stream pour to the 
 ground. The wine bubbled a moment on the earth, 
 then sank below — into what darkness, what mysteries ! 
 Where did the spirit invisible take it up and make it his 
 own? 
 
 He remained a long time standing by the altar musing 
 thus, never doubting that the spirit did take it and 
 did know. 
 
 But on the festival's second day Hyacinth lived again 
 — the wide pervasive life from Apollo. In the newness 
 of his life all newness of life was celebrate — the sprout- 
 ing of the fallen seed, spring's whole dear mysterious 
 
148 THE SPARTAN 
 
 return. From every hill and vale the people gathered 
 hyacinth and crowned all altars with its purple. 
 Sparta was a riot of the glorious colour and the odour. 
 Everywhere was music of flute and cythara. The 
 Spartans, usually so chary of hospitality, this day kept 
 open house. All hearts sang of life — life — life ! In its 
 faint prefiguring fashion it was the Spartan Easter Day. 
 
 On this day ihey brought forth the new Apollo-robe 
 from the Robe House and bore it down to the god at 
 Amyklai. Leonidas the priestly king headed the stately 
 procession wherein, in her little wicker chariot among 
 her purple-crowned virgins, rode Gorgo, carrying on her 
 bosom Leonidas's year-old son. Aristodemos wore for 
 the first time his father's violet robe. He was Choragos, 
 and his heart, so wistful yesterday, was to-day brimming 
 with the festival gladness. 
 
 Those ancient processions, flock leading, flower laden! 
 Shall we ever catch their spirit of frank communion with 
 the physical outer joy, their sweet commotion and 
 laughter — here a snatch of song, there an eloquent 
 dance, and everywhere the gods with their approval 
 and their almost visible beauty! 
 
 They came to Amyklai amid its bower of trees. Here 
 the priests clothed the archaic image with its rich votive 
 robe. Then the youths and maidens danced the famous 
 "Hormos" or chain dance. The youths charged across 
 the meadow as in battle rush, simulating the fling of 
 spears and the quick crouch under uplifted shields. 
 The virgins, gay decked and lovely, moved barefoot 
 over the soft bloom of the grass, uplifting their arms, 
 bowing and springing with the gentleness befitting them. 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HANDS 149 
 
 Then for a moment youths and maidens mingled in con- 
 fusion. And out of the confusion swept a chain of youthful 
 forms, each maiden's outstretched hand lying lightly 
 as a bird over the hand of a youth. Forward in flinging 
 joy swung the bright and living line. And when it broke 
 amid merry laughter the virgins scattered like flowers 
 over the meadow. But the youths closed ranks and 
 joined the men in close soldierly formation. 
 
 Then Aristodemos, the Choragos, lifted his laurel 
 branch. And instantly there rose upon the air the full 
 voice of the Spartan State. 
 
 Oh, the glorious tide of the voices of men, moving in 
 elemental strength, in sheer and mighty unison, rising 
 and falling broad from note to note within the freer bounds 
 of the old Greek scale ! We have forgotten in our modern 
 polyphony the strength of archaic unison, the mighty 
 advance of a single suflBcient tune. Like an army it 
 moved, that massive melody, sweeping every man's heart 
 out beyond himself into the greater heart of tribal 
 manhood. 
 
 So the festival of Hyacinth ended. 
 
 The people, weary with rejoicing, hastened back to 
 Sparta. But Aristodemos could not at once go back. 
 The music which he had led and controlled had left 
 him exalted and strangely restless. 
 
 He crossed the meadow toward the little town of 
 Amyklai. He still wore his festive violet robe, the soft 
 folds reaching to his feet. The white border of it 
 was embroidered with flowers and many nymphs dancing 
 in wild fleet joy, so that as he walked the little nymphs 
 seemed peeping here and there among the moving folds. 
 
150 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Crowned with iris, moving thoughtfully along the way 
 his lyre of ancient tortoise pattern swung upon his 
 shoulder, men meeting him might almost have thought that 
 Phoebus himself was come down again to search among the 
 hyacinths for the dead boy. 
 
 By the wayside he passed an altar, lately visited, but 
 standing now deserted in the quiet afternoon sunshine, 
 the myrrh, fragrant and delicate, yet scattered upon it, 
 the faint smoke yet rising. A puff of wind bent the 
 thread of smoke aside and blew its sweet odour across 
 his face. What thousand memories of childtime sacrifice 
 it stirred in him! Something, half fear, half joy, gripped 
 him at the heart. Were the Deathless Ones still hovering 
 about the late-left shrine? He seemed to feel their 
 presence in the sunshine. 
 
 It was with something of a shock that he passed from this 
 quietude into the village market place. It was an unticl,V 
 spot. Venders were breaking up their booths, and scat- 
 tered branches and food leavings lay littered all about. 
 
 The festival crowds had attracted many merchants 
 to Amyklai. Among them Aristodemos noticed a slave 
 trader, a swarthy, hooknosed Phoenician. He seemed 
 to have the leftovers of his stock on his hands, having 
 sold out at Corinth or at Argos on his way south to the 
 Laconian Gulf. On his slave bench sat only a decrepid 
 old man, asleep, an evil looking, lame Scyth, and a child. 
 Aristodemos looked at them with half-conscious pity 
 turning in his mind that old philosopher's question, "Is 
 the whole man enslaved or his body only?" It was his 
 habit to question thus. 
 
 As he stood there the child, a boy of about three years. 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HANDS 151 
 
 scrambled down from his place and made toward him 
 with outstretched hands. A chain trailed from his bare 
 waist to keep him from wandering. 
 
 "Take me!" he cried, stretching up his arms to Aris- 
 todemos, impatiently folding and refolding his tiny 
 fingers. 
 
 "Get back!" shrilled the Phoenician. "Son of a dog! 
 Thou misbegotten!" He outstretched his terrible hand, 
 with black finger tips drawn together at touch — a 
 menace known to all the East. " Wait ! " said the gesture, 
 and the face with half -bared teeth completed it. "Wait 
 tiU I kill thee!" So vivid was the menace that the 
 child cried out, threw arms about Aristodemos's knees, 
 and hid within his robe. Aristodemos bent quickly, 
 and lifted him in his arms. 
 
 "Thou Tyrian demon!" he cried in deep anger. 
 " What a power is this to let forth upon a baby? He hath 
 done no harm." 
 
 But the child was not frightened. He looked out at 
 his terrible owner with triumph in his baby eyes and 
 snuggled closer in Aristodemos's arms. 
 
 The Phcenician now began to see further than his 
 beak. Here was a possible customer. There was instant 
 change in him. He was cringing, smiling with that 
 exaggerated vividness of face which only Orientals 
 know. 
 
 "'Tis a good boy. Master," he said. "Not long will 
 it be till he can fetch and carry with the best. He's 
 older than he looks. Master. Fifty drachmas and he is 
 thine. Ei! by Eshmun!" he whined. "A beggarly 
 fifty drachmas! Fifty drachmas!" clapping his hands 
 
I5i THE SPARTAN 
 
 together in a sort of despair, "and I could have had a 
 hundred if I had sold him at Argos with the mother." 
 
 "Then thou hast sold the mother without him?" 
 queried Aiistodemos with disgust. 
 
 "Xo, curses on her soul! She died at Aigos. Devils 
 were in her that she should die on my hands. Ahai! 
 the good food I put into that mouth! The times I let 
 her rest along the way! The very slaves waited on her. 
 But she died! She was that breed. Master. She must 
 have the world or nothing! " 
 
 Arostodemos could picture that matron delicately 
 bred, breaking her heart for home. 
 
 "Whence came she I?" he asked. 
 
 "Mercy of Hades! Should I know? We got her at 
 Chios, but Chian traders — thou knowest — rummage 
 everywhere. But this I know; her home was to the west. 
 Yes, and when she came to die she made the other slaves 
 turn her that way. Ay, she could make them do what 
 she would, that woman!" 
 
 Aristodemos looked with new interest at the child's 
 lovely body and brave little face. Pure Greek he surely 
 was, and Aristodemos's blood boiled hot to see a Greek 
 enslaved. 
 
 But he shook himself free. He could not buy the boy. 
 He put him abruptly down and turned away. He heard 
 the child behind him break into a surprised wail, then 
 stop bravely and begin to call after him. 
 
 "Take! Take! Take!" 
 
 Aristodemos hurried away to get beyond the sound. 
 But up the qiuet street the pitiful voice stiU followed him, 
 "Take: Ta-a-a-ke!" Oh, the pleading of that faint word. 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HANDS 153 
 
 Suddenly the call ended in a piercing shriek of terror! 
 
 Aristodemos rushed back. The man was beating the 
 child with the butt of his whip. The child was holding 
 his arms over his head to ward off the blows. Seeing 
 Aristodemos again, the Phoenician snatched up the child 
 by one tiny arm and held him painfully dangling. 
 
 "Thou again!" he sneered with an extravagance of 
 surprise. " Will the jackal smell at what is not his own." 
 
 "But I will buy him!" gasped Aristodemos. "Let 
 go the child — let go, I say!" For the child's screaming 
 was dreadful to hear. 
 
 But at the magic word "buy" the Phoenician began 
 again to act his traditional part. This was the great 
 Oriental game. 
 
 "Let go? Let see thy money first. The fifty silver 
 drachmas for this splendid boy. Thou Spartan ! Thou'st 
 not a drachnia to thy name!" 
 
 Aristodemos winced. "I can get Spartan money," 
 he said uncomfortably. "But no fifty drachmas for a 
 baby slave. I'll give thee five." 
 
 "Spartan money!" The Phoenician laughed his scorn. 
 "Yea, iron money! And Master, who'll give me the 
 mule to lug the price away? Now what have ye else?" 
 The trader had come to his point. He moved closer, 
 dragging the child by the tense arm, his black eyes fixed 
 with a glitter of greed upon the violet robe. 
 
 "Thy old cloak. Master," he said, plucking at it. 
 
 Aristodemos drew back, feeling that the fellow had 
 profaned a sacred thing. The man grunted with a gesture 
 of finality. 
 
 "Heh! I saw at the first thou wert no buyer," he 
 
154 THE SPARTAN 
 
 sneered. "Now clear out, while I finish the beating!" 
 He turned and dragged away the child, beating him as 
 he went. 
 
 "Yes, take the robe — take it!" cried Aristodemos, 
 running after him, unfastening the brooches at his 
 shoulders. "But drop the boy!" 
 
 The man literally did drop him, so in haste was he to 
 clutch the costly garment. It was indeed many times 
 the price of a slave child. Aristodemos saw for an in- 
 stant the dear beautiful thing in the vile hands. Then 
 he lifted the wailing baby and, clad only in his short 
 chiton, hurried from the darkening market place. 
 
 How the little one clung to him, still wailing as if the 
 terror would not depart! Once clear of the town, Aris- 
 todemos sat down by the wayside, distressed and puzzled. 
 "For the gods' sake, Kttle son, do not cry so!" he pleaded. 
 He tore apart the foolish waist chain and flung it fiercely 
 into the brush. The %'iolence of the movement caught 
 the baby mind. The child stopped crying a moment, 
 then with a sudden laugh mimicked the fling and gesture. 
 
 "Bad chain!" he chuckled. 
 
 But Aristodemos, seeing the bruised little body and 
 laughing face started up to hide his tears. " Come, thou 
 little soldier!" he said. "Let's get home to Sparta!" 
 
 Then he began to think. "Home to Sparta." What 
 would Demonax say, with his sharp, ready tongue? This 
 story would be rich spoil for him. And Leonidas, too! 
 What a soft-headed fool he was, buying babies along the 
 road to save them from whippings ! He could hear his fel- 
 lows jeering and feel that quiet tolerance with which Leoni- 
 das sometimes regarded him. This would be the worst of aJl. 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HAXDS 155 
 
 He b^an, too, to regret the loss of the violet robe. 
 Now it was in those scoundrelly hands, and strangers 
 would finger it and haggle over its price! 
 
 The child felt his change of mood. He began to look 
 up anxiously into Aristodemos's face, and to whimper 
 as if the bruises hurt again. 
 
 "There — there; be stUl," said Aristodemos looking 
 about him, glad that the road was deserted. 
 
 He noticed a coin hanging about the baby's neck. 
 
 "What is this? " he asked, lifting it and trying to amuse 
 the child. 
 
 "Men-di," said he, slowly and distinctly. 
 
 " Mendi? Is that thy name? " 
 
 But the child shook his head so emphatically that the 
 curls whirled across his face. "Men-di," he said again, 
 and lifted the coin in his chubby hands and kissed it. 
 It seemed an act learned by rote. 
 
 "Xay, if the coin be 'I^Iendi' as thou sayest, what art 
 thou?" said Aristodemos, touching the strong httle 
 chest with his finger. 
 
 The child thought a moment, then answered with a 
 wise nod, 
 
 "Men-di." 
 
 Aristodemos could make nothing of it. 
 
 Then the child buried his face in Aristodemos's shoulder 
 with the shy laughter and feigning that babies use with 
 those they love. 
 
 "I truly believe thou art playing with me," said Aris- 
 todemos a bit sheepishly. 
 
 He walked on in silence. But the child continually 
 interrupted his thoughts, tossing his hands about, or 
 
156 THE SPARTAN 
 
 gravely touching Aristodemos's nose, eyes, lips, as though 
 counting. Then, reaching for the chaplet on the crowned 
 head, he slipped it quite over his own curly pate. When 
 a hare darted across the road he almost leaped with de- 
 light from Aristodemos's arms. Now and then he 
 suddenly was afraid of the Phoenician, peering over 
 Aristodemos's shoulder, and then creeping closer into his 
 arms. Finally he fell asleep. 
 
 Aristodemos walked slowly on with the little silent 
 creature in his anns. What a graceful body it was. He 
 even began to think him more beautiful than Leonidas's 
 son — yes, and cleverer. He forgot that the child was 
 older. 
 
 When he came into Sparta it was quite dark. He has- 
 tened to his own house. 
 
 "Mother!" he called at the doorway. 
 
 She came out, still in her festival dress, her strong face 
 smiling. Had she not good reason to smile, at this son 
 who was a leader of the festival and best friend of a king? 
 But when she saw him she hardly recognized him in his 
 short chiton and bearing a child in his arms. 
 
 "What?" she said, as her smile died and her eyes grew 
 sharp. " What is that? " 
 
 He hesitated, and looked down at the child with real 
 timidity. The little one awoke, and feeling Makaria's 
 cold stare, nestled closer to Aristodemos. 
 
 "The child is mine," he stammered. 
 
 "Thine?" she demanded in a tone of wrath. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Mother — not that." And the red swept 
 quickly over his young face. " I bought him at Amyklai 
 from a slaver who was killing him. Oh, Mother, I think 
 
THE ROBE CHANGES HANDS 157 
 
 he is the son of some great man. He did not know the 
 rites of supplication. But all childishly he supplicated. 
 The gods love not him who refuseth a supplication. 
 Thou wilt take him into the house." 
 
 "Into the hoiise — a strange child to rear! Aristo- 
 demos, wilt thou never learn manful ways? What new 
 softness is this."* And what, in Hermes's name, dost 
 thou want with a slave's babe?" 
 
 "I did not want him," said Aristodemos, wearily 
 feeling that he could never make her understand. "The 
 child was being crippled. I had to save him. He will 
 not trouble thee. Give him but a comer to sleep in." 
 
 "Yes! — and a chance to steal!" answered Makaria 
 angrily. 
 
 "Steal! He is too young. Besides he is nobly bom. 
 Look, Mother, how beautiful he is." And Aristodemos 
 impulsively held the naked form out to her lying full 
 across his strong young arms. But no suggestion of 
 tenderness came into Makaria's face; blows were in her 
 look. 
 
 With a quick exclamation Aristodemos gathered the 
 little one back to himself, gazing down upon the chUd, 
 while the utter first tenderness of the father-thought 
 welled up and overran his heart. Then he turned upon 
 her and sternly said: 
 
 "Woman, take the child! Take him and wholly care 
 for him ! In this thou shalt obey me ! " 
 
 Then Makaria smiled, and she understood him, too. 
 She kissed her son, and took the baby from his arms with 
 that deftness which mothers do not forget. 
 
 "Ah, foolish Aristodemos," she said. "The time is 
 
158 THE SPARTAN 
 
 at hand when thou shalt raise up sons of thine own to 
 this my house. The slave child doth but teach thee. 
 The gods bless thee soon, my son!" 
 
 "Yes — yes, Mother," assented Aristodemos, scarce 
 knowing what he said. After which the manful young 
 soldier strode out through the starlight to barracks with 
 flushed cheeks and steady, lighted eyes. 
 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 The Gathering Storm 
 
 NEXT spring, the spring of four hxmdred and 
 eighty before Christ, the fitful activities of the 
 Orient against Greece suddenly coalesced and 
 gathered to a focus. It was as though the winds of the 
 four heavens had swept together and the whirling tempest 
 had begun to move steadily upon the devoted Httle land. 
 Now the shipmen brought no scattered rumours, no tales 
 of half events. "The army," they said, "is fuUy gathered. 
 The Great King's whole incredible host, fifty nations of 
 armies, with camels, elephants, chariots, Nisian horses, 
 Indian dogs, exmuchs, concubines and female cooks, 
 hath set out from Sardis. It is already moving north- 
 ward up the coast of Ionia." 
 Then Greece awoke. 
 
 It awoke in terror. The frightened states sent hurried 
 embassies to the Oracles, which the Oracles sent hastily 
 home again with confused responses of waUings and 
 warnings. They sent off spies to Asia, who came back 
 
 ld9 
 
160 THE SPARTAN 
 
 alive every one. The Great King had caught them and 
 courteously shown them his camp. Then he had care- 
 fully sent them back home again to teU the Greeks how 
 great the king was. "All the marshaUings of the world 
 taken together," they reported stammering and with 
 heads awhirl, "would not make the sum of this which 
 cometh against us!" 
 
 Even the Spartans, who had been rejoicing secretly 
 over a possible downfall of Athens, began to wear grave 
 faces. Now at last the young king of Sparta knew that 
 it was time for him to act. He took his yoimg "Listener" 
 and went up to the Council of the Greeks at Isthmos. 
 The Ephors were already there. He must keep hand 
 upon the doings of Sparta. 
 
 To the ardent Aristodemos, so long confined in narrow 
 Lacedsemon, this was a wonderful mission. To be at 
 the very centre of all Greek activity at the moment 
 when upon that activity depended the very existence of 
 Hellas! No Persian Dread could quench the hope that 
 was in him. His head swam with visions of great deeds. 
 
 Reaching Isthmos they hurried out to the "Precinct," 
 where the Coimcil sat. The solemn "Pines of Poseidon" 
 looked down upon strange comings and goings. The 
 victor statues stood stark among the restless throngs. 
 The place was a ferment of conflicting rumours. Yester- 
 day a sea-captain had told the Council that the Great 
 King's wonderful floating bridge was builded and that 
 across it the nations of the East were already pouring 
 into Europe. "Seven days and seven nights have they 
 poured across!" gasped the merchantman. He himself 
 bad beheld the gold-bespattered "Immortals," the fes- 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 161 
 
 tooned gaudy guards, the Sacred Chariot, Xerxes himself 
 and his delicate sUken. litter, and haK a hundred nations 
 of wild fighters, hideous hordes of jungle folk, shuffling, 
 lash-driven multitudes, children of darkness, moving to 
 overwhelm with sheer ponderousness of numbers the 
 quick free children of hght. 
 
 The Council looked into one another's startled faces. 
 How little had they to depend on! And now returned 
 the disheartened envoys whom the Council had sent to 
 summon the Greek States. Argos was distrustful of 
 selfish Sparta, and would not come. The Cretans were 
 prevented by an oracle. The Corcyreans sent a fine 
 mouthful of promises. As for the tyrant of Syracuse, 
 he must be made conunander-in-chief, or not a step 
 would he budge! Canny states, all! They must first 
 see which way fate was hke to leap before taking their 
 stand. Helpless and small indeed showed the little 
 League at the Isthmos in the face of the impending storm.. 
 
 But it was the mighty stimulus of the danger rather 
 than its gravity that laid hold upon the young Aristode- 
 mos. The clash of mind against mind, plan against 
 plan, set him aU aglow. What men! He had not known 
 that there were such men, so wise, so quick-seeing! And 
 the sharp, chpping speech of Athens sounded wondrous 
 sweet, after the years. 
 
 It was an Athenian, too, who was the moving spirit of 
 the Council, that was plain to see. Aristodemos faintly re- 
 membered this Themistokles as a half grown boy at Athens, 
 at the Kynosarges gynmasium. Even then Aristodemos 
 had felt his restless charm. Now he saw him a bearded 
 man, keen, fearless, sufficient. He was always springing 
 
162 THE SPARTAN 
 
 to his feet in the Council, persuading, denouncing. With 
 what passionate eloquence did he set forth his plans ! How 
 bitterly he frowned when affairs went wrong, how grandly 
 sighed when good policies prevailed! Aristodemos came 
 quickly to rejoice in the ascendency of this swift, urgent 
 man. 
 
 One day there came into the Council a new soldierly 
 fellow from Athens. Even Leonidas remarked him and 
 said: 
 
 "Of such men will come our deliverance, if the gods 
 grant us deliverance. That man is a fighter!" 
 
 "Who is he.^" asked Aristodemos. 
 
 "That man? Dost not know him?" spoke up an 
 Athenian sitting near. "That is ^schylus of Eleusis 
 who fought so brave at Marathon and lost a brother 
 there. He hath won dramatic prizes at Athens. 
 
 Another day came the aged poet Simonides, a hale, 
 cheery old feUow. Aristodemos listened eagerly to his 
 short, clear speaking. As the Council broke up for the 
 day the old poet noted the adoring look of Aristodemos, 
 who was waiting to see him pass. 
 
 "Young man," he said, tximing to him abruptly, 
 "art thou wont to be called beautiful?" 
 
 Aristodemos was too confused to answer. 
 
 "Thou art o'er-young for councils," added Simonides, 
 watching him shrewdly. 
 
 "But even the young must think for Hellas now," 
 returned Aristodemos with face alight. 
 
 "I think they must, young man. And who brought 
 thee here to the Council? " 
 
 "King Leonidas." 
 
THE GATHERING STORM 163 
 
 "And whose word of all the wise ones likes thee best?" 
 
 "TherriLstoklf.-s. Oh, he it is who sees !" 
 
 Th<; old man leaned forward, reading the young face. 
 
 "Sow that in Sparta!" he whispered intensely, and went 
 his way. 
 
 2Sext day Aristodemos made a new friend at the 
 Isthrnos, young Kimon, the son of MUtiades. Kimon 
 walking in the Way of Pines met Aristodemos and 
 sloppf.d short. A moment later he contrived to meet 
 him again. 
 
 " Now, whence art thou, child of Hermes?" he demand- 
 ed. " Let's see — art breathing or a breathless vision?" 
 
 "Didst speak to me?" said the startled Aristodemos, 
 who did not understand such talk. 
 
 Kimon laughed merrily. 
 
 "Beautiful innocence! Surely thou'rt from Sparta!" 
 
 "Yes, from Sparta," responded Aristodemos. , "But 
 I was fathered in Athens." 
 
 "In Athens fathered and in Sparta bred! Why, man, 
 that's perfect! How cam'st upon so happy a fate?" 
 
 Aristodemos told him. 
 
 "Ah!" cried the elegant Kimon, "that Spartan dis- 
 ciph'ne ! It is beyond praise !" 
 
 " Hast ever tried it?" queried Aristodemos. 
 
 "Well, no." 
 
 "Better taste it first and praise it afterward." 
 
 " Well said, Hermides !" laughed Kimon. " Well said !" 
 He took Aristodemos's arm. "Come, I would hear more 
 of thy foolish wisdom." 
 
 In an hour they seemed old friends. Aristodemos 
 never dreamed that Kimon had been through all manner 
 
164 THE SPARTAN 
 
 of debaucheries at Athens. The young man was slender 
 and quick, with the light blue northern eyes of his Thra- 
 cian mother, and for the rest all Athenian with a polished 
 grace that completely won the simple bred Aristodemos. 
 
 This Kimon, who afterward planted the shade trees 
 of Athens and made the Akademia a green and watered 
 place, had varied interests utterly new to Aristodemos. 
 He had, too, a dawning genius for generalship which spoke 
 now and then with a sure, deep insight of the present 
 bewilderment. Leonidas was a little puzzled at the 
 attraction of the light-seeming Athenian for Aristodemos. 
 But all thought concerning the matter was forgotten 
 in a sudden excitement. 
 
 Envoys from Thessaly appeared in the Council with an 
 imperative and hard demand. 
 
 "Ye Greeks must defend the Pass in the Vale of Tempe. 
 Then we can shut the far door of Greece against the invad- 
 ers. Come ye up to Thessaly with a strong force, and 
 all we of Thessaly will join you, a no mean army. But 
 if ye come not up then know that we will surely join 
 the Persians. For we stand at the outpost of Greece, and 
 it is not right we should perish alone in your defence." 
 
 Themistokles sprang to his feet, crying : 
 
 "They tell us the truth, these wise Thessalians. Tempe 
 is the place! We can bar the Persians at Tempe!" 
 And he broke into a mighty harangue, urging the Greeks 
 to go. 
 
 But the Ephors of Sparta looked black. 
 
 "Umph! Thessaly! What has Sparta to do with 
 Thessaly? Sparta defends her own? Thelawsaith " 
 
 Here Leonidas, who had moved over to where the 
 
THE GATHERING STORM 165 
 
 Thessalians stood, intently listening to them, strode back 
 to his Ephors. It was the commencement of that bitter 
 difference which was to increase to the king's dying day. 
 
 In the end he had his way. But the grudging old men 
 would only send an army of Perioikoi under Euainetos, 
 one of the under-generals. "No king nor Spartans yet," 
 they said stubbornly. 
 
 Leonidas returned wearily to his friend. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "In some sort I have prevailed. But 
 I would liever fight five battles with the Persians than 
 one such mean battle of words!" 
 
 All the way back to Sparta the two were busy with 
 conjectures and hopes of Tempe, sometimes stopping 
 midway in the road in their absorption. They knew now 
 that the war was on. To Leonidas this free and under- 
 standing intercourse with his friend was wonderfully 
 refreshing after the dull strife with the Ephors. 
 
 " What is it in thee," he said, " that so lighteth darkened 
 things? Thou hast made me forget the Ephors." 
 
 "Do forget them ("answered Aristodemos with glowing 
 confidence. "Thou art so glorious right in this matter. 
 Even they must see it. Sparta will surely play her part 
 with All-Hellas." 
 
 "All-Hellas!" He sounded the new phrase with a 
 ring that made Leonidas look up. Not for naught had 
 this young man listened to those great-minded men and 
 heard that compelling word so constantly sounded. 
 "Hellas, Hellas" and "Our Hellas"; and again, "We must 
 save Hellas." We can not think how new was that word 
 "Hellas" then. Its broad conception had lifted Aris- 
 todemos at once out of his green enthusiasm to a deep, 
 
166 THE SPAETAN 
 
 controlling passion. Not for Sparta, not for Thessaly, 
 nor for Athens was the impending fight, but for some- 
 thing infinitely more precious — for that fair essential 
 fatherland of no evident borders. For the cities of 
 Greece; ay — but also for the gods of Greece, for the clear 
 thoughts, the daily life, the sacred flowers, for the still 
 more sacred manhood — for the whole possibility of being 
 a Hellene. 
 
 Henceforward life for Aristodemos could set but one 
 way and have but one activity — to fight for the freedom 
 of Greece against the dark barbaric world. None but 
 a Greek could give to a conception so idealistic a devotion 
 so passionate. 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 The King and The Ephors 
 
 LEONIDAS and Aristodemos found the Market 
 Place crowded with the Spartan citizens all 
 '• anxious for news of the doings at the Isthmos. 
 Leonidas told them of the stand to be made at Teinpe. 
 Among the crowded, serious faces there were many, 
 especially of the younger soldiers, that seemed to respond 
 with comprehending looks. 
 
 Then Aristodemos went quickly home. He had scarce 
 turned into his own street when he heard a joyous cry 
 and a quick patter of small feet, and was brought to a 
 halt by the little slave-child's arms flung about his knee. 
 "Master! Master!" cried the gleeful little voice. 
 Aristodemos swxmg him to his shoulder. 
 "Who bade thee call me 'Master' .f' he demanded. 
 The word did not sound good on free-born lips. 
 
 "Antiphon, he say, 'Master, Master, Master,'" sang 
 the child. 
 
 Here old Antiphon himself came hobbling out, quite 
 
 167 
 
168 THE SPARTAN 
 
 beyond speech with happiness at the "Little Master's" 
 return. Who shall say that children outdo the aged in 
 ioy? 
 
 "Oh, Antiphon," cried Aristodemos, embracing him, 
 " this hath been a famous journey for me! Men have I 
 seen; real men, Antiphon! AH Athens was at the Isthmos. 
 
 "Men from Athens?" quavered the eager old man. 
 
 "Yes. Themistokles was there, Simonides, Kimon the 
 son of Miltiades " 
 
 "And didst thou see thine own love comrade again, 
 after so may years?" 
 
 "My love comrade?" 
 
 "Yes — Pindar — " The old man stopped, confused. 
 "Nay, he was Lykos's friend; I remember it now. And 
 thou — thou — art not Lykos, but — Little Master, 
 Little Master," he repeated dreamily. 
 
 Aristodemos took his old paidagogos's arm, to help 
 him toward the house, and thus, with childhood in one 
 hand and old age in the other he went on with his eager 
 telling. 
 
 "Antiphon, thy Little Master will be going into battle, 
 and that soon." 
 
 "Into battle? Into battle?" cried the slave, all his 
 joy instantly scattered. "Oh — oh!" 
 
 " Nay, do no lament, Antiphon. Give the gods thanks, 
 rather!" 
 
 Here Makaria's voice called out from the house. 
 
 "Well said, my son!" and she ran out lightly to greet 
 him and took him to herself. "Tell me," she cried, "tell 
 me something of this war." 
 
 "Why, Mother, thou'rt a very soldier thyself," said 
 
THE KING AND THE EPHORS 169 
 
 the young man admiringly. Mother and son went to- 
 gether into the house, leaving the two to wait outside, if 
 perchance they might get some further glimpse of the 
 beloved home-comer. 
 
 The weeks that followed were busy with the incessant 
 preparation for war. Leonidas was the mind and force 
 of everything, redoubling the discipline, marshalling 
 the auxiliary army of Perioikoi, giving forth everywhere 
 his own serious courage and putting the power of Sparta 
 in full readiness. 
 
 Then, suddenly, one afternoon, to the consternation of 
 all, appeared Euainetos with his whole Tempe army, 
 rather sheepish and full of excuse. 
 
 Leonidas fronted them in the square. 
 
 "The meaning of this?" he demanded. 
 
 "The allied Greeks have abandoned Tempe," they 
 told him. "We got us up there, and then those Thessa- 
 lian fools showed us that after all there was another pass 
 by which the Persians could come through." 
 
 "Ye were the fools!" cried the king bitterly. "Ye! 
 Never name the Thessalians !" 
 
 "But, O king, could we hold the one gate with another 
 wide open?" 
 
 "Ye? No, I suppose ye could not! Ye were not 
 Spartans! But Zeus Almighty! What a feeble fling!" 
 
 The king turned to Aristodemos a dark, set face. 
 
 "I must quick to the Isthmos," he said. "The 
 Hellenes will be meeting again. Stay thou here. If aught 
 looks wrong, send me Kriton, secretly." And he was away. 
 
 Next day the consequences of the T^mpe folly began 
 to trickle down to Sparta. 
 
170 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Now it was, "Thessaly hath kept her threat! She 
 hath embraced the Persians!" Now, "The Dorians 
 have 'Med-ized'!" Now, "Every northern state hath 
 gone, Lokria, Malia, Phthiotid-Achaia — even the City 
 of Thebes! All, every one, has 'Med-ized'!" "Med- 
 ized." They put it in that one famous, hated word. 
 
 Then, close upon the heels of all this, stumbled other 
 breathless frightened ruimers into Sparta, gasping out 
 that the terrible host was already around the northern 
 iEgean and swarming straight south upon Greece, drink- 
 ing the rivers dry and devouring harvests at a meal! 
 
 Through the uproar of these days Aristodemos kept 
 steadily at his work with his company, of which he was 
 now the captain. And he watched the mood of Sparta 
 like a cat. What he saw disqiueted him. No sooner was 
 Leonidas out of Sparta than the All-Hellas policy began 
 to fade. The Ephor-spirit was abroad. 
 
 "The Ephors — " "The Ephors say — " And then, 
 "Isthmos — " "The Isthmos — " Aristodemos heard 
 it at every street corner. 
 
 Soon, too, the Tempe fiasco began to seem tolerable. 
 
 "What cotild ye expect? Away up there by the north 
 wind — ! In our own Lacedaemon, now, we could " 
 
 Oh, the madding, witless talk! 
 
 Dissatisfaction was everywhere. It showed in the very 
 motion of the drill. The fact was, Sparta did not much 
 care what happened outside of the Peloponnese. To her 
 thinking all these efforts for a defence of northern Greece 
 were but so many Athenian plans for a defence of Athens, 
 and were not at all essential to a defence of Sparta. The 
 Great King was aiming only at Athens. L«t the flood 
 
THE KING AND THE EPHORS 171 
 
 sweep. It would probably ebb short of the Isthmos. 
 But if by any chance it should touch the Isthmos, why, 
 the Isthmos was the place to make the effectual, great 
 defence. Sparta would make it there. 
 
 That was all that concerned Sparta. 
 
 Would Leonidas never come? It was now mid- August. 
 The season of the Apollo Karneios was at hand. But the 
 men were silent as they pitched the festival tents, and 
 there were no festival faces. At last one day, Aristode- 
 mos, watching up the northern road, espied the dusty, 
 hurrying company with the familiar soldierly figure strid- 
 ing far in front. He ran out to his friend. 
 
 "What is it? Where do we make stand?" 
 
 "At the Hot Springs Gates. At Thermopylae,, 
 
 "And the fleets at Artemisium?" For the two had 
 often pondered over this plan. 
 
 "Yes. The Athenian ships under Themistokles and 
 the whole fleet of the states under a Spartan general." 
 
 Leonidas walked on, too absorbed to talk. 
 
 "Let the Ephors be summoned," he bade the herald, 
 and moved through the excited, gathering crowds toward 
 the Skias. In the Skias, one by one the deliberate Ephors 
 assembled, rigid, solemn-faced old men, about as open to 
 convincement as a city wall. Last of all King Leotychides 
 wandered in, greeted his brother king, and took his regal 
 chair. The Ephors sat down, wordless. Leonidas stood 
 in his place before them, intent and very serious, far more 
 the advocate than the king. 
 
 "O King Leotychides and ye, Ephors of Sparta," 
 he said, "The Hellenes at Isthmos now propose to defend 
 the Pass of Thermopylae. They believe that this is the 
 
172 THE SPARTAN 
 
 true Gate of Greece. There is no other way by which 
 the Barbarian can come in. This Gate of the Hot Springs 
 is a single pass — a mere narrow wagon track between 
 Mount Oite and the sea. At that place even the waterway 
 is defensible, for the great island of Euboea thrice narrow- 
 eth the sea into throats. No Persian ship can even reach 
 Athens save by battle in those straits. The ship of 
 Athens and the allies wiU defend the seas. A Spartan 
 may command them. The Hellenes desire the men 
 of Lacedsemon to defend the Pass on land. Thus, O 
 king and Ephors, can we keep the Persian altogether 
 out of Greece." 
 
 There was a long silence. It was as gall and wormwood 
 to these old Ephors that Spartan arms should by any 
 chance help another state, even in defending Sparta. 
 They shook their touzled white heads. "Too far away," 
 they grumbled. "Tempe over again. Is Sparta to be 
 forever marching north on fool's errands? Let Athens 
 fight her own war. At Isthmos we will build us a wall. 
 And at Isthmos we — " 
 
 Here Leonidas leaped up. 
 
 "Are you Ephors bhnd?" he thundered, breaking 
 bounds. "These Persians have eyes to see and noses 
 to smell salt water. While you are at your cursed Isthmos 
 puddering with your wall, what's to hinder the Persian 
 from sailing clean around Peloponnese and swallowing 
 Sparta at a gulp? Yoiu* bones would rot in Isthmos, 
 where the Persian land army would get you. Better 
 for Sparta were they rotting there now!" 
 
 The Ephors buzzed with indignation. Yet the common 
 sense of the speech had penetrated even their skuUs. 
 
THE KING AND THE EPHORS 173 
 
 "Let Athens send her soldiers too. Why doth she send 
 ships only?" they persisted sullenly. 
 
 This was really the vulnerable point of the scheme. 
 But Leonidas met it quietly. 
 
 "Athens is sending all her ships, a mighty fleet, and 
 filled with fighting men. She dares not offend the gods 
 by neglecting the Olympiac. "When she hath made her 
 sacrifice she will send her army also to Thermopylae." 
 
 "Hum — h-m-m. The mighty gods. Yes. Well, we 
 have our festival too. It is meet we celebrate our Karneia 
 before we think of going to war." 
 
 "Yes; but, oh, ye Ephors of Sparta, that's the very 
 point. If Sparta hang back now, our allies of the Pelo- 
 ponnese, whom we have brought as by the hair of the head 
 up to the mark, will straight distrust us and Med-ize 
 one and all! That way lies our peril!" 
 
 This last shaft went home. The Ephors thought 
 awhile. Then they laid their heads together. 
 
 "Well," they said at last, "do thou then, O King, 
 go thyself. And take thine own guard that is appointed 
 thee by law. The king's going will hold the alhes faith- 
 ful. They will join thee on the march. When we have 
 kept our Karneia, we will send thee the full Spartan army 
 to Thermopylae. The Medes are not yet so very near. 
 Sparta will be there in good time." 
 
 For a moment the king stood motionless, with eyes 
 half closed. He seemed to be looking out the open door. 
 For aught they knew he might be counting the pillars 
 of the temple across the way. Then he opened his eyes 
 wide and searched the Ephor faces. 
 
 "This a deed of deeds that ye are putting into my 
 
174 THE SPARTAN 
 
 hands," he said. "If ye surely come as ye say before 
 the Persians come, well. If not, I can hold that Pass — 
 for a little time. But if ye shuffle, if ye delay and post- 
 pone, I call you before the gods to remember that ye betray 
 your king and your choicest Spartans to the Barbarian!" 
 He went out of the Skias, leaving the Ephors with their 
 own uneasy thoughts. 
 
 Meanwhile, the fighting men had marshalled on their 
 field, and now stood in ranks awaiting the king, the King's 
 Guard to the fore. Aristodemos watched them standing 
 there, immovable as men of bronze. He almost felt 
 himself rebuked for his own restlessness that drove him to 
 such constant looking toward the Skias. An hour went 
 by. Still the ranks stood impassive, looking straight 
 before. Aristodemos through the silence began to 
 realize the all unspoken love of these men for their general. 
 
 At last up the Skias Way there was a separating of 
 the crowd. And along the parted path, newly dressed 
 and in full war panoply. King Leonidas came quickly and 
 stood before his soldiers. A long breath and a grating 
 of armour ran through the ranks. Then fell the silence 
 again. And upon the silence came the supreme voice 
 of the king. 
 
 "Men of Lacedaemon, the armies of Greece will face 
 the Persians by sea and land at Thermopylae. But 
 first, the Athenians must celebrate the Olympiac and we 
 our Karneia. Therefore your king and the King's 
 Three Hundred will go at once with our allies to hold the 
 place. We march in the morning." 
 
 Then he turned with brightening face to his own Three 
 Hundred. 
 
THE KING AND THE EPHORS 175 
 
 "Ye are fortunate, O men of Sparta, for to you it 
 is given to be the saviours of Hellas. Ye go out to fight 
 the innumerable Barbarians. It is not for Spartans to 
 fear them. There be many humans, but of men not 
 many. If ye esteem numbers, all Greece is not able to 
 match even a small part of the Persians. But if ye 
 esteem courage, our number is sufficient. 
 
 "Not every man of the King's Three Hundred is 
 permitted to go. Especially not those who have no sons 
 to keep their lines in Sparta. Let the roll of the chosen be 
 called. Then fill we up our full number again." 
 
 The herald with the roll of the King's Guard stepped 
 forward. 
 
 "Dienekes!" he called. 
 
 Dienekes, proud as a god, stood forth. 
 
 "Chilon!" 
 
 "Epikydes!" 
 
 "Alpheos, son of Orsiphantos!" 
 
 " Maron, son of Orsiphantos !" 
 
 To this fateful rollcall the men responded with a kind 
 of exultation, while the envious army looked on. In 
 such fashion had the coming of the real captain wrought 
 upon them. 
 
 Aristodemos had to make two preparations for the 
 departure. He must free old Antiphon. And he must 
 procure a son to keep his line in Sparta. He could make 
 the slave-child his son. He had never questioned the 
 high birth of the boy. He could trust his line to him. 
 
 He hurried to his own house, brought out the two 
 wondering ones by the hand, and led them into the king's 
 house to Leonidas. Only a king might perform an 
 
176 THE SPARTAN 
 
 adoption. Adoption was very real to the Greek mind. 
 It created actual kin. 
 
 "Ah," said Leonidas, smiling at their coming. "I 
 was wondering how thou wouldst manage thy going and 
 thy son. And now thy son will be older than mine!" 
 He led them to the altar and kindled it. The four stood 
 close about. 
 
 "What is the boy's name?" inquired Leonidas, keenly 
 studying the child. 
 
 Aristodemos also turned to the little fellow. "What 
 shall it be?" he wondered. "Oh, thou little stranger, if 
 thou couldst but tell us!" 
 
 The child looked from one to the other. Then, feeUng 
 that something was expected of him, he timidly but 
 with his little exact gesture, lifted his coin and pronounced 
 again his word, "Men-di." 
 
 "It is a sign!" exclaimed Aristodemos much awed 
 by the occurrence. " Mendi shall be his name." 
 
 So Leonidas pronounced the adoptive words before 
 the gods and placed "Mendi; son of Aristodemos" into his 
 new father's arms. The young man held the child for 
 a moment with a great sense of possession and joy. Then 
 he turned to Antiphon. 
 
 "But oh, no, no!" cried the old slave, suddenly guessing 
 his intention. "No, Little Master! Thou wilt not 
 cast me away!" 
 
 "Not I, thou foolish Antiphon! Up from thy knees. 
 I am only making thee free. I will care for thee 
 as ever." 
 
 But the old man was completely bewildered and 
 frightened. 
 
THE iONG AND THE EPHORS 177 
 
 "Free? Free? Oh, Little Master, why should I be 
 free of thee?" 
 
 "Because I go to battle, Antiphon. If I should not 
 return, thou knowest they might deal hard with thee. 
 Come, we have no time to lose." 
 
 But the old man, still upon his knees, lifted up his 
 pitiful withered hands. 
 
 "I am thy paidagogos!" he pleaded. "Thy paidago- 
 gos! Dost thou not remember? Thy paidagogos!" 
 
 Aristodemos tried to lift him. But the king looked 
 on with wise, pitying eyes. 
 
 "Urge him not," he said. "The time is past." 
 
 " Well, then, dear Antiphon," said Aristodemos, " I'll 
 have to grant thee slavery. Keep thou my son. Thou 
 shalt be his paidagogos so long as thou livest." 
 
 "But I am thy paidagogos," repeated the old 
 man stubbornly, as he scrambled to his feet at last. 
 And still scared and trembling, he led the child 
 away. 
 
 Aristodemos returned to the barracks. He awoke next 
 morning long before "the first white thought of dawn," 
 springing up full awake as if the inborn sense of great 
 events had summoned his sleeping mind. The familiar 
 little street, glimpsed through the barrack doorway, 
 seemed as strange in the starlight as some place which 
 he had never seen before. The day-of-deeds, so long 
 dreamed of, seemed, now that it was about to dawn, 
 itself a dream. 
 
 Aristodemos hurried with his company to the river. 
 There they bathed and anointed their bodies with per-r 
 fumed oils. Then they returned and armed and adorned 
 
178 THE SPARTAN 
 
 themselves as never before in their lives. This was the 
 Spartan preparation for war. 
 
 As they came out from the barracks, Aristodemos caught 
 sight of his own little household of slaves, with his new son, 
 his mother, and Antiphon, waiting for him with almost 
 worshipping eyes. He hastened over to them, his armour 
 bright in the gray increasing dawn, and Makaria, be- 
 holding him, thought that never mortal had been so 
 splendid as this her son, full armed. 
 
 He wore his Lacedaemonian bronze cap, from which 
 his golden locks escaped and lifted in the wind. From 
 the shoulders of his cuirass, newly burnished, swung 
 back his crimson cloak of war. His legs were greaved in 
 bronze. The short sword of Sparta played at his thigh 
 and his right hand held his long, tough spear. The great, 
 gleaming Spartan shield whtch he bore reached from neck 
 to knees. This panoply weighed near eighty pounds; 
 but the young man moved easily about as if its weight 
 were naught. 
 
 Makaria kissed him with swelling heart and laying 
 her hand on his shield rim repeated exultingly the old 
 Spartan mother-phrase: 
 
 "With it or upon it. Son!" 
 
 "Yes, Mother, I know!" responded the yoimg voice 
 solemnly. Then Aristodemos bent to kiss his wondering 
 little son. Finally he turned to Antiphon and laid his 
 hand on the old bowed shoulder. The aged man was 
 sobbing to himself with downcast eyes. 
 
 "There, there, Antiphon? Dost thou love war so ill?" 
 he asked tenderly. He leaned to kiss him. But even 
 as he did so the bent form suddenly folded together and 
 
THE KING AND THE EPHORS 179 
 
 Antiphon fell in a heap. Aristodemos dropped shield and 
 spear and was instantly down trying to lift him. But 
 something in the set waxen face startled him. 
 
 "Mother!" he cried. 
 
 Makaria looked, then answered her son's gaze. 
 
 "Yes, he is dead." 
 
 "Oh, Antiphon, Antiphon!" said Aristodemos. "Art 
 thou so fain to be thy Uttle- master's paidagogos, even 
 into Hades. J*" 
 
 He drew up the coarse cloak and covered Antiphon's 
 face. 
 
 " Mother, thou wilt bury him fittingly?" 
 
 "As thou thyself, my son," answered Makaria. 
 
 And Aristodemos, silently weeping, walked toward 
 his place. 
 
 In the broad dim field the three hundred Hoplites of the 
 King's Guard were already in line, full armed and ready for 
 their marching to Thermopylae. The attendant Helots 
 were standing close at hand with the ready baggage-train. 
 Around them were drawn up the ten thousand spears 
 of the armies of Sparta. And beyond, the gray-beards 
 with the women and children crowded the confines of 
 the field. The king was about to make the sacrifice, 
 for it was needful to catch the early attention of 
 the gods, before they should be otherwise occupied. 
 
 Then suddenly the great war song rent the still morn- 
 ing air. 
 
 "Paian, Paian!" thundered the whole army, clashing 
 spear against shield as they sang. And even while they 
 sang, the great orb of the sun spilled his fire over Parnon's 
 crest and pouring down the changed, reddening slopes 
 
180 THE SPARTAN 
 
 fell upon Eurotas, which suddenly ran blood red between 
 his reedy banks. 
 
 "It is war — war!" whispered the awe-struck people. 
 
 The herald lighted his torch at the king's fire, with 
 which to kindle the parting sacrifice at the border of 
 Lacedsemon. Preceded by this sacred flame the little 
 column began its march. It wound through the narrow 
 streets sounding the battle pipes, out into the country, 
 across Eurotas bridge and northward on the well-known 
 road. 
 
 The Spartan people followed them for a mile beyond 
 the town, then stood and watched them winding down 
 into a little valley and up again over the farther hills, 
 a long bright file with the torch flaming at the head and 
 the dull body of Helots bringing up the rear. The 
 sound of the pipes thinned to a thread in the air. Then 
 they were altogether lost in the distance. 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 The King's Guard Mardieg 
 
 ^LL tlirough the summer day these strong men 
 Z-m tofled along through valleys hot under the bum- 
 ■^ -^ mg fun, over breezy hilltops, by the ripening 
 harvest fields which they were going out to defend, 
 through little villages whose people ran out to gaze 
 with awestruck eyes at them — the "Invincible 
 Spartans." 
 
 Invincible Spartans? They were only a little band 
 of dean-cut untried men marching straightforwardly 
 north to defend their land; while far away the whole 
 rich Orient was moving southward to meet them- They 
 were very proud of their simplicity, proud of their con- 
 tempt for wealth, proud to be satisfied after years of 
 toil with a single branch of laurel; proud of their law, and 
 of their ability to be obedient to their law. Their virtue 
 had in it something of a stubborn Puritan quality. 
 
 This going forth of theirs was not reasonable. It 
 was neither strength nor hope that made these men resist. 
 
 181 
 
182 THE SPARTAN 
 
 It was rather their almost childish inability to be anything 
 other than "free." 
 
 When once the little army had left Sparta well behind 
 they gave their armour to their Helots to carry. They 
 travelled two abreast, often breaking from the ranks to 
 wander at will. Discipline was not strict in a friendly 
 land. A campaign was always something of a holiday, 
 and after their first awe of the setting-out was over they 
 began to talk and crack their rough Spartan jokes. They 
 had been comrades from earliest boyhood, and all that 
 boyhood had been a training for just such an hour as 
 this. 
 
 Leonidas walked in the lead, now glancing back at 
 Aristodemos who marched at the head of his "lochos," 
 now pausing to pass a quiet word down through the 
 column. For the most part he walked entirely alone, 
 deep in thought, holding in his heart his plan. But the 
 old tired look that had haunted his eyes was gone. In 
 its place abided the strength with which yesterday he 
 had spoken to his army. The very lift of his head was 
 confident. At last he was moving along the open way 
 of deeds. No more word-bandying now! The soldiers 
 had only to see him marching thus silently at their head 
 to feel a sense of adequate leadership which was worth 
 a hundred words of cheer. 
 
 At eleven they halted for breakfast — their first meal 
 that day, and an hour before sundown stopped for the 
 night in a pleasant little valley near Tegea. Then began 
 the brisk, orderly confusion of encampment. The sol- 
 diers with a clamour of bronze stacked their armour in 
 the midst. The Helots brought up the carts, unyoked 
 
THE KING'S GUARD MARCHES 183 
 
 the horses and swiftly pitched the tents of skins, then 
 gathered fuel from the hills. And from the cheery 
 campfires savoury smells of roasting soon rose upon the 
 evening air. 
 
 The little tented town was pitched wheelshape around 
 the king's tent and the stack of arms. About the first 
 circle of tents ran a street, then there was another ring 
 of tents, beyond which were the Helots with the carts 
 and tethered horses. Outside of all paced the watchful 
 sentinels. 
 
 After a happy meal — not the frugal supper of the 
 barracks, but the feasting of war — the soldiers dispersed 
 through the tidy avenues to their tents. The camp was 
 soon asleep. Only Leonidas, intent upon his problems, 
 could not sleep at once but walked alone beyond the 
 camp nodding to the men on guard, who silently returned 
 his salute and wondered that the king should so walk 
 about, when he had such an excellent opportunity for 
 slumber. 
 
 At Tegea next morning five hundred men of that city 
 joined the superb little Spartan Three Hundred. Quickly 
 thereafter came five hundred from Mantinea, and one 
 hundred and twenty from the tiny hill town of Orchom- 
 enos. And as they marched a thousand more Arka- 
 dians swelled their ranks at various places along the 
 road. To Leonidas's great relief, the Peloponnese was 
 responding faithfully to Sparta's prompt decision. Little 
 Phlious added her two hundred and Mycense eighty men. 
 And as they passed through Corinth that city gave four 
 hundred, as a pledge of her good faith. So they marched 
 on hopefully. 
 
184 THE SPARTAN 
 
 They had pitched their tents for the night on the much- 
 discussed Isthmos. Aristodemos in the starlight was 
 making the last round of the Helot camp — a duty as- 
 signed to the younger captains — when his ears were 
 greeted by a great howling from one of the tents. He 
 ran over and thrust his head into its noisy blackness. 
 
 "Hello!" he shouted. "What's all this row.? Sure 
 a toothache is no such matter!" 
 
 "Oh! Oh! Oh!" came the voice. "It's Eurytos." 
 
 "Eurytos! Why, I thought it was ten bulls. What 
 art thou doing off here among the Helots.''" 
 
 "But, oh, my eyes, my eyes!" wailed Eurytos. Your 
 Greek was never one to suppress his feelings. 
 
 "Well, then, we'll have the surgeon." 
 
 "Oh, no, never mind the eyes! I care not for my 
 eyes!" 
 
 "Then why sayest eyes?" Aristodemos, groping about 
 the floor, came upon a feverish hand. 
 
 "Come, old fellow, what's the trouble?" he said 
 cheerily. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I'll tell thee." Eurytos caught Aristodemos 
 with both hands. "It was my stumbling. I could not 
 see well for my burning eyes. And they said the surgeon, 
 and my Helot must care for me. But my rascal Helot 
 hopes to lag me clean out of the ranks and save himself 
 from going to war. Oh, Aristodemos! Think, to be 
 left like a sick hound — and my first chance — and the 
 great fighting!" He broke into wailing again. 
 
 "But Eurytos, this is damnable business! Where 
 is Demonax?" 
 
 "Demonax seemeth to have a kind of dread of me." 
 
THE KING'S GUARD MARCHES 185 
 
 "A kind of pig selfishness!" exclaimed Aristodemos, 
 so wrathfully that Eurytos felt himself bound to stand 
 up for his friend. 
 
 "But he had me cared for and helped along in the 
 ranks." 
 
 "Well, I'll be a better friend to thee than that. Where 
 Is that Helot of thine.''" 
 
 "But wilt thou help me, Aristodemos — thou.?" For 
 ever since the boyish mutton stealing the two had not 
 been particularly good friends. 
 
 Here the Helot stole in with guilty haste. Aris- 
 todemos flung him wrathfully out and began to beat him 
 with a tent stake. But the poor cowering back in the 
 starlight gave him a sudden revulsion. 
 
 "No," he said. "Let thine own master deal with 
 thee. Call me those fellows from under that cart 
 yonder." 
 
 Five Helots ran stumbling out to him. An angry cap- 
 tain was something to dread. Aristodemos chose a 
 stocky country Helot. 
 
 "Here, thou! Do thou care well for Eurytos and see 
 that the surgeon bathes his eyes. And see thou bring 
 him to me at sunrise. Lag and thou'lt have a beating 
 that thou'lt tell thy children and thy children's children 
 after thee. Now fetch him water." 
 
 "Thou'lt not let them cheat me of my chance!" 
 Eurytos cried as Aristodemos reentered the tent. 
 
 "Ask this fellow here!" laughed Aristodemos. And 
 lifting Eurytos's head he gave him a long, cool draught. 
 Then he was off and upon his rounds again. 
 
 Next day Eurytos marched beside Aristodemos. He 
 
186 THE SPARTAN 
 
 scarcely needed the Helot's help. The assurance of the 
 going sang in his blood. "See, I am well!" he cried 
 gratefully, though there was stall a flush of fever in his 
 cheeks and his eyes were swollen, "Thou art a veiy 
 Paian for healing!" 
 
 From the Isthmos two days of rapid marching brought 
 them to Thebes, where the seven hundred ardent Thes- 
 pians joined them. There, too, Leonidas forced the 
 wavering Thebans to give him four hundred men. Thebes 
 had been reported as having already Med-ized. Now 
 they marched with possible traitors in their midst. 
 I^eonidas knew this and thereafter had Aristodemos 
 share his tent. It seemed in these days that he needed, 
 constantly and close, the man he supremely trusted. 
 
 Northward still through the Bceotian land Leonidas 
 led his growing little army. In the west they saw, as 
 they marched, the soaring, sacred mountain of Pamassos. 
 pure white against the intense blue sky. Not one of aU 
 those beauty loving men thought consciously, "It is beau- 
 tiful." Yet not one of them but was greatened for his task, 
 by the image of his sacred mountain in his heart. 
 
 They came now into the rough hill country of the north, 
 mounting the narrow steep roads and crushing the yellow 
 gorse with their heavy feet in the moimtain glades. 
 Here the hardy mountaineers of Lokris joined them. 
 Leonidas had summoned them to come in full force. 
 And now they were climbing the high mountains of the 
 KaUidromos range. The men grew silent as they toiled 
 upward, among the fragrant pines and across the shining 
 rock faces. 
 
 They reached the farthrat ridge where the islanded blue 
 
THE KING'S GUAED MARCHES 187 
 
 sea suddenly opened far below. Then they made their 
 way down the steeps and came to the little village of 
 Alpenoi. And going downward still they came to the 
 water's edge. There they turned westward along the 
 shore, and were at last at the Pass of Thermopylae. 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 The Hills Fought for Hellas 
 
 IT WAS probably Leonidas himself who gave us the 
 saying that " Greek mountains fought at Thermopy- 
 lae as well as Greek men." He made now no pause. 
 He left the camp a-making and summoning Aristodemos 
 went on in haste to view them standing there so grandly 
 at their post — his Titan soldiery. He was greatly 
 concerned to examine this place on which he had hazarded 
 so much but which he knew only through uncertain 
 report. The Greek captain had no maps. He was entire- 
 ly dependent in his strategy upon hearsay and hasty 
 observation. 
 
 He saw at once that the shore did not run from south 
 to north, but from east to west where the Malian Gulf 
 sweeps around westward into the Malian land. Leon- 
 idas and Aristodemos were therefore entering the East- 
 em Gate, a mere wheel-track, so narrow that they two 
 could have clasped hands and reached from the clifE to 
 the reedy sea. 
 
 188 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS. 189 
 
 They did not stop here but looking keenly about them 
 came into the broader mid-pass. Here the Hot Springs 
 from which the pass was named gushed forth covering 
 the ground with brilliant red and yellow deposits. Their 
 footsteps sounded strange and hollow. A few steps 
 beyond the springs brought them to a second narrow 
 pass where there was a half ruined old wall which had been 
 builded across the road in some forgotten Phokian 
 border war. 
 
 "We must rebuild this wall," he said. It was the only 
 word he spoke. 
 
 Again the mountain receded a little from the shore. 
 Finally three miles from the Eastern Gate they came to 
 the third or Western Gate of the Pass. The mountains 
 here swept grandly forward to the sea's edge again leav- 
 ing but the single wheel- track between; and even this 
 track ran slanting along on the debris of the cliff. Ther- 
 mopylae as a whole was much more defensible than they 
 had dared to hope. 
 
 Leonidas stood a long while looking out across the 
 narrow Malian fields toward the tumultous mountain 
 country in the north. Then he returned to the Pho- 
 kian wall. 
 
 "Here will we make our stand," he said. "May the 
 gods favour us!" 
 
 A sense of great uplift filled the younger man. In the 
 grandeur of this silent place of mountain and sea, tha 
 nobleness of what they were to do overflowed his heart. 
 He looked into Leonidas's face and saw it all alight with 
 the same thought. The great event was prophesying 
 itself in their hearts. 
 
190 THE SPARTAN 
 
 A scramble of hurrying feet broke the silence. A 
 Theban soldier came running up, his face ugly with self- 
 ish fear. 
 
 "Come — come!" he shrilled breathlessly. "News — 
 terrible news! We — we — must retreat, before " 
 
 The king seized him with his heavy hand. "What 
 is this thing? Tell!" 
 
 " The Phokians have come. They say — they say " 
 
 "What is it they say, lout?" demanded the king. 
 
 "Another way round — a little path over the moun- 
 tains! Oh, Thermopylae is even as bad as Tempe! We 
 must get away!" 
 
 The king turned without a word and fiercely started 
 on a run back through the Pass, Aristodemos and the 
 Theban at his heels. 
 
 He reached the camp none too soon. The allies were 
 already in an uproar. Leonidas glanced toward the camp 
 of his Three Hundred. But nothing save the quiet scorn 
 with which they went about their business indicated 
 that they were even conscious of the hubbub. Then the 
 king's voice rang out like a trumpet. 
 
 "Men of Hellas! You are not cowards but men! 
 What fear is there of a little mountain path? We can 
 easily defend it, even as we can defend Thermopylae! 
 Now let marshal the army!" he commanded. 
 
 Then while the officers were hastily shouting their 
 orders he sent a word to his Spartans, and immediately 
 a great hymn of Tyrtaeus rose like embodied strength 
 upon the air. 
 
 "That will be their wine," said the king quietly. 
 "Now where are those Phokian news-bringers?" 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 191 
 
 The Phokian captain and his men were close at hand. 
 
 "It is a little matter," said the hardy mountaineer. 
 " A little hidden path up yonder in the mountain. Where- 
 fore should it raise such outcry?" 
 
 By the time Leonidas had got his information clear the 
 troops were standing silent before him in close array. 
 
 "Now," cried the king, "who will guard me this 
 path?" 
 
 At once the whole thousand Phokians lifted up their 
 spears and shouted, "Give it to us, O king! These 
 mountains are our own ! " 
 
 The army waited motionless. 
 
 Again Leonidas took the brown rough Phokian cap- 
 tain and plied him with searching questions. Did he 
 realize the menace of such a path? Was it defensible? 
 How? Were his Phokians trustworthy? Could he 
 depend upon their alertness? 
 
 "We can defend Thermopylae," the king went on. 
 "But if ye fail above, our struggle here is naught. Day 
 and night ye must keep faithful watch. We have the 
 gate; but ye hold the key." 
 
 "Be we not mountain men?" returned the captain 
 soberly. "We know mountain fighting." 
 
 So at sunset the thousand Phokians marched out of 
 the camp. They seemed light-hearted at their going. 
 Was it their native love of hill doings? One old fellow 
 in the Lokrian ranks seemed to think otherwise. He 
 gesticulated derisively after them. 
 
 "Aha! Yes !" he growled. "And glad enough ye are 
 to get away from Thermopylae and hide ye soft in your 
 silly path. Ye know the Medes'U never come that way ! " 
 
192 THE SPARTAN 
 
 The king heard him and knit his brows but said no 
 word. 
 
 That night Aristodemos sleeping in the king's tent 
 heard him rise and softly reach for his cloak. The 
 young man raised himself upon his elbow. 
 
 "Leonidas!" be whispered. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Wilt thou not sleep at all? Thou hast sore need." 
 
 "I can rest better outside. My bed is become the 
 fighting place of thoughts." 
 
 The tone was more needy than Leonidas knew. Aris- 
 todemos was up at once and fastening on his sandals. 
 The cool air met their faces as they passed outside the 
 tent. Night was abroad. The full summer moon was 
 sailing the deep sky and the ground was wet with dew. 
 
 "It is the Karneian moon," said Leonidas. "To-night 
 they are keeping the festival. In three days it will be 
 finished. And then — Oh, Aristodemos, I wish I were sure 
 of the Ephor mind ! Will they then send the army, or will 
 some new mummery of delay lose us everything to Persia.'' " 
 
 "But will the Ephors dare, Leonidas? They can not 
 give over thee, their king, and all thy chosen Spartans!" 
 
 "No — no. I think not. Therefore am I here. But 
 Aristodemos, we stand perilous between. From north 
 the Persian cometh, from south the Greek. If Greek 
 
 come first But if the Persian first Ah, may 
 
 some god make slow the Persian feet!" 
 
 They moved on past the glittering stack of arms and 
 down a radial street of the camp. The tents were un- 
 closed. But most of the hardy fellows preferring the 
 open air lay sprawled asleep in front. The long spears 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 193 
 
 which each had planted in the ground beside him glistened 
 in the moonlight everywhere, standing like an upright 
 ready army beside the sleeping ones. The king looked 
 intently upon them, face after face. He had known them 
 every one from childhood. 
 
 "How trustfully they sleep!" he said, half awed. 
 "They have given me their care. They are my children. 
 But soon I shall use them as never mother used her child." 
 
 They passed Demonax, a very picture of warm breath- 
 ing life. 
 
 "How many of these," whispered the king, "shall 
 see again the little hills of Sparta town.'' " 
 
 They walked on in silence. Aristodemos could scarce 
 recognize his friend in this tender expressive mood. By 
 day the king was full of discipline, inexorable. 
 
 Again the king broke silence. 
 
 "Aristodemos, dost thou remember that oracle which 
 Delphi gave Sparta three years ago when first we knew 
 that the Persian would come again?" 
 
 "Which oracle, my king?" 
 
 "It ran thus: 
 
 " ' Ye men of wide spaced Sparta, 
 Either your city must fall 
 By the hand of the children of Persia, 
 Or if not then know 
 That a reigning king of your city 
 Shall die in your city's stead.' 
 
 " 'One or the other' said the oracle, 'one or the other.' 
 Aristodemos, ever since Tempe that oracle hath increased 
 in my ears." 
 
194 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" cried the young man catching his 
 thought. "In what way couldst thou die alone and save 
 Sparta?" 
 
 "Nay, I speak not certainly. But the Fates may be 
 requiring a payment for something. \Mio knoweth?" 
 
 Neither of these men was in any doubt as to the truth 
 of the oracle. Interpretations might fail; but oracles, 
 never. 
 
 "At first I did not think it was I," went on Leonidas 
 sadly. "Then Tempe failed, and it was left to Sparta. 
 Then Sparta drew back and it was left to me. Now 
 the Phokians are gone. Perhaps all will go at last." 
 
 "But that hath no meaning!" broke in Aristodemos 
 almost savagely. "Thy Spartans can never leave thee. 
 And I — How could that be, Leonidas? Now if the 
 oracle had said, 'A king and a king's friend ' " Aris- 
 todemos was pleading as if Leonidas were indeed a veri- 
 table seer. 
 
 The king straightened shoulders as if shaking off a 
 weight. 
 
 " Well," he said, " we are here to make stand for HeUas, 
 not to question destiny. \Miy should I doubt the Ephors 
 of Sparta? Sparta will come to her king, and come 
 quickly. I saw it in the soldier faces ere I left." His 
 mood was completely changed. He was joyous and 
 conscious of his strength. Then on a sudden his head 
 dropped to his breast. "Ye gods," he laiighed, "how 
 suddenly sleepy I am ! Let us back to bed ere the gentle 
 Hypnos leave me!" 
 
 In the tent Aristodemos unclasped the king's cloak, 
 and loosened his sandals. Service was privilege now. 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 195 
 
 And scarce had Leonidas stretched himself when he was 
 sound asleep. But the young man lay beside him full 
 awake until the dawn, thinking ardent thoughts. 
 
 The days passed. Now the season of the Kameia was 
 by. Doubtless Sparta was already dispatching her 
 army. 
 
 Then one day the Greek fleet appeared. A runner 
 from the lookout post down the Straits, came leaping 
 along the eastern road into camp wildly gesticulating 
 and shouting : " The fleet ! The fleet ! " 
 
 The men scrambled hilariously up the heights to get 
 sight of the ships. This coming of the fleet was the first 
 genuine movement for the defence of Thermopylse. 
 Presently they saw the distant Euboean Strait blossom 
 white with sails. Steadily, royally, they came! There 
 were two hundred and seventy-one ships of them — the 
 Athenian ships in the lead. They filled the broad water- 
 way with sudden life. Like glorious birds they rounded 
 the sharp point of Eubcea. The soldiers on the crags 
 could see the sails shift and flutter at the turn, and could 
 catch the measured flash of the falling banks of oars. 
 Then the whole fleet swept out eastward toward Artem- 
 ision, the sails thin edged against the sun, the galleys 
 beating tiny oars upon the blue. 
 
 Every hour of the Persian delay now was of priceless 
 value. At any moment the whole Spartan force might 
 arrive to make the defence complete. Scouts were ready 
 on the high southern hills to signal by fire the first joyous 
 glimpse of the Grecian approach. Yet for the little 
 army at the Pass every hour of such delay was perilous 
 too. Every morning began with the anxious question- 
 
196 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ing, "Have the Spartans come?" And, "How near are 
 the Persians?" 
 
 The dead weight of these days fell upon the captain 
 of the host. It was Leonidas who held the spirits of 
 these men in his steady hands. He made them rebuild 
 the Phokian wall, needful for defence and equally 
 needful to busy the fretting men. He kept up a daily 
 gymnastic. He kept full the supplies at Alpenoi. At 
 times he was stern and hard. Again he cheated them 
 with precarious hope. And always he made them feel 
 that the gods were on their side. 
 
 The watchers on the southern hills came and went aU 
 openly. But there were other scouts whose northern 
 goings and comings were more secret. 
 
 "What now?" asked Leonidas intently, as one of these 
 scouts reported at the king's tent. 
 
 "It is strange," said the man. "Last week I was sure 
 that the Medes were still at Therma. I had tidings of 
 them there. But now I find rumours that they are as 
 near as Krannon." 
 
 "From whom hast thou this?" 
 
 "From a shepherd who hath it of a corn trader." 
 
 The king's face darkened bitterly. 
 
 "Thou must take horse and ride hard to Sparta. Un- 
 less the Spartans have already started, the Medes will 
 be here first!" 
 
 Next day the king went out repeatedly past the nearly 
 restored Phokian wall and out beyond the farther 
 gate of the Pass, looking long and quietly across 
 the Malian plain. "A three days' journey," the scout 
 had said. 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 197 
 
 The third morning broke with lowering sky and a gale 
 of wind. Then rain began. 
 
 "It groweth fierce out there by Artemision," the sea- 
 wise told the king. " This wind is the Hellespontias. 
 The fleet can not hold in this!" And sure enough by 
 mid-morning the ships could be made out staggering back 
 again down the Strait, chased by the blinding storm. 
 Again the soldiers climbed the heights and saw them 
 careering in the gray of rain and sea. Where were they 
 going? What was this to mean? Was the little army to 
 be left entirely unsupported? Were they going to aban- 
 don Thermopylae altogether? 
 
 A thirty-oared galley broke away from the fleet and 
 came reeling up the Malian Bay toward Thermopylae. 
 The soldiers crowded down from the hills to the booming 
 shore. 
 
 " What is it? What is it? " they shouted through their 
 hands, while the men on the wet decks shouted back to 
 them, and all their shoutings were drowned in the voices 
 of the storm. At last the ship made land. But no 
 defeated faces were these aboard her. 
 
 "Did ye see the signal?" cried the soaked sailor men 
 as they piled out. "What? The ships? Oh, they've 
 only run under the lee of the land till these winds blow 
 themselves out. But didn't ye understand? The whole 
 Persian fleet came down late last night. It's anchored, 
 many ships deep out there on the windward strand 
 beyond Cape Sepias! This storm is smashing them up 
 by the hundred! Old Boreas is doing the fighting for 
 us! Ei! Ei! Didn't the oracle say, 'Pray to the winds'?" 
 And the exultant sailors capered about wildly on the shore. 
 
198 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Ei! Ei! Boreas!" shouted the amazed soldiers. 
 They seized the dripping Athenian mariners and carried 
 them in noisy procession through the camps. And all 
 the while a very Deukahan flood was beating down upon 
 them from the heavy skies. 
 
 "Our ship is to bide here," reported the captain, 
 Abronichos, to the king. "We're detailed to notify 
 the fleet if things go wrong by land. And Polyas of 
 Antikyra will be sent to us if the fleet be disabled." 
 
 Toward noon Leonidas went out again quite beyond 
 the- Pass and as far a^ the Asopos River in the MaUan 
 plain. The rain had hghtened a Uttle. He gazed long 
 and anxiously toward the northern mountains. The 
 Persians would certainly strive to meet their fleet 
 at Thermopylae. He was sure of that. But the day 
 dragged on and finally with a relieved sigh he turned 
 back. 
 
 "We have at least one day more," he said aloud. 
 
 But scarce had he got back into camp when a curious 
 shadow appeared over the shoulder of Mount Othrys, mov- 
 ing down the thin white streak of road. It was foUowed 
 after an interval by another shadow, and yet another, 
 and at last by a steady dark stream. Now the stream 
 worked out on a lower reach of the road, a quivering 
 thing, shimmering throughout its length even in the rain, 
 as with myriads of pointed spears. Now it took on a 
 single broad colour, now red, now yellow, now purple, 
 as the different nations rounded the turn dividing, spread- 
 ing down the slope. So it began, softly amiably; but 
 never ceasing, terrible even in its silent beginnings. For 
 it was the unmeasured immeasurable power of the 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 199 
 
 East, pouring in like the power of waters to overwhelm 
 and destroy. 
 
 Leonidas resting in his tent suddenly heard the cries 
 of terror. Scouts were running in followed by workers 
 from the wall spreading alarm and panic as they came. 
 Aristodemos never forgot Leonidas's look of mingled pain 
 and patience as he started up. But neither the king's 
 pain nor his patience lasted long. He rushed out and 
 quelled the panic spreaders with an authoritative shout. 
 He hurried through the allied camps. The men so jubi- 
 lant this morning were now clamorous with terror. 
 "The Spartans are not come! The fleet hath fled! 
 We are abandoned!" 
 
 Leonidas scourged them with his wrath, whipped their 
 very faces with scornful words. He called a council 
 at once. Most of the leaders were for instant retreat. 
 "To the Isthmos and hold the Peloponnese! To the 
 Isthmos!" The old selfish cry again. How like a curse 
 it sounded in his ears! 
 
 "Ay! 4^nd will ye let them into Greece?" he cried 
 to them with impassioned pleading. "Will ye let them 
 pick your country as a dog a bone? They will do it! 
 They will do it! And what will ye say when ye meet the 
 Spartan army on the road? Not far off are they now! 
 And what word will ye have me send to the waiting fleet? 
 ' Go back, O Fleets, for your armies are fled to save their 
 skins!' Oh, what desertion shall be like your desertion? 
 What traitor hath ever betrayed all Greece at once? 
 O, Hellenes, we can hold Thermopylae! We can hold it, 
 I say, till Sparta comes!" 
 
 Finally, as by some divine contagion, so much more 
 
200 THE SPARTAN 
 
 potent than any contagion of evil, Leonidas's enthusiasm 
 swept into them. 
 
 "Ye will stay? Ye will stay?" he cried. 
 
 "Ay, we will stay!" they shouted sternly back. 
 
 As for the Three Hundred, they had gone at the very 
 first to their station outside the Phokian wall. There 
 they watched the first Persian horsemen come dashing 
 across the Malian plain, watched them curiously as 
 they marked out the monstrous camp. They could 
 plainly see the baggage wagons lumber up and the trains 
 of strange sumpter beasts and the tribes and tribes of 
 men. Then in the early twilight another Persian host 
 came into sight, pouring along by the coast road of the 
 Malian Gulf. From both sides the Mahan plain was 
 filling with humanity like a vast pool, at the foot of 
 Othrys Mountain. 
 
 "Ohe! The Persian arrows will darken the very sun!" 
 chattered a Theban whose curiosity had brought him out 
 further than his courage. 
 
 "What of it?" said Dienekes with a grin. "It's all 
 the better to fight in the shade ! " 
 
 "And look at the tents already ! " cried Hyllos. "Those 
 pretty fellows mean to get in out of the rain before 
 night!" 
 
 "And they'll get another soaking," laughed Demonax. 
 "when they come out to fight in the morning!" 
 
 But the Persians did not fight on the morrow. Through 
 that whole day, too, the vast army continued to arrive 
 and fill the plain. A third day passed. On the fourth 
 morning the clouds broke away leaving a clear-washed 
 sky. A signal of smoke from the lookouts down the 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 201 
 
 Strait announced the Greek fleet's return to Artemision. 
 Still the Persians sat unmoved lq their multitude of tents. 
 Precious days! Sparta's precious opportunity! 
 
 Over LQ his silken tent in Malia the boyish Great King 
 was waiting for his Persian fleet to break through the 
 Strait and come to him with needed supplies. The 
 storm had not shattered that fleet quite so completely 
 as its enemies had hoped. Let it once show sail in the 
 Malian Gulf and those foolish fellows in the Pass yonder 
 would disappear like rabbits. Had not all the Greeks 
 thus far promptly fled or Med-ized at sight of him.'' 
 
 Among the Greeks in the Persian camp was that un- 
 happy Spartan king whom Kleomenes had ousted, and 
 who had become the reluctant and incongruous subject 
 of the Persian. The young king now pleasured himself 
 by sending for the rugged old Spartan. 
 
 "What, Demaratos," said Xerxes, "thou dost never 
 mean to tell me that those Spartans of thine will try 
 to make a stand against us." 
 
 "O king," said the Spartan, scratching his head — 
 that head which an unlucky response might so easily lose 
 him. "Dost thou want a true answer or a pleasant 
 one?" 
 
 Of course the king wanted a pleasant answer, and of 
 course he said he wanted a true one. 
 
 "Well, then," said Demaratos bluntly. "They will 
 fight." 
 
 "Fight?" The king shook with laughter. "Oh, 
 Demaratos, what kind of nonsense art thou talking? 
 Why, they are not a mouthful." 
 
202 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Demaratos did not like to be laughed at. But finally 
 he said: 
 
 "They will fight. Do not regard their fewness, 
 king. If a thousand are there, they will fight thee, or 
 if less, they will fight thee." 
 
 The king grew indulgent to the old man. He held 
 up his slender fingers. 
 
 "Account me this reckoning," he drawled patiently. 
 "One of my guards can fight three Persian soldiers. 
 Now suppose a Spartan could fight twenty. Doubtless 
 thou, having been, as thou sayest, a king of them, couldst 
 fight twenty. But, O Demaratos, I have a thousand 
 Persians for every Greek." 
 
 The old Spartan shifted his feet. 
 
 "O king, live forever!" he broke out. "I was sure 
 at the first that thou wouldst not like the true answer." 
 
 The king looked at him curiously, fingering the jade 
 clasp of his belt. 
 
 "Under what marvellous lash, then, are they driven, 
 Demaratos?" 
 
 "Under no lash!" replied Demaratos, dangerously 
 near to losing his temper. "The Spartans are free. 
 Yet not in all things free. Law is their master whom 
 they fear — more than ever subject of thine feared thee. 
 And Law hath commanded that they flee not out of 
 battle from any multitude of men, but stand and win 
 the victory. Such a sort, I say, are my Spartans!" 
 
 Xerxes laid back his royal head and laughed. But 
 he did not comprehend. More than words were needful 
 to bridge that abyss of difference between the mind of 
 Persia and the mind of Greece. 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 203 
 
 The next day Xerxes sent a rider to the Pass to spy out 
 what these absurd Spartan men really might be doing. 
 The Greeks let him ride close up within the Pass and look 
 his fill. He saw in front of the Phokian wall the lusty, 
 laughing Spartans busy at their gymnastics, leaping, 
 wrestling, flinging. A little apart from these Demonax, 
 Chilon and some others were combing their long black 
 hair and binding it up with fillets and flowers. The 
 scout returned and described all this to the king. 
 
 " Demaratos, Demaratos ! " laughed the king in triumph. 
 "What say est thou now? These thy invincible warriors 
 are playing childish games. They are dressing up their 
 hair like women." 
 
 "O king," said Demaratos, his old eyes alight with 
 memory, "all that too is our Spartan custom. We needs 
 must crown our hair and make it beautiful when we 
 are about to face death!" 
 
 A look of pity crossed the young king's face. 
 
 "Ah, Demaratos, age hath surely crept upon thee. 
 Thou talkest solemn nonsense to thy king." 
 
 Next morning Leonidas received a writing from the 
 Great King. He smiled broadly as he read it aloud in 
 the midst of a group of his Spartans. The letter said: 
 
 "Foolish mortal, what use to fight against the gods? 
 Serve me and thou shalt rule all Greece." 
 
 Leonidas turned quickly to the waiting messenger. 
 
 "Say this to thy king," he said. "Tf thou under- 
 stoodst happiness thou wouldst not covet the happiness 
 of other men. As for me, I would rather die for Greece 
 than enslave her.' " 
 
204 THE SPARTAN 
 
 That evening as Leonidas was walking with Aris- 
 todemos in front of the Spartan camp another messenger 
 crept out of the bushes with another tablet for the king. 
 Leonidas read its imperious words in the light of a flaring 
 torch. 
 
 " There is no more time for your folly. 
 Send me your arms." 
 
 In his slow, difficult hand Leonidas scratched upon 
 the same tablet: 
 
 "Come and take them," 
 
 and handed it back to the messenger. Then he turned 
 quietly to his friend. 
 
 "They will attack us to-morrow," he said. 
 
 At dawn the Spartans saw a great stir among the Per- 
 sians. Soon the heavy masses of fighting men began to 
 move solidly up to the western entrance of the Pass. 
 Among the Greeks there was no fear, no demurring. 
 They ate their breakfast silently, in silence armed and 
 began to form their line of defence. Oh, the intense quiet 
 of these men in their memorable preparations ! Leonidas, 
 passing among the allies, looked in vain for signs of that 
 panic which had so often baffled him. It was gone like 
 a mist before the clearing heat of action. Looking into 
 their grim expectant faces he felt their united strength 
 enter and strengthen him. 
 
 Leonidas drew his battle front across within the Pass 
 but in front of the Phokian waU. The main part of 
 his army he kept behind the wall, ready to sally forth 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 205 
 
 by companies or nations to the fight. His masterly 
 Three Hundred would, of course, take the first onslaught. 
 There they stood, about thirty men front, in the narrow 
 place, shield lapping shield, spears level in the sun, their 
 familiar faces showing set and fierce under the low drawn 
 helmets. Down the line he noticed the Athenian jaw of 
 Aristodemos take on an expression he had not before seen. 
 
 "Here they come!" called Leonidas. 
 
 Then whizzed and cracked the whips above the massed 
 Median heads. 
 
 "Steady now! They're upon us!" sounded his clear, 
 confident voice. Then the howling, trampling multi- 
 tude, the wallowing waves of humanity, broke into the 
 Pass between the cliff and sea. 
 
 The Three Hundred — wall of brass — stood motion- 
 less until the others had come within spear length. 
 Then, "At them now! " rang the quick, vibrant command. 
 And like a single brazen engine the shields and spears 
 lunged forward. 
 
 The Median front went down like wheat. The mul- 
 titude heaved backward, crushing into the cliffs and 
 throwing hundreds sidewise into the sea. 
 
 "On — now on! Drive them! Drive them out of 
 Hellas!" rang out Leonidas's voice like a trumpet. And 
 up over the heaped bodies of the slain the Greeks advanced 
 fighting with the sure unceasing activity of the trained, 
 while more and more the masses of the Medes behind 
 kept pushing and crushing their helpless comrades for- 
 ward into the Pass. 
 
 Aristodemos felt the soft flesh crush beneath his feet, 
 the warm blood fill his sandals. Then he forgot, and knew 
 
206 THE SPARTAN 
 
 only that he was pushing, pushing, using his sword at 
 close range, and putting forth the greatest effort of his 
 life. 
 
 "On, on! Out of Hellas drive them! Well done, 
 Dienekes! Careful there, Hyllos! No, to the left! 
 A-ah, good!" 
 
 So the Three Hundred fought forward inch by inch 
 into the Pass. Aristodemos seemed strangely strong, 
 strangely aware. Once he suddenly swept his shield 
 upward, he knew not why, and against it crashed a well 
 directed blow. Had he seen it coming? Or was it some 
 god had lifted his shield? 
 
 "Good luck, Aristodemos!" cried the instant voice. 
 Did his king see everything? 
 
 Now the work grew steadier. He was thrusting into 
 massed dark faces, crashing down wicker shields and 
 glimpsing behind them the starting eyes. Then — the 
 sudden outgush of life. Ah, the wet, red work of war! 
 
 Then, somehow, in an instant the whole struggling 
 mass of the Medes seemed to dissolve and flow away. 
 A vile contagion of panic fear had melted their hearts and 
 turned their strength to water. The Spartans could see 
 them fighting their way back with shameful frenzy 
 through their own broken ranks in their agony of desire 
 to get away. What had done this? Was it the whole- 
 sale killing, the rock-like resistance of the Greeks? No. 
 It was rather the Greek essential strength impinging 
 upon the barbarian essential unstrength. 
 
 So they had them out of the Pass. Day cleared before 
 Aristodemos's eyes. He fotmd himself free and breath- 
 ing deep. 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 207 
 
 "Now to the wall! Back to the wall!" ordered 
 Leonidas. 
 
 The Spartans came back again to their place within 
 the Pass. The Helots tenderly bore the two slain war- 
 riors to the rear through the reverent opened ranks. 
 Then the fighters flung themselves flat upon the ground 
 for a little rest. 
 
 The respite was not long. Soon they saw marching 
 into the further Pass a column of tremendous warriors, 
 superbly armed and splendid with crimson and gold. 
 Thiey came with the swing and steadiness of tried veterans, 
 setting lion faces to the task they had to do. An ex- 
 clamation of wonder ran through the Spartan ranks 
 as they scrambled to their feet. 
 
 " Aha! " said Leonidas. "The Immortals ! By Pollux, 
 the Great King hath a mind to end it! Stand close, 
 now, close! Spartans, this grapple shall try ye!" 
 
 Then, "Hail Paian! Alala! Alala!" shouted and 
 sang the Greeks, and charged solidly down the little 
 slope to the broader way between the passes. But this 
 was stubborn work! Not an inch did the splendid fel- 
 lows give, plying with skill and gigantic strength their 
 swords and short spears. Had the Spartans met their 
 match? 
 
 Suddenly, at a sharp cry from Leonidas, the Greeks 
 faced about, giving their cuirassed backs to the "Im- 
 mortals," and fled like deer, though in unbroken forma- 
 tion, up toward their wall. The Persians, with a yell 
 of triumph broke after them in full pursuit. 
 
 Then again that sharp command. Again the Spartans 
 faced about. "Alala! Alala!" And down again the 
 
208 THE SPARTAN 
 
 gleaming spear line swept, killing and crushing endlessly. 
 Far skilfuUer fighters than even the "Immortals" were 
 the Spartans, and they wielded much longer spears. 
 This trick, too, was one of a hundred such — of their 
 daily familiar drill. 
 
 Fresh battalions of the "Immortals" rapidly pressed 
 forward into the places of their shattered comrades, 
 whom fresh companies of Spartans seemed to slay almost 
 at will as they crowded up the narrow slippery way 
 with hope of winning some foothold within. 
 
 Then the Thespians and other allies killed and crushed 
 and crushed and killed succeeding "Immortal" companies, 
 until the heaped and dripping rock afforded no more foot- 
 hold even for men to fall and die, and the sea itself heaved 
 red with "Immortals" slain. The sun climbed to noon, 
 but the fighters stopped not for the heat. It began to 
 decline, but they paused not for weariness. It went 
 down behind far purple mountains. The long summer 
 day was at an end when even these infuriate men must 
 obey ^the behest of night. The little roadway at the 
 foot of the quiet cliffs lay blocked and hideous with the 
 terrible work. 
 
 Noisily wailing their dead, the Persians got themselves 
 back to camp. But the Greeks took their five precious 
 slain, and laid them forth upon the beach — heroes 
 these upon whom they looked half sorrowfully, half 
 enviously. 
 
 And now the blessed rest after the terrible toil! How 
 hungrily did the tired Greeks eat their meal, how instantly 
 drop off to slumber! 
 
 Aristodemos hurried with Leonidas to the tent. He 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 209 
 
 wanted to shout aloud, to sing. He was bursting with 
 the sense of accomplishment and issue. Who can con- 
 ceive how the first victory overwhelms the heart of the 
 young soldier? 
 
 "We have proved it, Leondrion!" he cried passionately, 
 almost on the verge of tears. " We have proved the Pass. 
 We can hold it till our Spartans come. Oh, what was 
 Marathon to this!" Body and mind had been too 
 stretched to quiet down at once. Aristodemos was also 
 a Uttle feverish and had strange pains back of his two 
 bright eyes. Leonidas did not share his elation. He sat 
 with absorbed eyes, looking off upon the sea, tapping 
 restlessly upon the doffed helmet at his side. 
 
 "My king!" Aristodemos loved to call him so 
 these days. "What art thou thinking underneath that 
 frown?" 
 
 "Thoughts that would mislike thee," answered 
 Leonidas. 
 
 "Then out with them! They'll eat thy heart like a 
 fox, else." 
 
 "I am thinking of the Phokians, Aristodemos," said 
 the king very soberly. 
 
 "Yonder on Kallidromos?" 
 
 "Aristodemos, if they fail us on the mountain we are 
 lost." 
 
 "Leonidas, thou art tired. Why should they fail? 
 Their place is easier of defence than ours. Besides, 
 the secret path is " 
 
 "Secret? Secret?" The king repeated the words 
 with a sudden energy, almost of anger. "Fall not into 
 that trap, Aristodemos." 
 
210 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He turned to the young man as if to talk the matter out. 
 
 "Know, if thou wouldst be a soldier, that no place is 
 secret — no place. This our Phokians will not believe. 
 I have warned them, reasoned, urged. I have been 
 sending men to observe them. The report is always 
 the same. The Phokians feel secure in their mountain 
 place. They do not watch — not even now, Aristodemos, 
 when the Persians are in the plain scarce ten miles away 
 from them!" He sprang up and began to walk about. 
 
 "A path? Why, there would be no path except there 
 were those who tread it. Yet the path is fully defensible, 
 as thou sayest. If they but watch ! If they but watch ! " 
 
 "But they must watch, Leonidas." 
 
 "Aristodemos, that Phokian position is every whit 
 as important as this that we have defended here this 
 day!" 
 
 The young man's face flashed responsively. 
 
 "But surely, thou canst compel them to watch." 
 
 Leonidas did not answer. He closed his eyes as if to 
 shut away some thought. Then he spoke in a low voice. 
 
 "No. They are proud hill folk. They are already 
 angering at our Spartan prodding. No, nothing but the 
 stern fact will make the Phokians watch. Aristodemos, 
 wilt thou go to-night into the Persian camp, and find what 
 the Persians know of this path! It is impossible but 
 that they learn of it soon. But be thou before them 
 and warn the Phokians. And fight thou with the 
 Phokians in their inevitable fight." 
 
 Aristodemos lifted a dazed face. But Leonidas did 
 not speak again. 
 
 "Art thou bidding me go forth from this thy battle 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 211 
 
 place, Leonidas? Oh, and art thou still thinking to die 
 alone? When hast thou heard," Aristodenaos faltered 
 on, "that two sworn friends fought separatewise?" 
 
 "When, indeed!" answered Leonidas, and again fell 
 silent. 
 
 Then Aristodemos spoke with quiet conclusiveness. 
 
 "Send one less near to thee, Leonidas. I must abide 
 with thee here. Thou and I have sworn the oath to- 
 gether. The real fighting place is here. Any Spartan 
 wiU go yonder for thee and fully obey thy command." 
 
 "My command, yes. But in this matter I can give 
 no command. I can only say 'Go' and he that goeth, 
 must himself conceive and fulfill all the plan. It is a 
 bare chance. Yet we must seize every chance. And 
 none but thou wiU find a way out of each emergency. 
 It is thy deed. Hellas asks it of thee, not I. Dear 
 friend, I would send another if I could." 
 
 Something in this finality made Aristodemos look up. 
 He saw tears coursing down the king's cheek and beard, 
 and knew of a sudden how sorely he was besetting him. 
 
 "When shall I start, my king!" he said steadily. 
 
 "Oh, boy, dear boy!" said Leonidas, feeling suddenly 
 that this adequate warrior was after all but his own eager 
 "Learner." "This is no little duty that I lay upon thee. 
 Hellas hangs upon strange hazards now. And thy glory 
 in the Mountain and ours here in the Pass are one. 
 Hellas will be in thy hand even as it is in mine. Equally 
 as it is in mine." 
 
 The young man's face began to shine as the deed grew 
 large within him. He put his arms about the king with a 
 tenderness that was almost more than Leonidas could bear. 
 
212 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "My king," he said presently, "thou \rilt tell some 
 others of this my enterprise, so that if I die and be found 
 among the enemy, men may not say that Aristodemos 
 was — a Med-ized " 
 
 "Have I any treasure so dear as thy honour?" inter- 
 rupted Leonidas sternly. "But first thou shalt rest. 
 Then go to Alpenoi village and buy clothes from off some 
 peasant back. After that come to me again before thou 
 goest away." 
 
 He made Aristodemos lie down and sat beside him 
 silent for an hour while he slept. Then he roused him 
 in the darkness. Aristodemos hastened up to the village, 
 bought and put on the rough unaccustomed dress, hid- 
 ing his short sword in the folds. Then he hurried to 
 put his armour safe in one of the little houses. 
 
 "\Mio's that?" called a rough voice as he entered — 
 a voice he knew. 
 
 "What, Eurytos? Thou here? I thought thou wast 
 with us below to-day." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" cried the poor fellow. "I can not 
 see at aU. And ye have fought it — ye have fought 
 the battle! I am a useless log! " 
 
 "Nay, thy sickness will be passing soon," consoled 
 Aristodemos absently. 
 
 "But now Demonax saith openly it is a plague. And 
 I must not come back among the men. He saith it will 
 run from me to them." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense! Eurytos, listen. I am lea^'ing 
 my armoxu- here. I go on business for Leonidas. Wilt 
 thou keep it by thee tiU I come again?" 
 
 "Yes. I will be thy Helot since I am no longer sol- 
 
THE HILLS FOR HELLAS 213 
 
 dier," answered Eurytos fretfully. And he reached out 
 groping hands for the cuirass and helmet. 
 
 "Whither goest thou?" 
 
 But Aristodemos was already gone, hurrying down to 
 the camp. He came quickly into the king's tent. The 
 king started. It was a shock to see by the flaming torch- 
 light his friend in that degrading peasant dress and with- 
 out the beloved Spartan arms. It was as if distance 
 had already yawned between them. The doubtful 
 enterprise was oppressive to these men of open deeds. 
 
 Leonidas took the young soldier hands with fierce 
 pressure, while he gazed into the frank devoted face — 
 gazed as if he could never cease. His lips trembled as if 
 forming words. Then he turned swiftly away, bowing 
 his head. 
 
 "Go!" he said. "Oh, go quickly!" 
 
 And Aristodemos, though he saw the great heart break- 
 ing, could not but obey. 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 Aruypma, the Chimneyhole Path 
 
 ARISTODEMOS plunged along in the dark, blind 
 with sorrow. At the edge of the camp a hand 
 - was laid upon his arm. It trembled like An- 
 tiphon's hand, and Aristodemos started with a quick ter- 
 ror of the supernatural. Then he saw that it was Megist- 
 ias the old priest, he who read the omens for the Spartans. 
 "I know thy going forth," he said. "The king hath 
 told me. And I want thy help. Thou knowest — " he 
 hesitated, "the gods are hard to learn. At times theyi 
 hear not; at times they are away. And to make sure,' 
 do thou give me a sign. If the Fhokians be overcome 
 and the Medes master that path, light me a fire on the 
 height, even a big fire, that I may see it and warn the 
 Greeks to their escape." He thrust into his hands the 
 flint and tinder, the priestly apparatus for altar lighting. 
 "And this," adding a Uttle sack of food. "And this — it 
 may serve thee well," giving him a small sharp dagger. 
 "Hidden weapon needs be small." 
 
 214 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 215 
 
 Aristodemos nodded silent thanks and promised. Then 
 he quickly resumed his way. 
 
 Leaving Alpenoi he took the Phokian high-road direct 
 away from the sea. The storm had lessened through the 
 day, and in his intensity Aristodemos had quite forgotten 
 it. But now the solid masses of cloud were rolling up 
 the sky again. The darkness was complete. Suddenly 
 a ripping light flashed the distant mountains on his 
 sight — the forest, the white winding road. Then 
 heavy thunder shocked the hiUs, reverberating endlessly. 
 Then followed a torrent of rain, the mighty wind driving 
 it in from the sea. Aristodemos thought with a shudder 
 of Themistokles and his ships tossing upon the dark waters 
 off Artemision. 
 
 Could he but have known what this historic storm was 
 really achieving he would have taken wondrous comfort. 
 For centuries afterward the Greeks gave thanks to 
 Boreas for the Persian ships that went down that night. 
 The Greek ships, lying sheltered in their own waters, 
 suffered not at aU. Surely the gods were doing battle 
 for their own. 
 
 But of all this Aristodemos did not know. He strode 
 along with the wind at his back, the primeval forest rock- 
 ing over his head. He passed a little f ountaia by the road- 
 side where the quivering lightning showed it. Here one 
 of Leonidas's scouts barred the way with his spear. Aris- 
 todemos gave him the password and hurried on, leaving 
 him to wonder. Just beyond the fountain he turned off 
 the road and began to climb the steep path up the moun- 
 tain. As the night deepened the storm increased in fury. 
 Aristodemos was buffeted by low branches, driven again 
 
216 THE SPARTAN 
 
 and again out of the path, recovering it only by the light- 
 ning flashes. 
 
 Throughout the mountain forests the great wind kept 
 up its roaring. If the Persians were already informed of 
 the path surely they would even now be pushing through. 
 To Aristodemos's lively imagination such a possibility 
 easily became a certainty. He began to hasten still more 
 in spite of the darkness and the rough way, impatiently 
 pushing aside the tossing branches, hurrying when the 
 lightning gave him a view of the path. An older scout 
 would have taken matters more coolly; but to Aristode- 
 mos it seemed as though the Persians must be already 
 upon the mountain. 
 
 About midnight he gained the top and neared the 
 Phokian camp. Ay, Leonidas was right. Aristodemos 
 had to kick the sentinel awake to give him the counter- 
 sign. That individual had snuggled under a rock to 
 keep out of the wet and lay there snoring and steaming 
 in his cloak. Aristodemos hurried on into the camp, 
 breathing quick with excitement. But the camp lay 
 peaceful in its mountain fastness. There was no opening 
 in the forest. The tents were pitched here and there 
 in the rough places among the trees. Secure indeed the 
 Phokians seemed to feel. But the little path went 
 straight on through the camp. It could easily lead an 
 enemy up to it from the farther side. 
 
 He groped among the tents and came upon the 
 captain of the guard squatting asleep beside his 
 sorry fire. Aristodemos sat down by the fire and 
 watched him. Presently the man started up and recog- 
 nized him. 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 217 
 
 "Why, hello, Spartan," he yawned, stretching himself 
 to his feet. "What art thou doing up here?" 
 
 "Better ask what thyself art doing. Dost not see 
 that ten thousand Persians could come upon thee una- 
 ware in this din of storm?" 
 
 "Ten thousand owls! Who told thee that the Persians 
 know the path? I tell thee it is untrodden." 
 
 "If they do not know it now, they surely will know it." 
 
 "Well, and if they do come," said the captain testily, 
 "we can easily hold them yonder at the gully head." 
 
 "Pray the gods ye can!" said Aristodemos solemnly, 
 rising. "We below are holding the sea pass, and if ye 
 but hold this place secure a few days until the allies come 
 ye will save Greece indeed." 
 
 The officer impressed by his seriousness looked long 
 after him, then thoughtfully resumed his place by the 
 fire. 
 
 Aristodemos passed on to the outmost picket, a mere 
 boy who stood there at his post leaning upon his spear, 
 the rain running in streams from his helmet upon his 
 shoulders. He gave him the word. 
 
 "Merciful Gods!" he added, "thou'rt the first I find 
 awake." 
 
 "Yes, captain, yes," said the Phokian dazedly. 
 
 "I am not thy captain, but the king's scout. See 
 here, I'll take thy watch awhile. Growing boys need 
 sleep." 
 
 "But I have a beard already," objected the youth, 
 stiffening behind his upright spear. 
 
 "Beard or no beard, thou wert far toward dreamland. 
 Here, give me thy spear." 
 
218 THE SPARTAN 
 
 The youth looked sharply into the friendly face. 
 "Yes, I am tired," he admitted. "Wake me in an hour." 
 He rolled himself in his cloak and in a moment was asleep. 
 
 When Aristodemos waked him, sure now of his wake- 
 fulness, he himself lay down to sleep. He had been in 
 active battle all day and had need of his faculties for the 
 morrow. About four in the morning he awoke, a strange 
 taste in his mouth and a dull aching in his head. " Could 
 a little honest fighting do this.''" he wondered. 
 
 The boy was standing stiff in his place. 
 
 "Goodbye, sentinel," said Aristodemos cheerily. "Thy 
 watch is almost out." 
 
 "A good hour yet," returned the boy. "But if more 
 captains were like you there'd be better watching done." 
 
 "Watch for thine own life's sake," said Aristodemos. 
 "Sooner or later the Persians are sure to come." 
 
 "That's the king's word, isn't it?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Ay, and a true one." 
 
 Aristodemos wrapped his wet cloak tight about him, 
 groped his way to the path and started down. The 
 rain was now pouring steadily, the wind sighing and moan- 
 ing with a thousand voices. Last night he had been 
 easily moved to excitement, but now his mind was 
 steadily clear. Already he was working ahead in his 
 thoughts while following down the difficult way. Plainly 
 his enterprise was threefold. First, he must find out to a 
 certainty if the path were already known to the Persians, 
 and if it were not known, he must get into a place where 
 he could detect its first betrayal. Then, last and most 
 desperate of all, he must if possible seek some chance to 
 prevent or thwart such a betrayal. 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 219 
 
 Three more days of Persian ignorance might mean 
 everything to the Greeks. The days of the festivals, 
 both Karneian and Olympian, were over. Now was the 
 time when the Spartans had promised to come in full 
 force to Thermopylae. The allies might be expected 
 any day. Meanwhile, the fate of Hellas and of his dearest 
 friend might lie in the success of his audacious venture. 
 His face was set and rigid at the thought. 
 
 The morning broke gray and struggling with clouds. 
 In the first light he discovered a Malian shepherd picking 
 his way along the path some distance below. Aristode- 
 mos hurried toward him with a Malian greeting. But 
 the man turned with a startled and malignant look and, 
 without reply, struck into the woods and disappeared. 
 Aristodemos plunged in after him, but he had vanished 
 hopelessly in the wilderness of crags and trees. The 
 encounter disturbed him greatly. The man was 
 probably some poor outlaw or escaped slave. Yet 
 Aristodemos could not put from his mind that startled 
 glance. 
 
 He began now to examine the path for any signs of 
 passers through, whether of flocks or mountain folk or 
 Persian scouts. He noted the soft mould underfoot, 
 and lower down where the path entered the gorge of a 
 stream, the bushes and rocks in the way. As the path 
 left the gully and neared the level country Aristodemos 
 rejoiced to find it more and more choked with under- 
 growth. It was difficult at times to find the path at all. 
 Patches of delicate fern often completely filled the way, 
 and not one frond was broken. The path was wholly 
 unused and might well be forgotten. 
 
220 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He looked out over the plain where he could see the 
 tiny houses of Trachis in the distance, and to the north 
 where the great multitudes of tents showed the Persian 
 camp. But there was no guard nor sign of attention to 
 the spot where the precious path reached the plain. 
 
 He paused for a while to think. K the Persians knew 
 this path, surely some interest would be centring here. 
 Should he stay and watch the place.'' But then, the 
 Malian recurred to him. Possibly there was no harm in 
 the man. But the menace of his presence grew upon 
 Aristodemos. What was a shepherd doing there so early 
 in the day, so far from human habitation and without 
 his flock? Why had he so fled and with such an evil 
 look? Aristodemos had seen a trapped fox look so once 
 long ago. If the man had any wicked design he would 
 surely go with it to the Great King. And if Aristodemos 
 himself could but get close to that same Great Kiag — 
 Yes, the Great Kiag's tent would be the place of all news 
 bringers. Could Aristodemos penetrate to it? 
 
 He had only the day. By nightfall he must return to 
 watch the entrance of the path. It was a perilous scheme, 
 possible only because the Persians were not over watchful 
 for spies. What indeed could a spy discover save the 
 stupendous incredible power of the Persians ? And 
 they felt that only madmen could look upon them and 
 still dream of resistance. Yet if he should be caught 
 it would involve not only his own death but the loss of 
 his watchfulness, upon which Leonidas was depending. 
 
 He decided sharply, and did not hesitdte again. He 
 crept cautiously along the lower cliffs which curved 
 seaward ever nearer the Persians. Presently he espied 
 
THE CHEVINEYHOLE PATH 221 
 
 through the thick copse a Median sentinel pacing to and 
 fro before the intrenchment that edged the camp. He 
 had no notion of falling into such hands and noiselessly 
 drew back moving further seaward, circling the camp 
 until he found a tribe of the North Greeks who had joined 
 the Persian horde. With them he could deal. For a 
 time he watched them from his hiding place. Then 
 with quick determination, cutting a shepherd's crooked 
 stick, he half ran half stumbled down into their midst. 
 
 "Hey, hey, what's this?" called a soldier in the Thracian 
 dialect. 
 
 "What's this?" was the shepherd's indignant response, 
 "I've lost my best ewe, and that's what!" 
 
 "Lost a ewe, have ye? Well, and I wouldn't wonder 
 if some other rascals hereabouts may have lost a sheep or 
 so. We dined yesterday. Let's see, was it twenty or 
 thirty thousand sheep we ate?" 
 
 "Twenty thousand sheep!" echoed the shepherd. 
 "Why, only Persians eat after that fashion. An' ye 
 be'nt Persians." 
 
 "No, we be'nt Persians," laughed the man, imitating 
 the shepherd's uncouth talk, "but we be Persian allies. 
 And thou, young sheep-shanks, be'st in the Persian camp." 
 
 "Ai! Ai! Ai!" squealed the countryman dropping 
 upon his knees with such an awkward fall that the rough 
 soldiers laughed again. 
 
 "Oh, don't tell the king! Don't tell the king!" he 
 pleaded. 
 
 "Tell him? Dost think the Great King takes note of 
 such as thee? Why, he wouldn't take the trouble to 
 eat thee!" 
 
€22 THE SPAETAN 
 
 " Pray the blessed gods he won't!" The shepherd was 
 white about the mouth and tears of pure terror stood in 
 his eyes. He began to supplicate the man, clasping his 
 knees. 
 
 "Help me! Save me! Let me serve tiee! I will 
 fetch wood, water " 
 
 "Dost know these parts?" queried the Tliessalian, 
 interested. 
 
 "Know these puts? Why, Master, I was bom in 
 that Uttle field up yonder whilst my mother tended sheep. 
 And she e'en tended them the rest of the day I was bom, 
 and then brought me home at night, up in the mountain. 
 I wej bom with the sheep and I was always a-tending 
 the sheep all throng these hiUs." 
 
 "Dost know where good water is?" 
 
 "Good water? Why not? Such water as never thou 
 tasted." 
 
 "Good, then," said the man. "Up from thy knees, 
 fool, and get to work." 
 
 He watched the young shepherd fetch from the tent 
 the large earthen jar, adjust it to his shoulder and lumber 
 off with iL Aristodemos had the true Athenian genius 
 for acting. The bend of the shouldras as from burdens 
 borne too young, the stupid way of looking strai^t 
 before him, the very twist of his cloak and of his tongue 
 were all pterfect. No one would have suspected the dull 
 peasant thing, shambling along with his water jar, of 
 a particle of intelligence or grace. Yet all the while 
 the sharp eyes were seeing and the quick ears hear- 
 ing. 
 
 Soon he was lost in the confusion of the monstrous 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 223 
 
 camp. From tent to tent, from nation to nation he went. 
 All was excitement and confusion. The hour of battle 
 was at hand. They were renewing the attempt to push 
 through Thermopylae. Everywhere was rite and sac- 
 rifice, a thousand religions; everywhere the discussion of 
 orders and news, a thousand tongues. Oh, how clear 
 before the mind of Aristodemos stood now that devoted 
 line of Greeks waiting at the Pass! He found himself 
 half turning to speed back again and take his stand among 
 them. Then he remembered with a pang that he must 
 serve here. 
 
 But the barbarian jargons baffled him. Was he never 
 to hear a word he could understand? On and on he went 
 through endless avenues of tents, keeping his direction 
 by their facing eastward for the facilitation of prayer. 
 Had all the world come out against his little fatherland? 
 Yes, and seemingly all the ages of the world. Here were 
 savage Ethiopians, their bodies smeared with warpaint 
 their primitive arrows tipped with stone. Here were 
 slim Medes in soft silken elegance, the weariness of 
 civilization in their faces. Wisdom so long had been their 
 portion that it had passed over into weakness. He came 
 upon quiet-faced Indians in garments of tree wool, and 
 wild northern Scyths wearing pointed caps half as tall 
 as themselves. 
 
 "An their heads were indeed so long," muttered Aris- 
 todemos contemptuously, "would they not move heaven 
 and earth to make them round again?" 
 
 "What's that?" said a voice near him; and he found 
 himself face to face with a Phthian Greek. Alas, there 
 were all too many Greeks in that multitude. 
 
224 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos melted imperceptibly again into his 
 slouching attitude. 
 
 "I did but wonder," he said, "who be those black men 
 yonder smelling worse than many goats?" He pointed 
 to a strange half naked band of ebon savages who wore 
 upon their heads the skins of horses' heads, with the 
 ears set upright, the mane serving for a crest. They 
 seemed creatures of some unwholesome dream. 
 
 "Those," said the Greek, "be Libyans. Men say that 
 where they live is sand only, stretched out like the sea. 
 But shouldest see their hair! "Tis a black sheep's wool, 
 and no hair at aU." 
 
 Aristodemos moved on, but the man kept garrulously 
 with him. 
 
 "What be these?" he asked again, as they came to a 
 new camp. 
 
 "Dost not know Persians?" said his companion con- 
 temptuously. "Where hast thou been? Yet these be 
 strange outlandish Persians who have not learned to live 
 in houses but flit as birds, seeking food. They ride horses 
 like madmen. And what, think ye, is their weapon?" 
 
 "I see none," said Aristodemos, peering at them. Then 
 he suddenly closed his eyes with a momentary blinding 
 pain. 
 
 "Well, it's a queer weapon," the man talked on, not 
 noticing. "Those long ropes they make into a cunning 
 loop. Then, as they gallop they fling them out over an 
 enemy's head, and suddenly turn and draw it tight; and 
 having entangled, they kill." 
 
 "A strange weapon, truly. Which way are the Thra- 
 cians?" asked Aristodemos. 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 225 
 
 The man told him. 
 
 "And where is water? I'm hunting water for my 
 master." 
 
 "Well, art setting thy nose straight away from water. 
 Here, this path." 
 
 "Past the king's tent there?" asked the shepherd, 
 blinking stupidly. 
 
 "What — that? That isn't the king's tent, fool. 
 The king's tent is over yonder in the middle of the camps. 
 Thou askest many questions for a slave." And the man 
 eyed him sharply. 
 
 "I am shepherd, not slave," muttered the countryman. 
 "And these be strange sights." 
 
 Aristodemos followed the Phthian's direction and 
 presently came to the river, a small stream running swift 
 from its late leap down the hills. He knelt, bathed his 
 hot face and drank very thirstily; then sat down by the 
 brink with his jar. 
 
 What now to do? Was he getting nearer to the Great 
 King? He sat there in the rain, watching for some 
 servant who might look like the king's to whom he 
 could join himself. But none came. Slaves came and 
 went, fetching water, a monotonous procession. Horses 
 and camels were brought to drink. Aristodemos was not 
 a patient soul. He was discouraged, sick in eyes and 
 head and very wrathful of heart. And oh, his Spartans 
 were fighting even now at Thermopylae! 
 
 After a while a great hubbub and clatter drew near, 
 and a gang of slaves crowded down to the river, surround- 
 ing him in noisy confusion, and began to dip their jars 
 into the stream. The officer who drove them was gor- 
 
226 THE SPAETAN 
 
 geously apparelled. Now, many a Persian general had 
 such a retinue. But to the simple Spartan these could 
 belong only to the king. This was his chance. His 
 heart bounded again with the joy of his enterprise. He 
 dipped his jar with the rest. At the sharp crack of the 
 oflBcer's whip the slaves huddled together again, Aris- 
 todemos in the midst; His cheeks burned shamefully 
 as they moved off together and he felt through his cloak 
 the bitter sting of the lash. He could have killed the man 
 for that humiliation. 
 
 They wound through the camp until they came within 
 sight of such a tent as overtopped all dreams of the Great 
 King's glory. It stood on a low hill, spacious and billow- 
 ing, rising in purple pinnacles, many chambered and 
 luxurious, much frequented of pale slender men in silks 
 and gold who moved softly as though in nearness to a 
 god. Aristodemos had been lucky in his ignorant guess. 
 This was indeed the Great King's tent and he was among 
 his stable slaves. 
 
 They marched past this tent and on to the next. 
 Aristodemos caught a glimpse through the lifted flap 
 of a gilded stall and a brazen manger glinting in the 
 shadows and of the king's world-famed white Nisian 
 horses. Here also rested the king's chariot and the king's 
 litter with its heavy gold embroidered curtains. They 
 passed around to the rear where all was a confusion of 
 slaves, camels, asses, bales and cookery, and the air was 
 loud with profane talk and Asiatic altercation. 
 
 Aristodemos set down his jar with the rest of them, 
 and then adroitly dropped down himself behind the 
 jars at the very edge of the stable tent. In an instant 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 227 
 
 he had rolled under the great tent fold and lay breathless. 
 He was not observed. The slaves, too, had sat down by 
 their jars. He began to creep on with infinite slowness 
 under the circumference of the trailing curtain. He had 
 looked sharply as he was passing the stable, and knew 
 where he wanted to lie. At length he reached the front 
 where, lying close, he could watch the approach to the 
 king's pavilion. He was here, here at last, at the 
 Great King's very door! It had happened so quickly 
 that he could scarcely credit his senses. 
 
 In front of the stable stood a line of guards, motionless, 
 with bared swords. They were so near that he could 
 smell the perfume on their beards. Within the tent behind 
 him the servants were grooming the horses and polishing 
 the harness and chariots. The place was crowded with 
 soft-stepping slaves each at his narrow unthinking task. 
 
 For hours Aristodemos lay there watching. The 
 ground was wet beneath him, the tent fold suffocating. 
 But he was all oblivious of such external matters, while 
 one overwhelming impression laid hold upon his mind — 
 the vastness of this multitude come to destroy Hellas. 
 He had heard of Persian greatness. For ten years he 
 had heard of it and he had thought he comprehended. 
 But it was one thing to listen to travellers' tales or even 
 to stand with dear Hellas at his back, defending her with 
 definite deeds. It was quite another to float in the midst 
 of the enemy, like a straw on a boundless sea. The re- 
 membrance of his passage through the camp overwhelmed 
 him. What chance had little Hellas against all the 
 world? Nay, had the gods foredoomed her disaster? 
 What use *" fight against the manifest will of the gods? 
 
228 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He buried his face intensely in his folded arms. Could 
 Hellas die? His whole spirit rose and revolted. - "No — 
 No !" he almost cried aloud. Then he recalled yesterday's 
 struggle — the intelligence, economized orderliness and 
 quick, disciplined effort of his Greeks. And then — the 
 preposterous contrast of this incoherent dead bulk of 
 humanity, scourged on to slaughter. The contrast — the 
 contrast! Like a flash of light he saw it. Yes, yes! 
 Cleverness, wit, faith and farsight! These alone could 
 save the Greeks. These were their true weapons. Mind, 
 mind alone, was precious. 
 
 He began to count the real thinking men of Greece, 
 frankly putting himself in the number. They were all 
 too few. He began to see that even to die for Greece 
 might not be so noble as to live for her. At least it 
 was not so needful. His body grew tense as he lay there. 
 He felt uplifted and made strong. 
 
 He looked out at the constant stream of oflBcers and 
 messengers going to and from the king. There was no 
 joy in their faces, no look of enterprise or plan. The 
 battle must be going ill for the Persians to-day as yester- 
 day. These men plainly knew of no way as yet to come 
 at the Greeks or to get through Thermopylae. 
 
 Aristodemos began to long for dusk, when he could 
 creep back and guard the secret path. Then, even if 
 the Persians should discover it, he could leap on ahead up 
 the mountain and rouse the Phokians. This quiet 
 began to irk him. His whole body twitched and ached 
 in its unchanged position. He was wet and hot and very 
 weary. Struggle as he would his thoughts merged and 
 grew confused. 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 229 
 
 Had he slept? For suddenly he thought a guard had 
 struck him on the forehead, and he awoke with that same 
 blinding pain in his eyes. Only this time it did not cease, 
 but kept its maddening pressure until the air grew black 
 before him and his body quivered with the groans 'he 
 dared not utter. Water began to pour from his swollen 
 hds, scalding his cheeks. Even in his agonized con- 
 fusion he knew what had happened to him. It was 
 Eurytos's sickness. Here in the camp it was come upon 
 him, a worse foe than any Persian. And he alone 
 with his enterprise! What was he to do.? 
 
 The pain slowly receded. He could see again. But 
 a flare of fever rushed through his limbs and made the 
 closeness of his hiding place almost insupportable. 
 
 Suddenly he forgot both pain and suffocation. He 
 lifted his head a very little to listen more intently. Two 
 men had paused not very far from where he lay. They 
 were talking in low tones and were evidently waiting to 
 go in to the Great King. One was a Persian-clad, 
 courtier-like Greek. The other 
 
 Great guiding Pallas! It was his Malian shepherd. 
 And no shepherd, but a soldier! Aristodemos could not 
 mistake that face. He was talking Malian Greek. 
 
 "I will not tell it to thee. No; only to the Great King 
 himself will I tell it." 
 
 "But thou canst not come to the Great King's presence, 
 Ephialtes; whereas I serve his person. And besides, 
 this is his hour for sleeping." 
 
 "They say the king can not sleep for grief since so 
 many thousands of his men, even his Immortals, have 
 perished and still the Great King's way is barred." 
 
230 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Oho!" exulted Aristodemos in his hiding. "And 
 hath the battle gone so well this day?" 
 
 "And by my life," the Malian went on, "the Great 
 King would be proper glad to have his nap broken by 
 my information." 
 
 "Thy information! The king will not be trifled with. 
 For a less annoyance men's heads have flown off ere now." 
 
 "Oh, I'll not trifle! I teU thee I know a way to catch 
 these Spartans in a trap. Eh?" he sneered, "thou'd be 
 glad enough to tell it thyself and get the king's reward. 
 But I know, and thou knowest not." 
 
 So they haggled over precious Hellas! 
 
 Meanwhile the true heart in its covert prepared for 
 iacrifice. Aristodemos's first impulse was to edge back 
 and get away with the warning to the Phokians. But 
 as he raised himself he was overswept with a dizziness 
 that seemed to whirl him in space. The torturing par- 
 oxysm in his eyes almost deprived him of his reason. 
 
 "Oh, Eurytos," he groaned. "How hast thou crippled 
 a helper of Greece!" 
 
 He lay for a moment, helpless. Plainly he could not 
 count on many periods of usefulness. How could he ever 
 make his way back through the tangled camp? No. 
 He must act now. To spring out upon this man and 
 kill him with his plot untold would mean his own death, 
 too. But it was his only chance. 
 
 Unfastening his cloak that it might fall away from him, 
 and slipping sword from scabbard, Aristodemos silently 
 moved to his feet. Then he leaped at the Malian. 
 
 But a Persian sentinel whom Aristodemos's failing 
 eyes had not seen standing in the opposing shadow of 
 
THE CmMNEYHOLE PATH 231 
 
 the king's tent perceived him as he stood up from his 
 hiding place, and with the quick instinct of a fighting 
 man sprang to meet him. 
 
 Aristodemos, though surprised, caught him under the 
 arm with a deep thrust, flimg him backward with the 
 weight of his rush, and made on at his Malian. But 
 the interference had given the Malian a chance to turn 
 and dodge under, so that the stroke which Aristodemos 
 sent at his throat but ripped his shoulder open. The 
 Malain yelled with pain as he leaped out of reach, and 
 the Grecian courtier blocked Aristodemos's way. An 
 instant only there was a close, swaying encoimter. 
 Then he, too, fell with a death cry. 
 
 But now Aristodemos found himseM facing a full score 
 of the Immortals who at the noise had sped from the 
 king's tent. To their bewilderment he flashed straight 
 into their midst, cutting right and left. He would die 
 dearly. His long hair shook out terrible and bright over 
 his shoulders, and the Spartan war cry, "Alala!" rose 
 instinctively from his heart. 
 
 Three more men fell before the Medes could close with 
 him. Then above the din rang out the voice of Hydames, 
 the leader of the Immortals, giving a sharp command. 
 Aristodemos's sword was stricken out of his hand. He 
 began to fight with his teeth in true Spartan fashion. 
 But his arms were pinioned from behind, his legs were 
 tripped and he went down under a great weight of men. 
 His breath was crushed out. He could not even struggle. 
 
 After a little the weight gradually lifted. "Now to 
 the gods!" he thought. But to his surprise no blow let 
 forth his life. Instead they securely tied him hand and 
 
232 THE SPARTAN 
 
 foot. As he lay there helpless on the ground a splendid 
 tall man stood looking down upon him. Aristodemos 
 could not understand what he was saying, but there 
 seemed more of wonder than anger in his look. Then 
 four men lifted Aristodemos and bore him away as if he 
 had been a corpse, while others carried away the veritable 
 corpses that lay where he had fought. 
 
 Oh, cruellest of all, why did they not kill him? The 
 Malian had escaped! The Malian had escaped! The 
 path would be known. He had failed. In vain as they 
 bore him away he tried to catch some glimpse of the 
 Malian. But what use now to see him? He groaned 
 aloud. His bearers gazed at him in pity, thinking he 
 had received some terrible injury. But his leathern 
 jerkin had served him well. He was quite unwounded. 
 
 They laid him at last in a white tent, where he groaned 
 and wept in anguish of spirit. Later a timid, soft voiced 
 physician in turban and long robe came in and looked 
 upon him, feeling his body, which was now in high fever. 
 He shook his head dubiously. 
 
 "Internal wounds — bleeding," he said in Chaldean 
 to the attendant, and left a healing drink. What did 
 such kind treatment portend? Aristodemos could not 
 fathom it. 
 
 Presently a gruff voice questioned without the tent. 
 Then a short old man stalked in. 
 
 "How fares it with thee, son?" he said in clear Doric. 
 Aristodemos almost rose from the bed. He strained his 
 eyes in amazement. 
 
 "I know thy voice — thy face," he cried. "But who 
 art thou?" 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 233 
 
 The old man scrutinized Aristodemos. "I hoped I 
 might know thee," he said. "Thou'rt Spartan, for I 
 heard thy war cry; and only a Spartan could fight as thou." 
 The old eyes exulted. "Aha! I told the Great King 
 a Spartan was good for three Persians. But thou wast 
 good for five!" 
 
 "I know thee now!" said Aristodemos, his voice trem- 
 bling with eagerness. "Thou'rt our King Demaratos." 
 
 The old man was intensely pleased. "Hast remembered 
 me all these years?" he said. "And thou?" 
 
 "I am Gylippos's adopted son, Aristodemos." 
 
 "Yes, yes. I remember thy coming. Makaria's 
 son. Yes. I did not think thou wouldst grow so brave 
 a fighter. But now thou hast come to thine end." 
 
 "King Demaratos," said Aristodemos, looking toward 
 the tent door. " Can they understand us?" 
 
 "Thy guards? No. What wilt thou?" 
 
 "Help me!" Then, as the old man began to shake his 
 head, "Not for my sake, but for Sparta's." 
 
 "I love not Sparta. And no mortal can save thee. 
 They are to sacrifice thee to-night before they set out. 
 Thy valour and beauty are noised abroad through the 
 camp as a good omen." 
 
 "'Set out?' Demaratos! Whither?" asked Aris- 
 todemos in dismay. 
 
 "I know not." 
 
 "Hath the Malian gone in to the king?" 
 
 "Yes; and hath told him somewhat. It is with the 
 Malian they set forth." 
 
 "Oh!" groaned Aristodemos. "Oh, thou must save 
 me, Demaratos. Thou must!" 
 
234 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Art afraid?" asked the old man sharply. 
 
 "No, by the blessed gods!" said Aristodemos so 
 fervently that Demaratos's old heart leaped at the sound. 
 "But I have work to do. I must not die till it be 
 done!" 
 
 "There spoke a Spartan!" said the old man. Then 
 added again, "But I love not Sparta!" 
 
 "Thou loyest not Kleomenes," said Aristodemos. 
 "No more do I. I openly said so even before the gods 
 punished him." 
 
 "Punished?" exclaimed the old king. "How was 
 it? Tell me. I did not hear in Persia." 
 
 Aristodemos related all the horrible story and how ,the 
 Spartans rejoiced that he had been so justly punished 
 for his crime in deposing Demaratos. The old man 
 listened, breathing hard and fast. 
 
 "Ah, the gods have avenged me! They have avenged 
 me!" he exulted. 
 
 "Demaratos," pleaded Aristodemos, "wilt thou let 
 Sparta die for lack of me?" 
 
 Without answer Demaratos called to one of the guards. 
 The man quickly brought a cup of water. 
 
 "Thou'rt thirsty, son," said Demaratos, lifting him 
 tenderly. As Aristodemos drank, he felt the thongs on 
 his arms and wrists loosen though they still hung in place. 
 Demaratos made no sign. But as he put him down again 
 he whispered : 
 
 "They'll loose thy feet to walk to sacrifice." 
 
 "Where do they make sacrifice?" asked Aristodemos 
 in a monotonous voice. 
 
 "Southward of the camp by the river Asopos. They 
 
THE CHIMNEYHOLE PATH 235 
 
 have there a sacred place. The gods receive thee, my son. 
 It was good for my old eyes to look upon thee here." 
 
 He was gone. Aristodemos lay on his couch, softer 
 than any he had known since he was a Httle child in 
 Athens. 
 
 A chance yet to save the Phokians. A miserably 
 slender chance. But even so it put new life into him. He 
 lay intently thinking. How slow the moments crawled. 
 Twice, thrice, the agony in his eyes returned; but each 
 time passed, again leaving his eyes red and streaming. 
 The attendants, noting his pain, secretly wondered if 
 he would live to the evening sacrifice. 
 
CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 A Sacrifice to Ormuzd 
 
 AT DUSK came the priests and their attendants. 
 Two guards lifted him and loosed his feet. 
 Aristodemos held his arms rigid and dragged 
 his feet as if in utter weakness. The guards were sur- 
 prised to see him walk at all. 
 
 The rain had ceased. Solemnly in the soft fragrant 
 twihght the procession wound its way through the camp, 
 headed by the white-haired priest. Their torches twinkled 
 in the dusk. Men looked after them with reverence 
 and forgot to exult as they watched the young captive 
 with the bowed head and the strangely intelligent face. 
 He was in the flower of life, and so soon would be no more! 
 The aged priest, a Magian wise- in the learning of his 
 ancient sacred race, was unaccustomed to human sacrifice 
 and very vmwilling. His face was pale and awestricken 
 under his white tiara, and he looked up with troubled 
 eyes to las well-known stars inquiring of them even as 
 he went. 
 
 236 
 
A SACRIFICE TO ORISIUZD 237 
 
 When they reached the river it was dark, with the 
 moon not yet risen. There was no altar. The Persians 
 sacrificed simply at an " unpolluted place." They paused 
 on the very brink of the river; for it was to the river they 
 were about to offer their victim. The attendant priests 
 surrounded the place. The high priest stood in the 
 midst near a Uttle rick of fresh-cut clover upon which 
 the slain victim was to be laid. Aristodemos, half lifted 
 by the guards, advanced feebly to his place. 
 
 He began to sway from side to side. They looked 
 at him in wonder. Then almost inaudibly he began to 
 chant, twitching his whole body in a rhythmic nervous 
 way. At this the soldiers reverently drew back, recog- 
 nizing the sacred insanity. Every Greek was famiUar 
 with rehgious ecstasy. And Aristodemos had rightly 
 conjectured that the "divine state" would be held 
 sacred by the barbarians as by his own race. 
 
 He began to sway faster. He gasped for breath. 
 His eyes wildly rolled. The hot fever of his skin and the 
 redness of his eyehds added to the reahty of his feigning. 
 Indeed at times the feigning almost became reahty to 
 himself and he felt the strange Ughtness, the sense of 
 swinging out into space that precedes ecstatic utterance. 
 
 His rich voice thrilled the crowd calling out into the 
 night: "Apollon! Apollon!" 
 
 The sensitive Orientals about him began to fall under 
 the ecstatic spell, uttering low moans, swaying, clapping 
 time with uplifted hands. 
 
 Now the stately old Magian stood ready in the nudst, 
 holding his bundle of tamarisk twigs. By him a young 
 priest bore the sacrificial knife. 
 
238 THE SPARTAN 
 
 And then Aristodemos freed his arms. 
 
 The two priestly heads, old and young, cracked to- 
 gether like two hollow nuts. They themselves were 
 flung against a tree trunk and fell La a huddle. Then 
 Aristodemos in one strengthful moment broke through 
 the line of guards and plunged iuto the stream. 
 
 There was wild confusion. The Persians were half 
 dazed with religious ecstasy. The reluctant soldiers, 
 full of supernatural terror, caught breath and began the 
 chase. The scattering crowd were yelling wildly: 
 
 "Ahriman! Ahriman! It is a satan of Ahriman!" 
 The waUs of the priests over their leader added to the din. 
 
 Aristodemos had time to swim a little up the stream and 
 clamber out on the other side before the clouds of arrows 
 and javeUns rattled after him. He leaped into the wood, 
 pitching through the underbrush. How he made his 
 way among the rocks and trees he never knew. He 
 heard pursuers crashing after him and calling to each 
 other in the dark. If he held his course they could sur- 
 round and catch him. He therefore faced about and at 
 the risk of running into them slipped back toward the 
 stream. 
 
 The stream was his only guide. He knew that farther 
 up the mountain the bed of the torrent itself was for some 
 distance the only path. He crouched down. A soldier 
 was within ten feet of him, going slowly, beating the 
 bushes. He lay flat on the wet moss. The man drew 
 nearer, paused, beat his way past him, and went by. 
 Aristodemos began once more to creep on slowly upon 
 his hands and knees. He found a small hollow filled with 
 high, rank ferns. He felt a little ledge jutting out over 
 
A SACRIFICE TO ORMUZD 239 
 
 its higher side. Under this he curled himself like a fox 
 and waited. A man might walk fairly into the hollow 
 and not perceive him. 
 
 It was so dark that he could not see the wet leaves 
 that brushed his face. The moon should rise soon. 
 Yet he feared that even when it should be light he would 
 not be able to see. For the pain in his eyes redoubled 
 the moment he was inactive. And there in his little 
 hollow he began to pray. He prayed like a saint in 
 confidence of his holy cause. Was not defence of his 
 Hellas defence of the holy gods, of all that was holy in the 
 world. And his prayer went high, for his gods answered 
 him. The pain lifted like a cloud. 
 
 Now he could see, as it were, a gray mist moving upon 
 the ground, now boles of oak trees standing out, now a 
 glitter of wet leaves close at hand and tiny flowers and 
 ferns upon a boulder. At last the brilliant slant of a 
 moonbeam struck through the forest, revealing all. 
 Meanwhile the calling through the forest had ceased. 
 The awe stricken soldiers had quickly given up the chase. 
 He was free to seek the Phokian camp. 
 
 He came out of his hiding and looked about. At 
 some distance was a fuller light where the little stream 
 parted the forest. Toward this he hurried. Following 
 the stream he finally began the ascent and in a few 
 moments came to the place where the footpath from the 
 plain struck into the gully. 
 
 Aristodemos felt sure that the Persian troops had 
 started out, according to custom, directly after their 
 sacrifice. But they could not have reached this place as 
 soon as he, for his way through the woods was more 
 
240 THE SPARTAN 
 
 direct and shorter. He listened for some noise of their 
 approach. He went a little down the path. But in the 
 broken moonlight his dim eyes could see no sign that they 
 had passed. A moment he stood intently listening, 
 but heard no sound save the little stream singing in the 
 silence. Then with hot eagerness he strove upward. 
 
 They were behind him; but how far behind? He could 
 climb faster than such a body of men; but how much 
 faster? Everything depended upon his speed, the gain- 
 ing of precious moments for the Phokians. The way 
 up the stream was steep and rough, with riffles half- 
 way to the knees, with little cascades white in the dark- 
 ness, boiling among boulders, with dark pools and slip- 
 pery ledges in the shallows. 
 
 He felt sure that the Phokians, if roused, could hold 
 the path. He could hardly credit the hope that rioted 
 within him. And he so short a time ago had looked 
 death in the face! Half way up the mountain the path 
 left the torrent and he could push on faster. 
 
 Just before dawn he became aware of a rustling noise 
 ahead. 
 
 Could the wind play so in the dead leaves? 
 
 He gained upon it. It grew louder and more insist- 
 ent. Then measured and regular. 
 
 Oh, cruel gods ! It was the tramp of many feet. 
 
 He could not know how the unwilling old Magian had 
 hesitated long before consenting to offer a human 
 victim. The Persians had been obliged to set out after 
 their ordinary sacrifice and let the human sacrifice take 
 place after they had gone. They had been hours ahead 
 of him on the way. 
 
A SACRIFICE TO ORMUZD 241 
 
 Aristodemos darted out of the path and with incred- 
 ible activity and swiftness began to climb around the 
 Persians, striving desperately to outstrip them. Save 
 at the path the crags seemed inaccessible. It was 
 sheer cUmbing upon hands and knees. He vaulted 
 chasms that in sober mind he could not have half leaped, 
 swung into depths by hanging vines, and clambering 
 out upon the far side paused at the top for a single deep 
 breath and dashed on, conscious only of his fear of not 
 reaching the Phokians before the attack. 
 
 The gray dawn appeared through the forest and put 
 out the moonlight with its unearthly white. 
 
 Aristodemos saw that he had got ahead. Another 
 moment and he broke, torn and spent, into the camp. 
 
 Now Herodotos says that the Persians were equally 
 surprised with the Greeks. They were expecting that no 
 one would oppose them on the mountain. And suddenly 
 they saw men flying to arms. 
 
 "Those devil Spartans!" they cried out with one accord. 
 How the Spartans should come there they did not reason 
 out. Spartans had not been doing reasonable deeds 
 these past two days. Even Hydarnes went white. 
 But the Malian Ephialtes reassured him. 
 
 "Hiokians, I think. But not Spartans." 
 
 Upon which Hydarnes set the Persians in order for 
 fighting through. 
 
 As for Aristodemos, he flew from tent to tent adjuring 
 the Phokians to make stand in the path. The men 
 were springing up. from sleep, reaching wildly for their 
 arms, buckling on corselets with hasty bewildered fingers, 
 running half dressed through the place. Aristodemos 
 
242 THE SPARTAN 
 
 had not known how shameful and appalling a panic would 
 be. Everywhere was the cry: "To the peak! To the 
 peak!" 
 
 "No — to the Path!" thundered Aristodemos, loud 
 above the tumult. He met the commander; but the 
 commander thrust him aside with an oath. 
 
 At that moment came a thick rain of Persian arrows. 
 Whereat with a mighty outciy the whole Greek force 
 made for the higher peak of Kallidromos, just above the 
 camp. 
 
 In his rage Aristodemos would not follow them. " Fools ! 
 Fools!" he shouted after them, shaking his clenched 
 fists above his head. Then he dropped where he was 
 under cover of a great rock between the fighting lines. 
 Perhaps the Phokians honestly thought to win a battle 
 on the height, or meet death bravely there. 
 
 They faced about and formed their battle line, return- 
 ing a volley of spears down upon the Persians. But 
 though some Persians fell, their column did not pause 
 nor turn aside to grapple with the Phokians. They kept 
 crowding along the path and over down the mountain 
 toward Alpenoi. 
 
 Aristodemos where he lay could see the whole foolish 
 battle. 
 
 The Persians moving steadily down the path shot 
 sidewise at the Phokians, losing no time in the aiming. 
 They were splendid archers, those Immortals. The reed 
 arrows from their long powerful bows struck with deadly 
 effect. The Phokians after some twenty minutes of 
 such fighting, having suffered greatly from the Persian 
 archery and seeing the unending procession of their foe, 
 
A SACRIFICE TO ORMUZD 243 
 
 broke in confusion and scattered through the wood. 
 The Persian host kept fiUng through. They were ten 
 thousand men. 
 
 Aristodemos stUl lay behind his rock. To lift himself 
 were instant death. He knew that the slow moments 
 were bringing destruction to all he loved in life. His 
 mind pitched wildly from Hellas to Leonidas, from Leon- 
 idas back to Hellas. And with this last hopeless 
 agony came the wild pain of eyes again. He strained 
 his lids apart to see, but there came only a glare and 
 pain that made him faint. He clenched his hands. 
 The right hand closed on Megistias's little dagger. 
 
 Megistias! yes— Megistias. He recollected. There 
 was yet one more duty left him. And he was hke to be 
 thwarted even of i that by his blindness. Yet somehow 
 he must manage to light that fire for Megistias. 
 
 At last he moved out from his rock. He crept north- 
 ward toward the mountain edge where it overlooks the 
 sea. He kept low against the ground, thankful for his 
 brown jerkin and dull tunic among the fallen leaves. But 
 the air around him seemed to grow darker and darker. 
 Strange lightnings played in his head. 
 
 Suddenly came a rush of quick feet through the leaves, 
 and a terrified calling. Aristodemos sprang up like a beast 
 of prey, and the slim young Persian straggler screeched 
 like a hurt hare as he pounced upon him. It was 
 only a boy, one of those haK-Greek Persian princelings 
 from the Ionian coast. Aristodemos could just discern 
 his thin face, white as chalk. But he threw the boy down 
 roughly, whipped off the gaudy sash from his waist, 
 and bound his arms behind him. The boy screamed with 
 
244 THE SPARTAN 
 
 pain, crying that his shoulder was broken. But Aris- 
 todemos was deaf to his pleadings. Warfare had trans- 
 formed him into the very devil the lad believed him. 
 Powerful, dishevelled, with his red streaming eyes, he 
 was terrible indeed. 
 
 "Let me go! Let me go!" screamed the Persian with 
 chattering teeth. " I am a Greek. I am a — " 
 
 "A damned Greek!" roared Aristodemos, knotting 
 the sash. 
 
 "My father will give rich reward! He is Satrap of 
 Karia! He hath much gold ! I am his only son!" 
 
 "Hush, liar! No Persian hath an only son!" As 
 he spoke, Aristodemos jerked the lad to his feet and 
 gripped his fingers into the tight sash between his shoul- 
 ders. "Listen!" he commanded sternly. "Silent or 
 I will kiU thee! Go straight forward now. Not to right 
 nor left, or I stab thee in the back." The lad shivered 
 and shut his eyes. 
 
 "Yes — yes, I will go!" he gasped, and they started off. 
 Aristodemos stepped carefully in the footsteps of the 
 boy. The pain throbbed unceasingly in his eyeballs. 
 As he went the air grew sohd black and he saw no longer. 
 But he only stepped the more carefully, taking each little 
 hillock and hollow from the boy. Presently the boy 
 stopped short. 
 
 "Go on!" commanded Aristodemos. 
 
 "Oh, Master, I can not! This is the edge." 
 
 "The edge.? WTiat seest thou?" 
 
 For the first time the boy realized that his captor was 
 blind. A cunning look came into his face. 
 
 "Persians coming hither. They have missed me at 
 
A SACRIFICE TO OEMUZD 245 
 
 last. Here! Here! Hello!" His shouts were stopped 
 by a blow. 
 
 "That is one lie," said his devil. "Thou shalt never 
 make another. Now, wilt tell truth, or go straight to 
 thy gods? Choose!" 
 
 " Oh, I will speak true, true !" chattered the boy in terror. 
 
 "Then, what seest thou?" demanded his captor once 
 more. 
 
 "The sea, the sea! And the sun about to rise." 
 
 "Never mind the sun!" 
 
 "And — and islands." 
 
 "The shore, boy — the shore! What there?" 
 
 "Narrow marsh and some tents, and a little wall — " 
 
 " Stop. It is enough." And reaching out, Aristodemos 
 found a tree and bound the boy to it. Then, on hands 
 and knees he began feeling about, raking dead leaves 
 together, now coming upon a twig or dried branch. 
 He soon made a heap. From his breast he drew the flints 
 and struck them, holding them against the leaves. At 
 last there was a low crackling, then a little sharp heat 
 came against his hands. He put a few leaves upon the 
 heat. It grew and the crackling grew. He heaped on 
 branches and limbs, and stayed till the heat grew fervent 
 in his face. 
 
 At last it was done. Now he must get down to Ther- 
 mopylae and know the worst. 
 
 He turned, found his boy easily enough by his sobbing, 
 and unbound him from the tree. 
 
 "Go back now toward the path after thy Persians," he 
 said in a quiet voice. "And if thou bring me down to 
 Alpenoi I will set thee free." 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 Thermopylw 
 
 AT DAYBREAK, Megistias sacrificing at his altar 
 in front of the Spartan camp searched anxiously 
 It the entrails of the victim for a sign ere the 
 Greeks should go into battle. He looked long and in- 
 tently; then sighed and slowly shook his head. 
 
 Then he looked upward. On a high spur of Kalli- 
 dromos twinkled as it were a star. It kindled and 
 broadened, then burst into a flame. 
 
 "Oh, oh — the signal!" he. cried, and looking back 
 into the victims, read there also the fateful portent. 
 
 The king stood gravely by, awaiting the issue of the 
 sacrifice. 
 
 "Yon is the beacon fire thy Aristodemos promised 
 me!" quivered the old priest to him. "The Barbarian 
 hath gained the upper path!" 
 
 The king's face grew dark and rigid. "Careful, 
 Megistias!" he said sternly. 
 
 Megistias made a gesture over the altar where the pale 
 
 246 
 
THERMOPYLAE 247 
 
 entrails confirmed him. Leonidas scarce seemed to heed 
 him, but stood gazing up at the flame upon the mountain 
 as if he would overleap the distance between himself 
 and his friend. 
 
 " It is as thou sayest. Then the young man is yet alive." 
 
 "Yes, O king. And the Persians — " 
 
 Here a scout rushed up from the rear crying the same 
 tidings. And the king, with face as if he had already 
 looked upon death, turned away. "It was fated from 
 the beginning," he said. " I have known it long." 
 
 Yet Leonidas marshalled the little army for the last 
 time and standing before them told them that which 
 needed no telling, which was already graven upon every 
 dark face. 
 
 "But it is not the end! It need not be the end, even 
 yet!" he cried to his astonished officers. "Not even 
 yet is Thermopylae lost ! This path of the Anopaea — 
 I know about it, every foot. It is a difficult, narrow way, 
 defensible even to within half an hour of Alpenoi. And 
 the Persians can not get there for two hours yet. See 
 yonder!" He pointed to the Uttle white village, Drako- 
 speleia farther up the path, glimpsed on the heights. 
 "There the path is a narrow defile. The Persians can 
 come through only two and two. Ye allies shall march 
 thither. Ye shall keep them out at Drakospeleia. My 
 division shall hold the Pass here." 
 
 And did the enthusiasm not catch? Nay, it caught 
 but too readily — too readily for the king's peace. 
 
 "We will go!" cried the officers. "We will go!" 
 And Leonidas knew, or thought he knew, that they would 
 go fast and far. Yet he stood quiet before the army. 
 
248 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Ye Corinthians, march!" he commanded. 
 
 At the king's word the men of Corinth filed away. 
 
 "And ye Mycenseans — " 
 
 "And ye Argives — " 
 
 As he named them each band saluted the king and 
 rapidly moved off. The three hundred Spartans on the 
 right seemed to scent the desertion. They smiled grimly 
 and with infinite scorn as each ally departed from their 
 side. They made no sign when the seven hundred Thes- 
 pians refused to go and cast in their lot with Sparta. 
 But when Leonidas ordered the Thebans to remain, saying 
 he had no wish to swell Persian ranks, a flash of derision 
 and low laughter lit the Spartan faces for an instant. 
 
 And now stood there the little army, all that was left, 
 purged of unsoundness. They went to their morning 
 meal. Leonidas walked among them as they ate. 
 
 "Eat and spare not," he said in a clear voice. "To- 
 night we shall sup in Hades." 
 
 They looked up at him with a strange intimate ex- 
 pression, like children of one household. Death was 
 drawing them wonderfully near to one another. 
 
 But Leonidas would have purged even this little rem- 
 nant of all needless death. He begged the holy Megistias 
 to go back. No need to sacrifice one so aged and so wise 
 in the ways of the gods. 
 
 "I will not go," answered the old man, almost petu- 
 lantly. "But with thy leave I will send mine only son 
 to keep my line in Sparta." 
 
 Then Leonidas called to him all the youths that were 
 with him and intrusted to each a message, one to Delphi, 
 one to the Ephors at Sparta. The messages seemed 
 
THERMOPYUE 249 
 
 important enough; but the youngest spoke out for all 
 with calm disobedience. 
 
 " We came to fight, not carry messages, Leonidas." 
 
 Then, all things being ready, Leonidas set his little 
 host ia battle order and gave to each his last commands. 
 He pronounced to them the battle word, which ran in a 
 low murmur down the ranks. By this word comrade 
 was to know comrade in the melee. 
 
 About nine of the morning Xerxes drew up his solid 
 square of Persians at a little distance from the outer 
 Pass. He did not intend to make the attack until 
 Hydames should appear in the rear of the Greeks. 
 He certainly did not expect what now followed. 
 
 The Spartan pipes began to play shrill in the quiet 
 morning. And in the silence, with measured tread, 
 keeping time to the flutes, the Spartan phalanx moved 
 forward. But they did not halt as hitherto to block 
 the narrow Pass. They came on through steadily for- 
 ward out and beyond, their bright arms ghttering in 
 the open, still stepping to the flutes, knowing they were 
 to die. The Spartans were marching in open field into 
 the face of the whole Persian army! 
 
 Now their pace quickened with rhythmic rattle of arms. 
 Louder, faster played the battle flutes. They swept 
 into a run; their deadly hne of spears moved level before 
 them. Then broke the fierce battle cry, ' ' Alala ! Alala ! " 
 Then the phalanx crashed upon the Medes. 
 
 The long, last struggle was on. 
 
 Three hours raged the strange unequal battle. Again 
 and again the furious weight of the little phalanx drove 
 against the Persian mass and pounded back its huge 
 
250 THE SPARTAN 
 
 bulk in bloody confusion. Yet the sheer inertia of num- 
 bers must inevitably quench so small a band. Here 
 Demonax fell. White-haired Megistias went down in 
 the crush, and all those youths who that morning had 
 refused to go away. Friend after friend Leonidas saw 
 fall and perish in the ruinous tumult. 
 
 Leonidas in the front fought more memorably than 
 all. A wound in his thigh bled copiously, but he was all 
 unaware. Right and left with fatal stroke his short 
 sword thrust and fell. An arrow at close range pierced 
 his cuirass. He drew it out with no pause in his work. 
 But the red hfe leaped after it. 
 
 Alpheos, who fought next him, noted that the king 
 ceased his battle cry and began to fight heavily breathing 
 out a groan at every blow. Now a splendid Persian war- 
 rior fought his way to them, one of the Great King's 
 table companions. He was making for the Spartan 
 king. Leonidas leaped at him and thrust him through. 
 But as he bore the Persian over, Leonidas fell with him 
 and upon him. 
 
 So in a moment that devoted life, clean and true as 
 his own true sword, was crushed out underneath the 
 trampling multitude. 
 
 Then Alpheos, raging with terrible strength, heaved 
 back the Persians from the body of his king. But again 
 the mass compressed and surged over it. "Leonidas! 
 Leonidas!" was the cry everywhere. The rough soldiers 
 wept as they fought. The whole fury of the battle now 
 centred about the body of Leonidas, which was dragged 
 to and fro as was the corpse of the divine Patrokles before 
 the walls of Troy. 
 
THERMOPYL^ 251 
 
 Suddenly rose a Spartan shout above the din: "The 
 Persians in the rear ! We're surrounded ! " And Alpheos, 
 lifting the body of Leonidas in his arms, took com- 
 mand of the little remnant. 
 
 "Back," he thundered in his new voice of command. 
 " Back to the Pass ! To the mound ! " And the Spartans 
 obeyed. 
 
 Step by step, with desperate fighting, the little band 
 withdrew into the Pass in their midst defending the 
 precious body of their king. They were scarce a fourth 
 of those who had gone out. It is incredible that they 
 were able to do this. But the Spartans seemed to the 
 very last to have done whatsoever they intended. And 
 now they intended to die. They made their stand upon 
 the hillock near the eastern or Grecian end of the Pass, 
 "where now the stone lion stands in honour of Leonidas." 
 The mountain was at their back. 
 
 Here the Persians rushed in upon them from every side. 
 In front the hordes of Xerxes swept in through the Pass 
 as the Greeks retired. From the rear the Immortals 
 under Hydames poured down the foothills from Alpenoi 
 along the road. Down the steep path of Alpenoi fell 
 the human torrent of Persians driven from above by 
 the scourgers whose cruel yells and cracking whips 
 sounded even above the din of battle. The poor wretches 
 were driven by thousands into the sea. No one noted 
 that they perished. 
 
 But the handful upon the little hill were perishing in a 
 fashion that all the world would remember. 
 
 The Thebans had long since thrown down their arms 
 before the Persians and run to them with entreating 
 
252 THE SPARTAN 
 
 hands. Most of the Thespians were dead. Less than 
 a hundred Thespians and Spartans remained. They 
 stood back to back circlewise on their small hilltop, 
 their grim bloody faces reeking with sweat, their dark 
 eyes wide and blazing with the death light, dealing ten 
 deaths for one. Two shields were left among them, and 
 not a single spear. They fought with their short swords 
 and as these were broken fought on with hands and teeth. 
 
 Few as they were, the Medes shrank from them in 
 terror. "We are fighting with madmen!" they cried. 
 And no doubt they were — with men mad of divine piur- 
 pose. 
 
 Still in their midst the Spartans held the body of their 
 king. Its presence seemed to give them superhuman 
 power. Life after life they exacted for his. But their 
 battle cries rang fewer and fewer in the tumult • — fainter 
 and choked as one and one they fell — until at the last 
 Alpheos was battling alone. Then he, too, sank down into 
 silence. And the Spartan Three Hundred were no more. 
 
 Meanwhile Aristodemos with his unwilling guide crept 
 darkly down the mountain path in the trail of the Persian 
 detachment and came at length to the deserted village of 
 Alpenoi. Here he loosed the princeling according to 
 promise. The lad bounded off screaming in unexpected 
 joy. Then Aristodemos groped his way alone down the 
 narrow street toward the house where he had left his 
 arms with Eurytos. Now the noise of the battle below 
 the hill began to fill his ears — the confused crash of smiting 
 shields, mingling cries, and the dull roar of contending 
 multitudes — spirited battle cries lifting themselves like 
 
THERMOPYL^ 253 
 
 victories, only to be submerged under some rival cry 
 from another quarter. 
 
 The sound drove him mad with desire for action. To 
 be once more at his dear Leonidas's side, dealing unfor- 
 gettable punishment to the enemies of his land. He 
 began to run headlong and to cry, "Alala! Alala!" 
 
 Quickly and close at hand came an answering cry, 
 "Alala!" 
 
 "Alala!" called Aristodemos again, wondering. And 
 again came the cry. He knew that voice. Eurytos 
 must still be here. 
 
 He felt his way toward the sound and into the narrow 
 house. Eurytos was on his feet, stamping with impatient 
 rage, cursing his slow Helot. 
 
 "The thorax now, thou damned snail ! " Eurytos cried, as 
 the terrified slave rose from fastening his greaves. Then 
 he turned. 
 
 "Who answered my call.'' Who art thou?" 
 
 "It is I, Aristodemos. Tell me — the battle! The 
 battle!" and Aristodemos began to creep on hands and 
 knees, searching for his own armour. 
 
 "Gods! I think it is the last moment!" responded 
 Eurytos. "Hast come to lead me in?" 
 
 " Eurytos, I am as blind as thou ! Where is my spear? " 
 moaned Aristodemos fretfully, reaching out his hands. 
 
 "Thou blind too? My plague! Because thou didst 
 help me ! By Herakles, thou shalt go first ! " cried Eurytos 
 in an outburst of affectionate remorse. He pushed his 
 slave toward Aristodemos. "Do on his armour first. 
 But quick — quick! " 
 
 At this moment a nearer cry broke upon them, wail 
 
254 THE SPARTAN 
 
 after wail in a high, childish voice. A little shepherd boy 
 came running up the way, sobbing forth his bitter lament. 
 
 " Leonidas is dead ! Le-on-i-das — ai — ai — ai ! — 
 is dead!" 
 
 Aristodemos rose suddenly erect and tense, and stood 
 swaying. The slave began hurriedly to fasten the greaves 
 upon his legs, but Aristodemos was not aware of him. 
 He was unconscious of being touched. A blackness and 
 a blankness covered his whole mind. Physical darkness 
 was nothing compared with it. Death so embraced him 
 that life itself was unreal, a shadow, a paltry lie. Death, 
 death alone, was real. 
 
 Euiytos answered the little shepherd's wail with the 
 customary lament, beating his breast and crying, "O 
 tototoi totoi!" 
 
 "Aristodemos!" he cried in wonder. "Dost hear how 
 thy lover the king is dead? Why dost thou not lament?" 
 
 "Yes, he is dead," repeated Aristodemos duUy from 
 white hps. "My Leonidas, my king!" But he could 
 not think. 
 
 Meanwhile the Helot had gone over to Eurytos to 
 fasten his thorax. 
 
 "Now," said Eurytos, "Batto can take us both to- 
 gether. Thou knowest, Batto. Down the hill and to 
 the left. Thou wilt not fail." 
 
 "Are we going to our Spartans?" asked Aristodemos. 
 
 " What ails thee? No, we can not come near to them." 
 
 "But we must go to our Spartans," repeated Aristo- 
 demos plaintively. 
 
 "Fool! They are within the Pass. Ten thousand 
 Persians are between us and them." 
 
THERMOPYUE 255 
 
 SudderJy the whirling mind caught its grip again, and 
 Axistodemos spoke clear. 
 
 "Eurytos, art thou going down among the Persians, 
 blind as thou art, to be butchered? " 
 
 "I am going down to die. What else to do?" 
 
 "What to do? Why, man, thou canst not throw away 
 one sword of Hellas now. Everything, everything is to 
 do. Hellas is tottering to her fall. We must fight, 
 every one of us, fight as never before ! " 
 
 Eurytos spoke hollowly through his helm and in great 
 amazement. 
 
 "What? Dost mean thou wilt not go into the fight?" 
 
 "Oh, gods, that I could — into the real fight! Don't 
 be a fool, Eurytos." 
 
 "Thou wilt not go into the fight?" repeated Eurytos. 
 "And yet thy Leonidas is dead!" 
 
 "Oh — oh!" cried Aristodemos with a sob. The 
 longing to lie dead with his friend swept him overpower- 
 ingly. "I must not," he moaned at last. "I must not. 
 Our land- calling, calling us!" 
 
 "I don't understand such fine talk. I am a Spartan, 
 and I die with Spartans at the Pass!" Eurytos seized 
 Batto's arm and hurried with him out of the door. But 
 Aristodemos groped after him. 
 
 "No — no, Eurytos!" he called. "Oh, the senseless 
 deed! Greece hath such need, such need!" 
 
 "Need? She hath no need of cowards! Thou rene- 
 gade! Thou faithless friend! I spit upon thee!" Right 
 heartily he suited the action to the word. 
 
 He was gone. Aristodemos stood in the steep road 
 alone. He heard for a moment Eurytos's diminishing 
 
256 THE SPARTAN 
 
 step, then lost it in the dark. How far away the battle 
 seemed! The awful loneliness of his decision came upon 
 him like an unmeasured sea. The Spartans! Would 
 they also spit upon him? Leonidas — oh, even dead 
 Leonidas! — would he approve of this decision? Was it 
 right after all to stay away from that splendid fighting? 
 What hope remained to Hellas now, that he should keep 
 alive to fight for her? 
 
 Unconsciously, as he questioned, he was groping his 
 way down toward the glorious battle din. A very death 
 hunger was upon him, a necessity to find his dead friend 
 though he travel all the corridors of Hades seeking him. 
 He had come 'very near to the battle. A great sweep 
 of victor shouts came up — Persian shouts. They had 
 got the Pass! They had beaten the devoted Greeks 
 against their hills. Ah, who could defend the hills of 
 Greece as these Spartans had done! Hellas was losing 
 her best. Hellas! Hellas!" 
 
 Aristodemos stopped. He seemed to see his HeUas 
 through his closed blind lids — a torn bleeding figure 
 with outstretching arms. 
 
 " What have I done? " he cried. " What have I done? " 
 
 He turned his back to the precious din, and began to 
 grope his way up the road again. He stumbled. He 
 was all confused in darkness. 
 
 "Leonidas!" he whispered softly. "Leonidas!" A 
 great sob seized him, and of sheer grief Aristodemos fell 
 fainting in the road. His armour clanged as he fell. 
 And he lay quite still while his helmet grew wet within 
 and slow red drops began to trickle out upon the stones. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
 
 In the Wake of War 
 
 BATTO hurrying up again from the edge of battle, 
 a very slave of terror, came upon Aristodemos 
 lying there in the road. He stumbled by; 
 then paused. Batto was only a slave. It was strange 
 that he paused at all. Then he went fearfully back, bent 
 over the bronze clad form, and with wretched hurrying 
 fingers unfastened helmet and thorax. He disentangled 
 the shield, lifted the unconscious man upon his back, 
 and staggered on. 
 
 From the street he turned into a sheep path that wound 
 up the mountain through the dense green forest. He 
 paused at whiles to rest without setting down his burden, 
 and moved on more slowly as he began to feel secure. 
 After a steep clambering mile from the village he made a 
 sharp turn about a clump of firs and by an unexpected 
 twisting path descended into a cave. 
 
 Well had the poor fellow feathered this little nest since 
 early morning, when the keepers of supplies at Alpenoi 
 
 257 
 
258 THE SPARTAN 
 
 had fled away and left rich booty to his hand. Bags of 
 meal stood near the dry mouth of the cave. Cheeses and 
 fat -wineskins lay far within where a cold spring trickled 
 and sang in the dark. 
 
 He laid Aristodemos down. 
 
 "Batto's a big fool," he muttered, " — ^toget a new 
 master!" Nevertheless he brought water and washed 
 clean and pure the wound on the master's forehead. 
 Then he began to examine the closed eyes, uttering short 
 clucks of pity between his teeth. 
 
 "Wilt never see again, that's plain," he said. Yet 
 he brought more water and bathed the eyes patiently 
 over and over without aversion for their diseased ugli- 
 ness. Then he tore off a bit of Aristodemos's linen chiton 
 and laid it wet upon his unconscious forehead. 
 
 "Wert such a leaping fellow!" he murmured. "But 
 wilt leap no more. Easy master, thou! I'll leave thee 
 when I wUl." 
 
 Then he sat down with his back against the cave wall. 
 At this moment a hasty footstep crashed in the thicket 
 outside. Batto jumped, crouching double with fear, and 
 hid in the far depth of the cave. A solemn, bearded 
 face peered in, and a very insistent voice scattered the 
 echoes. Batto knew that voice. 
 
 "Now Pan be thanked!" he chuckled, running from 
 his retreat. "O gentle god; to send a she-goat, and 
 unmilked!" 
 
 He caught the animal, that was glad enough to find a 
 shepherd in the accustomed place. In a few moments 
 Batto was busy. With what a sound of homely comfort 
 did the white milk jet into the wide-mouthed jar! Then 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 259 
 
 Batto's squatty figure moved back and forth in the cave 
 in most delectable industry. He built a little fire to 
 bake the meal cakes he had made, and soon the appetizing 
 smell of cookery mingled with the blinding smoke. 
 Later he sat crosslegged on the floor with the whole 
 repast in a circle about him, reached for his cheese, his 
 cakes, his nulk, overwhelmed with his riches. 
 
 O ye nymphs of Kastaly, but this was wine! The kind 
 of wine masters use, not miserable slave wine. Batto 
 had once been made drunk by the Ephors and exhibited 
 to the Spartan boys to disgust them with excess. But 
 no such heavenly liquor as this had the Ephors given him, 
 fit for the blessed gods! He smacked his lips and drank 
 again. Yet even when the wine began to make merry 
 with his legs he remembered to stagger over to the sick 
 man and with infinite pains make him swallow some of 
 the precious stuff. And he took off his own dirty ill- 
 smelling chiton to make a pillow for his head. "I can 
 keep warm with wine," he said proudly. 
 
 In the weeks that followed, Batto fared as he never had 
 fared before. After the Persian army had passed he 
 ventured out farther from his hiding. He milked the 
 goats of the scattered flocks, he ate meal cakes of his 
 own making and drank wine unlimited. Later he even 
 brought back to the cave Aristodemos's armour, and with 
 it some gold and jewelled trinkets of the Persians over 
 which his eyes glittered with greedy joy. 
 
 In the meanwhile, for days were long, he tended his 
 patient, saw him come at last from stupor to fever, 
 from fever into weakness, from weakness to memory. 
 And then Batto wondered whether he might not have done 
 
260 THE SPARTAN 
 
 better to let him die. For masters make such fuss when 
 the gods visit them with1;rouble! To them everything's 
 as bad as a whipping! And this man moaned so bitterly! 
 He lay there still for hours with a look upon his face 
 that hurt Batto and made him turn away. 
 
 One day Aristodemos lifted his head as Batto came into 
 the cave and began to follow his movements with half- 
 open eyes. 
 
 Batto jumped. "Why, Satyrs kick me, thou'rt 
 looking!" he cried, running and kneeling by him. "Dost 
 know me? Say, dost know me?" 
 
 "Batto," said Aristodemos weakly. "But what a fat 
 Batto, and what a red face ! " 
 
 "Thou'rt seeing, thou'rt seeing!" cried Batto, clapping 
 his thighs. "The wine maketh me red," he said proudly. 
 Then he added hastily: "But there's one whole skin 
 left for thee." 
 
 Aristodemos smiled at him. "Hast so much care 
 for me, Batto?" he said indulgently. "Why hast thou 
 helped me? There was no need. I could have died 
 there in the road." 
 
 "Yes, Master. Wert dying when I found thee," 
 answered Batto, watching wistfully as he spoke the smile 
 that was so rare a thing for a Spartan slave to receive. 
 
 "Then why didst thou do it?" 
 
 "Because I remembered. Master." 
 
 "Remembered what?" 
 
 "Ah, masters forget. It was my father's farm where 
 thou didst save the mutton long ago. Eurytos stole it, 
 but thou thought of us, the hungry ones, and gave it 
 back. And thou wast so little, and so brave!" 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 261 
 
 Batto reached out his hand very timidly, then drew 
 it back again. Even the long weeks of tending did not 
 give him the courage to caress. 
 
 "Didst remember that.!* A thing so little and so long 
 ago.'' Thou art a good slave, Batto; liker man than 
 slave." Aristodemos reached out and took the rough 
 hand. "Batto," he said, "make me a fighting man 
 again and thou shalt be free." 
 
 But weeks passed before Aristodemos, pale, red-eyed, 
 rough bearded, was able to come forth of the cave. 
 
 "Batto," he asked one day as he began to be more 
 alive, "tell me of my Spartans. Thou sayest naught 
 of them." 
 
 "There's naught to say. Master," returned Batto. 
 "They're dead." 
 
 "Yes, they were crushed. I know that," Aristodemos 
 agreed feebly. "But who escaped? " 
 
 "Thou," answered Batto in a word. 
 
 "Batto," cried Aristodemos in sudden anger, "thy 
 impudence will kill thee! Come here — here close to 
 my knee. Now tell me what thou knowest." 
 
 Batto came trembling, but he did not speak again. 
 
 "What is it.'' There, I see thee better. Tell me the 
 names of those who live. Hast heard nothing?" 
 
 "Yes, Master; have heard all." 
 
 "Then lie not." 
 
 "Master, it is thou — thou only," whined Batto with 
 a kind of awe. " I saw the Helots go, and a few Perioikoi. 
 I saw the Pass after the battle. Master. Only thou art 
 alive." 
 
 "Oh, Batto! Oh, Batto!" moaned the sick man as he 
 
262 THE SPARTAN 
 
 began to see the truth. Then he fell silent and sat 
 looking straight aheaxf, fixed in a wide loneliness which 
 Batto could not break in upon. 
 
 A week later began as tragic a journey as human heart 
 can imagine — one man and his poor slave trailing 
 back along the way by which the Three Hundred had 
 come out, young, full-lifed, compacted of glorious 
 courage. Aristodemos took the way back feebly. He 
 was imable to support the shield and helm that had once 
 sat so light upon him. He walked bareheaded while 
 Batto behind him carried his arms. They met few 
 travellers, and those generally ran into the coppice before 
 the two could come up. 
 
 They passed a little wayside temple. It was but a 
 charred ruin. The masterful wind was scattering it 
 upon the road. Was aU Hellas a Tuin scattering thus 
 upon the wind? 
 
 To Aristodemos his illness in the cave now seemed a 
 long, troubled sleep from which he was awaking upon 
 a strange world — a world which he did not know, whose 
 events he could not guess at— a world of unrelieved sorrow. 
 
 The sorrow had a strange trick of meeting him re- 
 peated afresh upon the road, thrusting out upon him a 
 new face at each turn of the hills. 
 
 It was near this steep little vineyard that Demonax 
 had given him that greeting. He had forgotten about 
 Demonax, that he, too, was dead with the rest. How 
 strongly he had walked that day! How he had lifted 
 those straight black brows of his, with what feigned 
 surprise, to see his friend Eurytos leaning upon Aristo- 
 demos's shoulder. 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 263 
 
 "What, Eurytos," he had said, "art still in the ranks? 
 I thought thou wast sick at Isthmos." 
 
 "Yea, dead were I at Isthmos, for all thee!" had the 
 other flung back bitterly. And Aristodemos had added 
 his taunts also. Now those two quarrellers were both 
 gone into the mystery. He wondered if they still taunted 
 each other, meeting in the haUs of Hades. 
 
 Later, as he neared the village of Tethronion, Alpheos 
 suddenly recurred to him. For here the men had crowded 
 around a spring and pushed and jostled each other from 
 the brink. But Alpheos, that stem and well-nigh un- 
 speaking warrior, had stepped back, stUl athirst, to 
 give Aristodemos place. It was an unusual courtesy in 
 an older man. Aristodemos had wondered why he did it, 
 but he had not asked him. And now he would never know. 
 
 So, one upon another, the familiar figures gleamed forth 
 in his memory and faded again into irrevocable silence. 
 So he walked on solitary through ruined Phokis, over 
 high paths, along lowland roads, through burned little 
 villages and forests dark and still. As he walked his 
 sorrow gathered ever to its focus, fixed itself on that one 
 supreme loss. A threnody was ever beating in his heart. 
 It was all "Leonidas! Leonidas! Leonidas!" 
 
 Ah, how clearly Leonidas had gone forth, how fully com- 
 prehending what might lie ahead ! When in all that north- 
 ward journey had he once smiled or taken ease? Yet 
 he had been their heartener. And never had Aristodemos 
 approached him without midway meeting that glad rec- 
 ognizing look of his, that look of outreach and relief, 
 as if the lonely soxil were harboured suddenly in its love 
 and riding free of outer storm. 
 
264 THE SPARTAN 
 
 At the edge of an evening cold and clear Aristodemos 
 came to a well-remembered elm which stretched out 
 great arms over the road, a broad pavilion of shade. 
 Here had been a night's halting place. Aristodemos could 
 even see traces of their camp. In the morning they had 
 sung a psean as they marched away, the great lusty 
 soimd of it reverberating against the hills. No breath 
 more was in those who made that manly music. And 
 now remained this awful, unbroken silence of death, 
 that seemed to embrace the whole world, he alone sur- 
 viving the world. 
 
 With a great anguished cry he sank down upon the 
 road. Batto ran to him. "Master! Master! "he cried. 
 "Ah, I knew the Master was too ill for journeying!" 
 But Aristodemos seized the rough slave hand, pressing 
 it, touching the arm to make sure of its reality. It was 
 real and warm! At least this was living, human! He 
 shook as if in an ague. He called aloud upon Leonidas 
 until Batto looked fearfully about him, feeling that even 
 a ghost must perforce come to answer such piteous 
 summoning. There was a rage, too, at this moment in 
 Aristodemos's heart that would have killed a thousand 
 Persians in payment of his friend. 
 
 Next morning on a lonely hillside beside the road 
 Aristodemos saw a bright-coloured heap. 
 
 "Batto," he said, "I think yonder is a woman." 
 
 "What was a woman," said Batto bluntly. 
 
 "But it moves!" 
 
 "Thine eyes are yet dim. Master. It's her loose hair 
 lifting in the wind." 
 
 They both hurried up the hill. The little face was yet 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 265 
 
 pretty in its gray whiteness. It was scarce more than 
 a child's face, but the clumsy hard-worked hands were 
 tightly clenched and she had torn her hair as was the 
 custom of Greek women. This was still the Phokian 
 land. And right dear had the Phokians paid for their 
 abandonment of the secret path. 
 
 "Oh, Batto, she hath terribly suffered!" said Aristo- 
 demos . "See her hands ! ' ' 
 
 "It is only a poor peasant, Master," said Batto. 
 "There be many more have suffered." 
 
 "But this one shall have burial. Wouldst anger the 
 gods, Batto.?" 
 
 Aristodemos knelt beside the little figure and with un- 
 steady hands laid smooth the dress, and the long black 
 locks, which the wind had flung and tossed. They were 
 like a coarse, thick garment reaching to her waist. He 
 and Batto dug a little grave and laid her in it, performing 
 the sacred rites for the dead. 
 
 "There, there, poor soul," said Aristodemos. "Thou shalt 
 go into Hades at last, nor wander any longer without rest." 
 Then he journeyed down the road again, seeing all 
 the way naught but that lamentable sight. Farther on 
 he came upon a rude heap of stones and charred wood. 
 About it sat a family whose home it had been. The 
 mother was trying half-heartedly to put stone upon stone 
 again. The father sat gazing at the place with hollow 
 haunted eyes. As the travellers appeared the children 
 fled screaming to the thicket. But seeing Aristodemos 
 with Batto alone, they came back again stealthily like 
 foxes and began to beg for food. "Bread, Master! 
 Give us bread!" they whined. 
 
266 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos asked them whither the Persians had gone. 
 They only looked vacantly at him. "We do not care," 
 the father said at last. "They can do no more to us." 
 
 Batto had been looking hard at the mother. "Did 
 ye know a girl," he asked, "with a roundish face? 
 Had lost the tip of her forefinger, and wore a crimson 
 girdle?" 
 
 The woman dropped her stone and ran to him, shaking 
 him by the shoulders and crying, "Lanike! Lanike! 
 Where hast thou seen Lanike!" 
 
 "Up yonder on the hill," said Batto. "I thought ye 
 looked like kin," he added. "It was my honourable 
 master gave her burial." 
 
 Aristodemos thought the woman must faint at so blunt 
 a telling. But she turned to him, clasping his knees and 
 kissing his hands. "It was my Lanike! And thou hast 
 buried her! The gods reward thee!" Then she ran 
 to her husband. "Dost hear?" she cried. "Our Lanike 
 is not left unburied as those others." 
 
 But the man only looked stupidly into her face. 
 
 "He hath been so," said the woman, "ever since the 
 Persians harried us." 
 
 After this Aristodemos lost all hope for Hellas. Even 
 so had the Persians used her to the very end. What was 
 to stop their rage and wantonness? Indeed, was there 
 any Hellas left to save? 
 
 He reached Antikyra, one of the ports of sacred Delphi, 
 on the Corinthian Gulf. He wondered at the bright look 
 of the faces in the town. Did they really care so little for 
 the fate of Hellas, seeing that their own town had by some 
 chance escaped? In the market place he found them 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 267 
 
 at their careless talk. A trader passed him, swinging 
 along with sailor gait. Aristodemos ventured to pluck 
 him by the sleeve. 
 
 "Tell me," he said desperately, "tell me the worst 
 about Hellas!" 
 
 The man stared at him in amazement and pulled away. 
 
 "Art thou from the dead," he asked, "or maddened?" 
 
 "Oh, would I were dead this day with Hellas!" cried 
 Aristodemos, all his bitterness mirrored in his face. 
 
 At this the man tried to flee, fearing some portent. 
 But Aristodemos clung to him. 
 
 "Tell me! Tell me!" he pleaded. 
 
 "What dost thou want? Hast not heard of Salamis?" 
 Despite his fear of Aristodemos the trader's face took on 
 an exultant look. 
 
 "No! What has happened to Salamis?" 
 
 "Salamis? Salamis?" The man's voice fairly sang 
 the word. "Why, the gloriousest victory that ever man 
 won! All the gods fought with us ! " 
 
 Aristodemos's whole frame rang like a sounded lyre. 
 
 "Where hast thou been?" questioned the trader in- 
 credulously. 
 
 Aristodemos could not speak to answer him. But 
 the wild joy of his face was unmistakable. 
 
 "Ho, there!" shouted the man to a lounging group 
 nearby. "Here! Here is a fellow that does not know of 
 Salamis! Never heard of Salamis!" 
 
 "Not heard of Salamis!" laughed a vender as he leaped 
 over his stall. They crowded about him — loungers, 
 venders, and citizens — overwhelming Aristodemos with 
 their clamour. "Salamis!" roared a burly Corcyrean 
 
268 THE SPARTAN 
 
 seaman with a great red scar across his face. "Salamis! 
 Yes, by the gods, the waves of Salamis are red yet with 
 the dirty Persian blood." 
 
 "The Persians were at Phaleron — " began a young 
 Delphic pilgrim. 
 
 " — But our ships were in a snug hole behind Salamis," 
 broke in another, "and we made the Persians come in 
 after us, into the narrow place." 
 
 "The battle was begun by an Athenian," boasted a 
 youth from Athens. 
 
 "No; it was an jEginetan! " cried a jealous Corinthian. 
 
 "An iEginetan!" retorted the Athenian scornfully. 
 "Ye of Peloponnese would have fled if our Themistokles 
 hadn't trapped you into the fight! Our ships fought 
 in line," he explained. "And when we crashed into 
 the Persians we drove them wild with terror untU they 
 fairly began to run each other down. Well, their fleet is 
 a wreck. Our women are piling it now on the shore 
 for kindling wood." 
 
 "Xerxes has got him home to Susa, and a sorry time 
 he had coming there again!" 
 
 "But they have not gone — not aU the Persians!" 
 gasped Aristodemos. 
 
 "No. Mardonios is wintering in Thessaly. Oh, but 
 we will thrash him! The gods are with us, man! The 
 gods are with us!" And they clapped him on the back 
 and capered and went quite wild with joy. It was only 
 through questioning that Aristodemos learned how the 
 Athenian Acropolis had much of it been burned. 
 
 "The Acropolis!" he cried blankly. 
 
 " Yes. But the sacred olive tree in Erechtheus's temple 
 
IN THE WAKE OF WAR 269 
 
 budded anew and sent forth a shoot a cubit long the very 
 day of the burning. And Athens is building it all 
 again." Not even his city's misfortune could damp the 
 young Athenian's jubilation. 
 
 At length Aristodemos broke away from them, almost 
 staggering under his weight of joy. Hellas lived! 
 He had presumed to fear for her! And still — for in. this 
 the gods were kind — there was work ahead ! There 
 would yet be battles for Hellas! He would deal woe to 
 the Persians with his own hand, requiting the death of 
 his love-comrade and king. 
 
 The Greeks of the Salamis day did not know that the 
 Western world down all the centuries would be thankful 
 for their deeds. Yet the power of the fact was in them, 
 exalting them with high, fine passion — a passion which 
 outran "Hellas" and was touched with a kind of world 
 prophecy beyond their ken. And it was this world-filling 
 joy which now possessed Aristodemos as he stood looking 
 across the clear blue Gulf of Corinth southward toward 
 home. 
 
 He was roused by a timid pull at his sleeve. Batto 
 was there. 
 
 "Those be pretty ships. Master. See how they pull 
 at anchor." 
 
 "Yes," answered Aristodemos dreamily and hardly 
 aware of him. " They are ever eager to be gone, are ships." 
 
 "These ships are for the West. I wish we were going 
 in a ship. Thou canst not go to Sparta in a ship, Master." 
 
 "No." Aristodemos did not see his drift. 
 
 "Ei! Hateful Sparta!" broke out Batto. "Hateful 
 Sparta I" 
 
270 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos turned. It was in his heart to free Batto 
 then and there. But Batto was gone. Aristodemos 
 searched for him through the streets and at the wharves. 
 But there was no Batto anywhere, and he would not put 
 others on the search. He believed that Batto had been 
 about to ask for freedom but at the pinch could not 
 trust his master's promise. Poor Batto! 
 
 A ship sailed for Sicily that afternoon with a new man 
 in the crew, a jolly fellow who sang rude Dorian songs 
 aU the while he rowed and worked. 
 
 "He sings," said the captain, "like a man new free." 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 A Mother in Sparta 
 
 SALA.MIS wrought upon Aristodemos like some 
 divine medicine. Next morning his eyes for the 
 first time felt well. He washed in the GuK and 
 started for the south. 
 
 Upon the Argos road he fell in with a traveller, a huge 
 Laconian freeman of cheerful countenance who walked 
 with him and began to question. 
 
 "Thou'rt a soldier," he ventured. "Hast perhaps 
 fought at Salamis?" 
 
 "Would gods I had!" answered Aristodemos. 
 "Know'st.thou any of the fighters?" 
 
 At this the man started off with the deeds of prowess, 
 of Aristides and his Island fighting, of the Persian woman's 
 ship, of Themistokles — 
 
 But as Aristodemos listened a kind of jealousy began to 
 grow in him for those who had gone out to glorious failure 
 at Thermopylae. 
 
 "Yes, every road rings with Salamis-praise!" he burst 
 
 271 
 
272 THE SPARTAN 
 
 out bitterly. " But no word — no word for Thermopylae. 
 And I tell you, man, that was the harder fight." Saying 
 "Thermopylae" he thought "Leonidas." 
 
 " Ay, of course; who knows not that?" The man was 
 puzzled at Aristodemos's sudden wrath. "They gave 
 their lives — those men — every one of them. They 
 were the fore-strength of Salamis. And this is the song 
 of them: 
 
 *Qf those who died at Thermopylm 
 Glorious is the fortune, fair the doom. 
 Their grave is an altar. 
 Worship have they for mourning, 
 A chant of praise for dirge. 
 No rust shall stain their winding-sheet. 
 No, nor all-conquering time.' 
 
 "All Greece knoweth Simonides's song by heart," 
 said the man, and went on with his exultant chanting — 
 
 "'This shrine of valiant men hath taken 
 For its indweller the glory of all Hellas. 
 Leonidas is witness, Sparta's king. 
 Who hath left great glory of noble deeds 
 And ever fresh renown.'" 
 
 Aristodemos walked beside him hearing it, drinking it 
 in. Pride, grief, and envy of the heroic dead contended 
 within him. 
 
 "And there's a strange tale about Thermopylae," 
 the Laconian went on. " They say that one man escaped, 
 one man only." 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 273 
 
 Aristodemos lifted his head with quick question. 
 
 "Oh, the Helots brought the tale. They must always 
 be telling something. If not of men then of demons. 
 Myself, I don't believe it." 
 
 "But suppose it had been true?" 
 
 "Nay, it's a silly tale, that two men were sick of the 
 eyes; one ran down into the fight and the other ran away." 
 
 "But why?" Aristodemos managed to ask. "Why 
 should the other keep away?" 
 
 "Oh, no reason that I know of. And some say he was 
 not blind, but was off upon a mission. It's mixed, ye 
 see. But if the man's alive he'll never come back." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 The Laconian gave a short laugh. "Why should he? 
 The world is wide." 
 
 At the next road turn Aristodemos made a way of escape 
 from the man. 
 
 So this story had come to Sparta, distorted, false. 
 Would the Spartans see through it? Oh, the bitterness 
 of coming back with explanations! Until now he had 
 been too stunned with grief and awe to think of himself — 
 indeed, to think clearly at all. But now — would the 
 Spartans see his reason for refusing to plunge after that 
 foolish death? "I was right! I was right!" he said. 
 But he began to explore the Spartan mind as never before. 
 Eurytos said — oh, but Eurytos had been a fool! Aris- 
 todemos broke into sweat as he heard again that insult. 
 But Eurytos had been sick, beside himself. Sparta 
 could never be so witless, at home, in calm blood. "I 
 fought with the best," Aristodemos assured himself. 
 Would the Spartans, though, believe that he had fought? 
 
274 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Nay, if the Helots had told so much, they must have 
 told of the good fighting too. They saw him fight. 
 Aye, and the Spartans themselves after all these years 
 knew Axistodemos thoroughly. They knew he was no 
 craven. 
 
 Upon this he began to hope and travel on again. So 
 deep in thought had he been that he found himself stand- 
 ing still in the road. Toward the last of his journey 
 Aristodemos grew very lonely, and as he retraced the way 
 by which his beloved captain had first led out the Three 
 Hundred his heart almost burst with the memory of 
 Leonidas. He longed for the sight of some face he knew. 
 He was in a tender mood toward Sparta when he came 
 at last to the town where she smiled on her little hills 
 in the bright sun. 
 
 He saw some boys bathing for the noon heat in Eurotas, 
 where he so often had bathed. They looked up toward 
 him. Then he saw them leap out and run off toward the 
 town, flinging their clothes on as they ran. 
 
 "Why did they do so?" Aristodemos was at once 
 stung into anxiety again. Still he was not sure whether 
 the boys had recognized him, or whether if they had they 
 might not be racing to be the first with news. With 
 heart tugging at the bitter doubt he strode across the 
 little bridge. 
 
 Under a great plane tree sat a woman with her distaff, 
 her babe and slave beside her. She lifted her head to 
 gaze at the traveller, caught a gleam of his shield, a glint 
 of his bowed head. Then she rose up with a breathless 
 cry and ran to him as only a Spartan woman could run. 
 Aristodemos did not see her until she was close by. 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 275 
 
 Then his face lightened with joy. He stretched out his 
 great free arm to her. 
 
 "Gorgo, Gorgo," he whispered, thrilling at the unex- 
 pected welcome, feeling in his young heart that never 
 woman was so create for loving as this mate of his friend. 
 
 As for Gorgo, she laid her widowed head upon his 
 shoulder, weeping her heart out, calling aloud the name 
 they both held so dear. 
 
 "Thou didst see him?" she faltered. "Thou canst 
 tell me all that my king did after he left my eyes?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Aristodemos. "Oh, Gorgo, I saw his 
 heart lift with victory, and I saw it break!" 
 
 Upon which Gorgo fell to weeping again. He told her 
 of the march, of Leonidas's masterful strategy. 
 
 "But how did he fight?" she asked. "Tell me how he 
 fought." 
 
 "Nay, Gorgo, he was the battle itself. His deeds, his 
 control, were everywhere. He fought like a god!" 
 
 "He is a god now," said Gorgo simply. "No? Did 
 you not hear that? The Spartans have deified him. We 
 have a new altar now — the altar to Leonidas." 
 
 But Aristodemos took this bitterly. "Aye," he broke 
 out, "they worship him now as a god, whom they grieved 
 and harried in his life. 'Tis easy enough to honour at 
 home with pleasant sacrifice the hero whom they left to 
 die at the Pass. His death is on their heads !" 
 
 "But they do worship him," persisted the woman, with 
 quiet ecstasy. "And this my little son is now the son 
 of a divine one. We bring gifts in the morning, he and 
 I, into the bright new shrine." 
 
 And soite of his first resentful aneer. Aristodemos 
 
276 THE SPARTAN 
 
 caught her mood. Leonidas — a god! The man whom 
 he had known so close, with whom he had eaten, with 
 whom he had slept, whom he had seen at the day's end 
 weary and forespent, whom he had embraced with devoted 
 love. He was a god ! In the twinkling of an eye, one with 
 glorious Herakles, with Castor and Pollux. And no far- 
 oflE Olympian, but a close guardian god, hovering over his 
 precinct, receiving burnt offering and answering prayer. 
 Oh, what loving, intimate worship would Aristodemos 
 pay him! How close would he find him at that new 
 altar! He felt that he must run to it in his eagerness 
 of adoration. 
 
 In those vital days of Greece it was easy to believe. 
 
 Leonidas's little son interrupted them, pulling at his 
 mother's dress. 
 
 "Mother, mother," he whimpered. "Take me now 
 to the river. Thou promised to take me there." 
 
 "Yes, little son," she said as she took him in her strong 
 arms. "I will see thee quickly again, Aristodemos. Go 
 to his temple, then come straight to me. Oh, thou must 
 tell me all!" 
 
 So Aristodemos kissed them both and walked swiftly 
 onward into the town. He was sure now of the Spartans. 
 Gorgo was queen. Their ways would not be different 
 from hers. She had not even mentioned the Helot 
 story. He passed Lichas, an old friend of Gylippos, who 
 gave him his rough greeting. Aristodemos heard him 
 with a short shaken laugh. Yes, he had mistrusted those 
 Spartans too hastily. 
 
 He came in sight of the square. It was crowded. 
 The boys had fetched their news. Aristodemos strode 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 277 
 
 in among the men. "Oh, Tisias!" he cried. "Phileus!" 
 greeting them with outstretched hands. 
 
 They surged away from him as if seeing a ghost. Aris- 
 todemos looked about startled at their deathly silence. 
 Then a harsh, terrible shout broke .the silence. Aris- 
 todemos's face whitened like ashes. Something clicked 
 to in his heart like a closed breastplate. Here was a 
 battle such as he had never faced before. But he would 
 face it! A kind of stark courage came into him. 
 
 He lifted his hand for silence. There was a dignity 
 and gentleness in the gesture that should have robbed 
 them of their violence. But they only yelled the louder 
 and ran at him, jostling him with their shoulders and 
 elbows. Now he heard more clearly the word which 
 made up that terrible greeting. 
 
 "Coward! Coward! Aristodemos the Coward! 
 Coward of Thermopylae!" 
 
 But Aristodemos's clear voice lifted above the noise. 
 
 "Hear me! Hear me! Ye shall! Ye do not xmder- 
 stand!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, speak!" they howled, and they broke into 
 insolent laughter. "Tell us! Tell us — do — where is 
 Alpheos! Where is Demonax? Maron? Why didst 
 not bring them with thee.? Eurytos — he was not afraid 
 to die! Where is thy friend Leonidas? Ei, thy lover 
 Leonidas? Ei! Ei! Where is Leonidas?" 
 
 So they pelted him with the sacred names of the dead. 
 It was worse than stoning. 
 
 "Fools! Ye fools!" he cried in incredulous wrath. 
 " I fought that fight ! I bore " 
 
 But their senseless din drowned his voice. With a 
 
278 THE SPARTAN 
 
 cry of disgust he broke through the yelling crowd and 
 ran into the temple of Athena Xenia. They thought 
 he was taking sanctuary, and yelled after him: 
 
 " The gods refuse thee, thou coward ! Go hang thyselfl" 
 
 But Aristodemos had no fear of them that he should 
 take sanctuary. He was but trying in the quiet of the 
 holy place to get clear of the tumult within as well as 
 of the timiult without, so that he might have strength 
 to brush off this preposterous disgrace. He, the friend 
 of Leonidas, the son of Lykos — oh, it was impossible! 
 Dishonoured! — But first he must still the confusion 
 which possessed him. Gods, how clear, how clear he 
 must keep his brain! 
 
 The Spartans soon forgot him there in the temple, 
 and began to go about their various business. 
 
 In the afternoon the chorus gathered in its comer 
 of the Agora and their familiar song arose, well nigh 
 breaking his heart with its melody. But they were 
 singing lamely. They missed their wonted leader. 
 
 Surely they would listen if he took his right of song 
 among them, that light of Choragos which was his own 
 office. Ah, if he could but sing the story ! 
 
 He leaped down the temple steps, shouting the song as 
 he came. He had in his heart the fuU tale of Thermopy- 
 lae to sing to that tune. 
 
 A moment he swayed them, especially the younger 
 boys, who thrilled under his voice, and all unconsciously 
 took his masterly rhythm. The choral sound lifted as 
 he joined it like a fresh fed flame. 
 
 Then the men seized him. 
 
 "Thou mad with insolence!" they cried. "Go to thy 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 279 
 
 place!" And they hurled him back beyond the youths, 
 beyond the youngest boys, to the lowest place. 
 
 He tried to finish out the song, but his voice choked 
 and failed. Like a wounded thing he slipped away, 
 hurrying with bowed head down the narrow street. 
 
 At a comer he came full upon Gorgo herself with her 
 little son. 
 
 "Oh — Oh!" he cried. "Gorgo!" Then found that 
 he could not speak at all. But Gorgo seized both his 
 hands. She was full of queenly indignation for his sake. 
 
 "I heard them!" she cried. "They gave thee not one 
 chance. Thou art of the bravest. Tell me how thou 
 earnest out of battle!" 
 
 He told her brokenly of his mission, of his day in the 
 Persian camp, of the belated warning to the Fhokians. 
 
 "I knew! I knew!" triumphed Gorgo. "It was but 
 a slave's tale!" 
 
 "We were blind," he told her, "blind as moles!" 
 
 "But Eurytos — was he blind?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, and ten thousand Persians were between us 
 and our Spartans. He was led down blind into the 
 shambles. There was no purpose under heaven in the 
 going. It was but a fool's flourish " 
 
 But even as he was speaking he saw, to his horror, 
 Gorgo drawing away, gathering her little one to her, 
 gazing at him in cold wonder. 
 
 "Gorgo! Gorgo!" he cried in bitter pleading. "Try 
 to understand ! Do thou not wrong me — do not " 
 
 "I do not wrong thee," she said sadly. And she turned 
 away with a finality that he well knew in her. 
 
 His head — his whole body — seemed to sink. He 
 
280 THE SPAETAN 
 
 moved slowly down the street and out into the 
 fields. 
 
 All day he lay without the town. But, as the cold 
 twilight fell, the longing for some touch with human 
 kind grew very keen. He had not given up his fight. 
 He had no thought to die. It was his right to do battle 
 again for Hellas and for the memory of Leonidas. These 
 dullard Spartans! He would force them to understand. 
 Through the falling dusk he heard the men marching to 
 their evening meal. He determined to take his place 
 among them. 
 
 He stood a moment outside the open door. They 
 were alreadj' eating, a jolly, hungry crowd, strangely 
 familiar to him though lacking the men he had loved 
 the best. His face looked drawn and thin as he gazed 
 in toward the light, his gray eyes very steady, his lips 
 set in their new, sorrowful way. Then, with head deli- 
 cately lifted and nostrils just a little stirring with full 
 breath, he walked among them. 
 
 He took a vacant place. At once fell silence. The 
 men moved away, leaving him a wide place alone. One 
 of them in so moving brushed against his cuirass and 
 sword. And the look of horror on the man's face as he 
 stepped back recalled to Aristodemos that even the 
 weapons of a coward were of evil touch. 
 
 Aristodemos looked about the board and opened his 
 lips to speak. But the captain brought both fists down 
 upon the table with a shout. 
 
 "Men! Men! Shall we listen to The Coward speak- 
 ing in our midst?" 
 
 "Aristodemos," he turned upon him, "fill thy belly 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 281 
 
 an thou wilt. But fill us not with lying words, else we 
 fling thee forth." 
 
 ■'I fill thee with no lies !" rang Aristodemos's quick voice. 
 "I speak true. I am no coward. I have fought for 
 Greece. The Helots who came back wiU tell you. And 
 by the Gods-^Tio-Know, I will fight for her again!" 
 
 He rose, lifting his hands on high, as he pronounced 
 the sacred oath. 
 
 There was instant tumult. Some younger men at 
 the table's end shouted: 
 
 "Hear him! He has a right to a hearing! Speak, 
 Aristodemos!" 
 
 "No!" thundered the leader. "By Pollux, he blas- 
 phemes !" 
 
 " Don't listen to the blasphemer !" shouted others. And 
 even the young men began to join the shout. "Coward! 
 Coward!" And they pushed him out into the night. 
 
 He was neither pale not pleading. "Fools and blind!" 
 he cried. "Your swine's dullness wiU yet ruin Sparta!" 
 
 He plunged madly down the street and into the open. 
 There on Colona Hill, where he and Leonidas had so 
 often held long confidences together, he paced like a 
 frenzied man aU the starht night. 
 
 Next morning in spite of wrecking emotions he was 
 boyishly hungry and knew that he must eat to keep 
 strength for this bitter fight. If Sparta refused him he 
 would journey to Athens and fight for Hellas there. He 
 gathered stones and hid behind a rock, whence he soon 
 brought down a hare. He dressed it and made ready his 
 fire. But he had no spark to kindle his fire. 
 
 He made his way to the nearest house, where rising 
 
282 THE SPARTAN 
 
 smoke showed him that the morning meal was making 
 ready. He knew the man who answered his knock. 
 
 "Klearistes," he said with feigned indifference, "I 
 will take a light of thy fire." 
 
 The man bristled like an angry dog. "Not thou!" 
 he said, placing himself full in the doorway. 
 
 Aristodemos had expected this. For the hearth fire 
 was sacred. He turned with bowed head as if to go away, 
 then wheeling suddenly roiind he pushed the man full 
 in the chest, toppling him over backward. Aristodemos 
 leaped over him into the house. He seized a fagot 
 from the hearth-blaze and turned with it to get away. 
 The man had risen, but Aristodemos was armed with 
 his brand of burning twigs. With it he parried the 
 man's blows, edged around him to the door and then fled, 
 guarding his precious flame. He had been careful not 
 to hurt the man. He did not want the whole pack of 
 Spartan hounds upon his back. 
 
 He kindled his fire and hung his little skinned hare on 
 a spit over the blaze. But the whole incident had been 
 degrading. That he, the son of Lykos, should be a sort 
 of wild man snatching his meat of forest things, sitting 
 alone by his stolen fire, seemed too bitter for belief. 
 Tears welled up in his eves as he sat there looking at his 
 hare, and he forgot it until it was weU nigh past eating 
 for blackness. 
 
 There was yet one hope. His mother at least would 
 hear him out. Not that he looked for much affection from 
 her, or even trust. Yet she would want to believe him. 
 Upon Aristodemos hung the whole future of her house. 
 She would listen and she could tell the truth to Sparta. 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 283 
 
 This morning, however, Aristodemos shrank from 
 contact with anyone. Something within him had been 
 wounded beyond healing, and it was his instinct to keep 
 it hid. And yet — he was the son of Lykos, the lover of 
 Leonidas. It was as if he bore some sacred thing not his 
 own that had been wantonly sullied and which he must 
 needs purify, turning yet away from precious death until 
 that be accomphshed. 
 
 Death! Ah, what a dear privilege that would have 
 been. The old lament of Achilles kept ringing in his 
 memory: 
 
 "Straight let me die. 
 Seeing I might not come to aid 
 Of my dear comrade 
 When he lay dying." 
 
 He rose with a sigh and started slowly toward the town. 
 Boys who met him kept the way and made him turn out 
 of the path. Each indignity was like a new blow on an 
 open wound. He grew rigid and cold enduring it. But 
 he straightened himself and hurried on to Pitane to his 
 own house. He looked in at the open door. 
 
 His mother sat there in the shadowy room slightly 
 turned away, busy with her task. She was separating 
 bleached wool for the spinning and the snowy heaps 
 of it billowed about her knees and her lap where her 
 fair strong hands moved at the work. 
 
 Aristodemos paused. He dreaded to speak to her. 
 Yet as he paused he could not but realize how beautiful 
 she looked there, unconscious with her task, how bright 
 and young the head that his father had loved so well. 
 
284 THE SPARTAN 
 
 how broad the bosom breathing restfulness in the shadows. 
 There was in her a thoughtful sadness which he had never 
 seen before. His sorrow had hurt her, too. A great 
 wish was upon him to lay his weary head where it had 
 lain in childhood and, if only for a moment, to forget. 
 
 "Mother," he whispered; then found voice and spoke 
 aloud, stepping toward her. "Mother! Makaria!" 
 
 She rose and turned, letting fall the wool. Aristode- 
 mos never forgot that swift terrible change in her, as 
 she lifted both her hands above her head in a sudden 
 anguish of wrath. 
 
 "0-o-oh, thou shame of our race! Thou darest !" 
 
 "But, Mother, thou knowest not the truth," began 
 Aristodemos quietly. "First hear — " But she broke in: 
 "Hear thee, thou impious? Nay, but I curse thee!" 
 
 "No, Mother! No, thou wilt not do that!" cried 
 Aristodemos, horror-struck. 
 
 "I will! I will!" 
 
 He caught at her hands, but the very act seemed to 
 loose the flood of her malediction. 
 
 "Thy mother's curse upon thee! Thy mother's curse 
 upon thee!" 
 
 Aristodemos dropped to the floor and clasped at her 
 knees. He must compel her, by the binding act of the 
 suppliant from further devastating words. But she 
 writhed away like a lioness. 
 
 "Oh, that I had died ere I brought thee forth! Foul 
 shame hast thou brought upon me. May it return to 
 thee — multiplied, multiplied may it return!" 
 
 She was full launched now. She began to stamp upon 
 the ground calling the attention of gods below. Her 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 285 
 
 voice rose high like an eagle's. She gathered power of 
 her fury as if her curse were prophecy. 
 
 "Pluto hear me! Dark Persephone, hear me ! Curse 
 me his way and every path he treadeth! Curse me his 
 head! Curse me his feet! Curse me his song to bitter 
 wailing! When he openeth door, let hospitality deny 
 him! When he oflereth gifts and poureth sacred oil 
 blast him from your altars!" 
 
 She turned upon his white face and shuddering form. 
 
 "A-ah, thou fair promise fulfilled in shame! Apollo 
 — Apollo blight thy false beauty with his plague-shafts ! 
 Thou traitor to Leonidas ! — thy sword eat thy scabbard, 
 nor ever touch enemy! Ei! Ei! Woes, unnamable 
 woes! Heap them up! Heap them up! O gods! 
 Coming — going — in — in - — in — and " 
 
 She became incoherent, gasped for breath and fell 
 moaning upon the floor. 
 
 Aristodemos withered under that curse as if it had 
 been some swift pestilence. He stood dry and dumb 
 in the little room. His lips moved, but he could not 
 think this thing. He was accursed — he, Aristodemos. 
 He had done no wrong — yet was an accursed man. 
 Why? Why? 
 
 This lightning stroke made Sparta's refusal a trifling 
 thing. That was a moment's trouble; this was living 
 death. No calamity in all the Greek world was so dire 
 as a curse. It searched the uttermost ways of life to 
 life's undoing, to the perishing of whole races. Now was 
 Aristodemos utterly cut off from life. The man he helped 
 would sicken. The country he fought for — oh, even 
 Hellas! — could only take harm of him now! Whole 
 
286 THE SPARTAN 
 
 cities had perished because of the presence of one such 
 man unclean. 
 
 Makaria began to stir and breathe. In a sudden hor- 
 rible revulsion from her Aristodemos fled from the house. 
 He fled down the narrow street, avoiding the open square, 
 running like a hunted thing by obscure ways until he was 
 clear of the city. At last under a thick leaved plane tree 
 by the deserted road he sank down. 
 
 Now he might have died. All reasons to live had been 
 destroyed. But — strange paradox — he was too tired to 
 die, too stunned to remember that he might. He lay with 
 his face upon the earth, not moving nor weeping, but 
 giving forth now and then a low short moan. 
 
 He knew not how long he had lain there when he heard 
 a faint sound on the road. He lifted himself, startled 
 as a wild creature, and crawled into the bushes. He 
 would not look around. He had an unutterable shrinking 
 from men. But the sound came nearer, surely directed. 
 Aristodemos lay in the bushes and closed his eyes. 
 
 Suddenly there were two little hands in his hair, trying 
 to turn his head, something warm and soft was brushing 
 his cheek, and a babyish voice was crying: 
 
 "Demos! Demos! Master!" 
 
 Aristodemos had forgotten the child's existence. But 
 as he sat up in dull amaze the little creature quite bubbled 
 over with joyous love. He climbed upon Aristodemos's lap 
 and began to kiss his face with sounding, insistent kisses. 
 
 Aristodemos, with a deep drawn unsteady breath, 
 caught the little fellow's shoulders and pushed him rudely 
 off. The child's endearments pierced him with bewild- 
 ering, sharp sweetness. They made him aware of a 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 287 
 
 strange numbness of soul that felt neither joy nor sorrow 
 any more. 
 
 The little one did not understand. He got down to 
 the ground his face sobering and his aggrieved lower lip 
 trembling at the verge of tears. But his manifest hurt 
 wrought strangely upon Aristodemos. 
 
 "Thou shalt not grieve!" he fiercely cried, gathering 
 him back again. "Grief is too terrible and thou art too 
 small, too young. Come to me !" He put his arms about 
 the child. "Little son, little son!" he said, "why didst 
 thou come to me?" He kissed the child with lips that 
 he could not keep from trembling. 
 
 "Demos not go from Mendi, never any more," said 
 the child, quickly comforted. He nestled down against 
 Aristodemos's breast. They sat so for some time, 
 Aristodemos looking dully into space. Then he noticed 
 the child again. 
 
 "How thou hast grown!" he said, passing his hand 
 down the pretty body to the bare feet. "Why, thou'rt 
 almost tall." 
 
 "Mendi a big, big boy," was his childish boast. 
 " Mendi run away. Mendi find Demos !" 
 
 Run away — yes, to be sure; the child had run away. 
 They woidd be looking for him home in Sparta. And 
 Aristodemos suddenly recalled that his own love — the love 
 of an accursed man — would harm the child. This 
 was no good thing he was doing, to bring down on this 
 little head the displeasure of the gods. He looked at 
 Mendi blankly, with tightening heart. Then he rose and 
 carried him to the middle of the road. He was stern 
 because he dared not be tender. 
 
288 THE SPARTAN 
 
 '"Now, Mendi," he said. "Run back the way thou 
 earnest. Go to Makaria." 
 
 The astonished child looked at him a moment, and then 
 with a great wail sat down flat in the dust. 
 
 "Oh, but don't do that," said Aristodemos, much taken 
 aback. He tried to pick up the child, but he was as limp 
 and heavA- as a soaked garment. His wails rent the air. 
 
 "Wilt not stand on thy feet like a little man.* " pleaded 
 Aristodemos. For the dangling feet curled under when- 
 ever he tried to set the child upon them. 
 
 "Mendi not go to XTakaria," wept the boy. "Makaria 
 bad!" 
 
 "Xo, Mendi. Makaria is good." But the words 
 stuck in Aristodemos's throat. "Makaria will give thee 
 honey cake. Run back quick to Makaria." 
 
 The child shook his head jjositively. 
 
 " Makaria bad," he repeated. 
 
 "But how is she bad?" asked Aristodemos. 
 
 The child looked up astonished at his dullness. 
 
 "Mendi not like Makaria any more," he declared. 
 
 "I wish I knew what thou wouldst tell me, httle son," 
 said Aristodemos, troubled at his earnestness. It was 
 harder even than he thought to send the child away. 
 But Mendi seemed to put the whole subject aside. He 
 thrust his two little hands into Aristodemos's hair, pulling 
 it and laughing merrily as Aristodemos shook himself 
 free. Suddenly he sobered. 
 
 "Makaria whip !Mendi," he said. "Put Mendi out 
 in slave-house." He pulled up his timic and displayed 
 a chubby thigh ribbed with welts whose origin was plain. 
 
 "^Miat? She flogs thee for a slave!" Aristodemos 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 289 
 
 cried, loud and harsh. "Thou, my son, adopted before 
 the king!" 
 
 "Makaria put on nasty dress," complained Mendi, 
 holding up his little .sleeved arm, and plucking with 
 disdain at the brown cloth. Now, over all Greece a 
 brown garment with sleeves was worn only by slaves. 
 Makaria had evidently been prompt to vent her rage upon 
 his adopted son. 
 
 "And she dared! She dared!" cried Aristodemos 
 hoarsely. He took the tiny sleeve in his fingers, tore it 
 from wrist to shoulder, and rent it oflF. 
 
 "There," he said wrathfuUy, "there goes her slavery! 
 Disdainer of the gods!" 
 
 There came a day when Aristodemos was rather sorry 
 for having spoiled a warm garment. But just now the 
 anger did him wondrous good. 
 
 "For curse or blessing," he said, "thou art mine, 
 Mendi. At least I can save thee from her slavery." 
 And with a wonderful new sense that the child was again 
 his own he caught him in his arms. 
 
 "My little son!" he dared to call him. The thought 
 that the child had no other refuge gave him a kind of 
 fearful joy. 
 
 "Demos love Mendi now," pronounced Mendi com- 
 placently. 
 
 " I always loved thee, little one, — always, since the 
 moment thou fleddest to me from that vile Phoenician." 
 
 But Mendi did not long sustain this height of emotion. 
 
 "Mendi have dinner now," he said confidently, looking 
 into Aristodemos's face, while Aristodemos gazed blankly 
 back at him. 
 
290 THE SPAETAN 
 
 "Hungry, art thou? And I have nothing for thee." 
 
 The child looked frightened. 
 
 "Thou wilt not cry," said Aristodemos hastily, 
 
 " No — no," retorted Mendi, blinking his ^es with 
 such a show of hardihood that Aristodemos could not but 
 smile in spite of his |)erplexity. 
 
 "Go home?" asked the child, climbing down. 
 
 "No, never!" 
 
 "Where, then?" 
 
 Ah, where indeed! Was there any whither in the worid 
 for an accursed man? 
 
 "Oh, Mendi," he cried, "where, where is thine own 
 father? If I could but bring thee to him! Thou must 
 not take a son's curse of me!" 
 
 Aristodemos lost himself in the puzzle. What could 
 he do with the child? He dared not keep him, yet he 
 could not leave him on the road. The bitter helplessness 
 of the curse seemed to beat him down. He had never 
 known but that single clue to the child's parentage — if 
 clue indeed it was. 
 
 "Mendi," he asked, "where is thy luck-penny?" 
 
 Mendi pulled at the string, hirought out his coin, and 
 held it toward Aristodemos, saying just as he had said 
 the first day, "MendL" 
 
 "Dost remember it so, Mendi? Surely I should get 
 some meaning from thee." 
 
 He looked closely at the ann. It was a cunningly 
 fashioned drachma. One side showed a Uon with carving 
 back and bristling mane, the other a beautiful archaic 
 head of Athena. The rim of the coin had been so hacked 
 that it could not have passed for its value, and the citv 
 
A MOTHER IN" SPABTA 291 
 
 name was ol£teiated, save a "Y £". But on the other 
 side, Todeh- scxatched qnite ^.:r:55 the body of the Htm, 
 ■srexe ibs stiag /:n g lette-s "11 A P '. 
 
 Anstodemc-s did not knc'*^ the coin. McHiey was lare 
 in Epazta. The does w^rr broken, the secret cirklv hid- 
 Wbocooldieadi"? Divinass-imetinies knew soch things, 
 saw disn in v^ons or trances. Bat "^here was s. drriDer 
 to be found? Sometrzie; in temples cme eooki win an 
 osade bom. a god- "An ocadef he n-^5^d aload. Ah, 
 there was cme great csade, one place of all jdaces to seek 
 hidden knowledge. Afen came frtsn aver seas to the 
 ofade at DdphL whexeas he coaM win to it afoot. Even 
 the aocmsed bad the right to go to Delphi for qnestifHii. 
 "Even the ^gItes briiLS gifts to Delphi," was the saving. 
 
 "If we ooald go to Delphi, little Tnan " 
 
 "Dinner at Ddrfiir' sail Alendi issiW. shjqnng his 
 hand into Anstodsnos's, hand ready for the starting. 
 Anstodemos did not smile. Tnistfniness was predoos 
 to him ji^ then. 
 
 "Yes, it is far. Bnt we will go to Delj^'' he decided. 
 
 Bat stiai^it arose a new difficohy — T^iaaey. He 
 would need money for the way and he ■^as penniless. 
 
 "Cb, Mcjidi, little scai,^ he s&id> "the g>i5 are trying 
 us MKiy hard! 
 
 He stood knitting hii tr:-;^ in a pnxzie, whoi thexe 
 seemed to come a tremUing toodi opon his arm, the dd 
 toadi so fainiKar in his childhood. 
 
 "AnctiidicMi's gc^df he esdaimed. "Yes, I will take 
 ^bj ^ft DOW, thoa Faithful! Thoa didst wefl to say 
 that I vonld hare need ai it and thoa wouidst hare it 
 
292 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He carried the child into the wood. There he found 
 some late berries. He dared not ask for food at any hut. 
 
 "Father will get thee something to eat. But thou 
 must wait," he explained. 
 
 "Mendi not hungry. Mendi a big boy," he answered. 
 And through the long afternoon and evening he kept to 
 the same word. Aristodemos was between pride and 
 pity, watching him. At dark Mendi fell asleep, and Aris- 
 todemos sat holding the little face close to his own, 
 feeling the soft breath coming and going as when he first 
 brought him home from Amyklai. Then he wrapped 
 the child in his own cloak and, laying him in a sheltered 
 thicket, hurried down the road. 
 
 It was late now. Sparta showed no light. But as 
 he drew near Aristodemos began to walk more slowly, 
 watching the road. If Sparta had scorned him yesterday 
 what would she do to-day.^" Word of the curse must have 
 run like wildfire through the town. The Spartans would 
 not suffer an accursed man in their streets. They were 
 prompt at stoning. A dog's death! Aristodemos won- 
 dered how long such death would take. "And 'twere a 
 pity" he thought, " to leave the poor child to waken in 
 the thicket alone." 
 
 He came first to dark, scattered houses, then to the 
 streets. Here he heard the gruff voices of the sentries 
 changing the watch. He slipped into a narrow alley 
 and lay flat along the house wall. They passed very 
 near. " Ay, he's gone," Aristodemos heard one say. 
 "If the Furies that chase him be as mad as Makaria, 
 he's gone far by now. But the dark Erinyes will get him, 
 far or near." 
 
A MOTHER IN SPARTA 293 
 
 "Ei, don't speak of the Curse-Maidens! They'll 
 chase thee too!" And so the watchmen passed beyond 
 hearing. 
 
 Aristodemos came cautiously out again, shuddering at 
 their talk. Pitane was one of the crowded districts. 
 He paused listening before the turn of every corner. 
 At last he came to his mother's house, threaded the pitch 
 dark alley to the slave quarters in the rear, and found 
 the open door. 
 
 Fah, what a fetid place! Its darkness was vocal with 
 the snores of the tired workers. Aristodemos dropped on 
 his knees and began to steal within along the earth floor. 
 He could barely discern the slave forms lying as usual 
 either side of the narrow room. He had to creep with 
 infinite care between them. He shivered as he thought 
 of the howl of terror these slaves would set up if he should 
 awaken them. His great fear was that Antiphon's 
 place might be occupied. But at last he came to it and 
 felt along it in the darkness. He found it vacant. 
 Makaria was not one to keep too many slaves. 
 
 Aristodemos lifted the ragged cloth where the tired 
 old bones had rested and began to dig softly in the earth 
 with his knife. It might be a long search, yet he did not 
 think the old man could have buried his treasure very 
 deep. He made one hole, then another, and yet another. 
 The work was slow in the dark. At the fifth digging his 
 knife came against something hard in the earth, and he 
 put his bare fingers to the task. At last he came to the 
 bag itself where the faithful vanished hands had hid it. 
 It was very frail and rotten after these years. Aristo- 
 demos had to lift it with great care and fold it in his dress. 
 
294 THE SPARTAN 
 
 The gentle old man seemed to be giving him the gift 
 anew there in the mysterious darkness. 
 
 Then he began again the slow creeping out from among 
 the sleepers. This time, in his care for the rotten money- 
 bag, he stumbled against a rough outstretched foot and 
 crouched flat in frozen horror. 
 
 " Ho, what's that?" said the sleeper, lifting a tousled 
 head. 
 
 "There — there," whispered Aristodemos, "thy snort- 
 ing woke me. Let the rest of us sleep too." And the 
 man turned over with a sigh to his slumbers again. 
 
 Clear of the hut at last Aristodemos with long breath 
 rose to his feet and made his cautious way back through 
 the quiet streets to the open road. Soon Sparta was but 
 a huddle of dark houses behind him. 
 
 "Hateful Sparta!" Batto the Helot had called it. And 
 "hateful Sparta" it was Indeed to Aristodemos as he 
 turned his back upon it forever. Its spirit of repression 
 had choked him all these years. Now its cruelty had 
 ruined him. 
 
 He found Mendi in the thicket safe and warm, lifted 
 him, still sleeping, in his arms, and with the Curse pur- 
 suing him started north upon the Arkadian road for 
 DelphL 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 Through An Archaic Land 
 
 BRIGHT dawn looked over the late October fields 
 to Eurotas where he flowed swift and narrow 
 from the hills. Not here the lazy reedy Euro- 
 tas of Sparta, but a more youthful stream, near his source 
 and pure-cold with springs. Aristodemos sat on the bank. 
 He had made a long night journey up the riverside carry- 
 ing the sleeping child. Mendi lay asleep beside him 
 curled close in the crimson soldier cloak. Aristodemos 
 was impatient for his waking. The little fellow had 
 been brave in his supperless hunger. And now a shep- 
 herd had just miked a ewe for them and Aristodemos was 
 waiting with the rich bowl. The sunbeams struck 
 across Mount Chelmos in full brightness. Mendi stirred 
 and sat up. 
 
 "Little son," said Aristodemos, "wilt have thy break- 
 fast now or fast a while longer?" 
 
 "Where is breakfast?" asked Mendi doubtfully. 
 Aristodemos held forward the great cup cautiously 
 
 805 
 
£96 THE SPARTAN 
 
 and gave Mendi a peep into the yellow depth. "See 
 what the good sheep hath given thee." 
 
 It was a pretty sight to see the boy look up, then 
 down again, incredulously, and with a bubble of laughter 
 draw the cup hastUy to him and buiy his face over the 
 rim. 
 
 "And thou shalt have bread, thou brave little soldier; 
 and cheese too. And this !" He held up a great ripe fig. 
 
 Aristodemos feasted his eyes upon the child's feasting. 
 
 "Grood sheep. Mendi likes that sheep," remarked the 
 child with a contented sigh as his milk-splashed face 
 appeared again. Then he shook his head. "Xo like 
 Makaria. Makaria bad to Demos." 
 
 "Mendi," Aristodemos spoke very gravely. "Thou 
 must never speak that name again. Dost understand, 
 Mendi? Never again — that name. So long as thou 
 livest." 
 
 Mendi nodded with a mouthful. "Yes, Mendi see 
 Makaria. Makaria very dead. Fall down just like 
 Antiphon." And he added with relish, "Now Makaria 
 all dark in the ground." 
 
 Aristodemos 's heart sank. 
 
 "No, little man. It is I that am dead, not Makaria," 
 he said half to himself. 
 
 "No, no!" cried Mendi with quick solicitude, clam- 
 bering over to him splashing the milk as he came. 
 "Demos not go in the dark. Stay with Mendi. Mendi 
 give Demos all the milk, all the milk." He tried to 
 lift the big earthen vessel to Aristodemos's Ups and to 
 coax with childish cheer the light back into his face again. 
 Not a mouthful more of his bread and milk would the 
 
THROUGH AN ARCH.\IC LAXD 297 
 
 little fellow eat until Ariatodemos had eaten with him. 
 Slavery had taught the child beyond his years. 
 
 "Now, little son, we have far to travel," said Aristo- 
 demos at last. And swinging the boy to his shoulder he 
 took up his way. 
 
 They came in the evening light to pretty Leuktron on 
 the edge of Laced^mon, where the last mighty ridge of 
 Taygetos sinks to the level plain. The Uttle town, 
 pinnacled with high cypress points, sat aloft in delicate 
 relief upon a rocky saddle. 
 
 "Oh, Korai, Korai!" shouted Mendi, 'looking at the 
 cypresses standing tall and still in the sunset. "See 
 the maidens!" So were cypresses called in Sparta. 
 
 From Leuktron they turned eastward toward Tegea 
 through a solitary land. This was a weary, dispiriting 
 stage. For it never would occur to a Greek to seek 
 companionship in the grandeur of the solitudes. Nature 
 ha^l been too lately conquered by him. So the mere 
 wildness of the way was bitter to Aristodemos — the 
 stony mountains closing in and rising more inaccessible 
 with every stage of the journey, the stretches of oak 
 forest where sheep paths crossed and recrossed the road. 
 The road itself was so little more than a path that one 
 might easily miss it among the rest. Wolves and wild 
 boars were plenty in the hills, and once Mendi called out 
 joyfully, "Oh, see the big pussy!" when a lusty bear cub 
 lumbered across the way. The region was not that fair 
 flowery Arkady which poets sing, but the rugged Arkadia 
 of ancient Greece — a land of rusticity where men lived 
 in villages or, more usually, lived apart in little ^uts, 
 a primitive, acorn eating folk clad in rough pigskins. 
 
298 THE SPAKTAN 
 
 Aristodemos met these rustics on hillside and in forest, 
 driving their sheep and swine perpetually from place to 
 place with a dull persistency of mere change that seemed 
 to him scarce more directed than the going of the droves 
 themselves. They spoke to him in an ancient dialect 
 .vith dull, soft sounds of "u" for "o", and they droned 
 a buzzing "z" alike for "d" and "g" and even for "b". 
 Their talk sounded loutish, almost foreign, to Aristode- 
 mos. 
 
 The land was full of forgotten places. Massive 
 Cyclopian ruins, ancient when Troy was young, sat 
 gray and lonely on their hillocks, unapproachable for 
 tangles of thicket and vine. Here still dwelt archaic 
 and cruel gods, elsewhere forgotten, worshipped in dark 
 forest places. And here lingered strange fables and 
 fearful superstitions. The two travellers spent their 
 nights in the open or in some shepherd's hut. For 
 Aristodemos passed the towns as swiftly as he could. 
 He had no wish to be asked "Who art thou?" or to answer, 
 "That man who came back from Thermopylae." 
 
 Not even the child, whose merry affection had at first 
 so lifted his heart, could now save him from the despair 
 which submerged his spirit. Indeed at times the child 
 seemed to be but the barrier flung athwart his way by 
 angry gods to hinder him from the death he so sorely 
 needed — needed as the weary need sleep. 
 
 He was alone in the solitude with Nemesis — "The 
 Watcher." It was her gaze that he felt from the high 
 aloof mountains and the cold down-looking stars. It 
 was the gaze of Fate herself, before whose calm inexor- 
 able look men fell lijje straws. 
 
THROUGH AN ARCHAIC LAND 299 
 
 Sometimes the sharp scream of an eagle above him 
 would curdle his blood, as for the moment he believed 
 the Erinyes were come upon him — swift Erinyes, dab- 
 bled in blood, filthy, insane, shrieking, rushing insatiate 
 to fulfill curses. Ah, even as those Spartan sentries had 
 said, the Erinyes must come at last! 
 
 As he covered the lonely miles Aristodemos found 
 himself tracing each separate thread of the fateful weav- 
 ing of his life. Did he stand unwitting in the path of 
 some divine desire.'' Had his destruction been compacted 
 even before his birth? Or was there possibly some an- 
 cient stain upon his race — unknown to him, unknown 
 even to his father? CEdipus had been all unconscious 
 of any guilt until the first blow of divine vengeance fell. 
 Might not some such deadly secret be the clue to his 
 whole frustrated Ufe, his father's early death, his own 
 exile from dear Athens, his separation from Leonidas's 
 death, and now his mother's fateful curse? He began 
 to see his whole lite as it were some expert scheme of 
 pimishment. His very soul fainted under the awful 
 thought. 
 
 Absorbed thus, Aristodemos would quite forget Mendi's 
 presence and let the poor little traveller trudge on 
 beside binn until he finally broke into crying for 
 weariness. Then Aristodemos would catch him up in 
 his arms and labour forward mile upon mile without 
 speech. 
 
 They had now reached the wide, marshy plain of 
 Mantineia. The sun beat hot upon the humid expanse. 
 Few men were abroad in the heat, and although it was 
 only nine o'clock Aristodemos paused to rest in the shade 
 
300 THE SPARTAN 
 
 of a copse. Just over the edge of a hill peeped a square 
 bastion of the ancient fortification, Nestane, Titanic 
 masonry whose very art was lost. Out over the plain 
 the air was a-quiver in the damp heat. 
 
 Mendi looked about him for amusement. He had 
 some horse-chestnuts treasured from their forest jour- 
 neying. "Ballo, ballo!" he cried. Aristodemos caught 
 the little ball and returned it, but forgot to return it the 
 second time and dropped it where he sat. Mendi, with 
 one of those quaint self-imposed canons of childhood, 
 would not pick up for himself the unreturned ball. He 
 stood eyeing it regretfully; then looked at Aristodemos 
 with much questioning. 
 
 Suddenly a great idea struck the child. He advanced 
 with outstretched arms, then retreated, held up an 
 imaginary shield and gave a great thrust under it. If 
 Aristodemos had seen at all he must surely have been set 
 a-laughing. The babyish imitation of the battle dance 
 was so stumblingly done, as if the plump dancer would 
 each moment roll over himself upon the ground. But 
 Aristodemos was far away with the real battles yet 
 impending over Hellas or perhaps was facing his own mys- 
 terious, hopeless battle. 
 
 Mendi was cut to the quick. His lips quivered and his 
 eyes filled. He swallowed hard. Then he turned about 
 and trotted away. "Demos not see Mendi," he com- 
 plained. "Not see Mendi at. all!" He wandered by 
 a little wild vineyard and off upon the plain. 
 
 But the silence of Mendi's absence soon recalled Aris- 
 todemos to himself. "Mendi!" he called, then rose to 
 his feet. "Mendi! Mendi! Where art thou?" 
 
THROUGH AN ARCHAIC LAND 301 
 
 There was no answer from plain or hill. 
 
 Aristodemos knew not how long he might have been 
 dreaming. He remembered with a shudder Mendi's 
 delight at the "pussy bear." The silly child might 
 even run after a bear if he saw one. Or he could so 
 easily be drowned in the marshes. 
 
 Aristodemos ran toward the road in real alarm, calling 
 loudly. He met a shepherd with his flock and anxiously 
 questioned him. 
 
 "Yez, I zee a little boy yon zide o 'z' road," said the 
 peasant, pointing vaguely. 
 
 Finally Aristodemos almost by chance caught a glimpse 
 of him far out on the marshy plain kneeling close to 
 the ground. As he rushed up to him he saw that the 
 child was drinking from a dirty marsh pool. 
 
 "Mendi!" he cried so sharply that the little fellow 
 almost fell in. Aristodemos picked him up, scolding 
 and kissing by turns. "Dirty water, Mendi! How 
 couldst thou drink it?" Aristodemos looked down at 
 the pool with disgust. Why were children made so 
 foohsh? he wondered. 
 
 But Mendi was quite broken-hearted. He laid his 
 tired head on Aristodemos's shoulder with pitiful 
 weeping. 
 
 "There, there!" said the soldier-nurse. "Hast thy 
 troubles too, little man. And wast very hot, I know. 
 Come, see, I will wash thee in good water." He pointed 
 to the hillside stream. And soon the little naked body 
 was splashing in a pebbly pool, Mendi shouting with 
 delight as Aristodemos dashed the water on his small 
 strong back. Aristodemos looked at him proudly. 
 
302 THE SPABTAN 
 
 "Art a little athlete already!" lie said. "Wilt come 
 to Olympia in thy day!" 
 
 The way now led across the somewhat broken plain 
 to Orchomenos. The ancient town could be seen afar 
 on its high hilltop whidi rose abruptly out of the plain. 
 In its encircling wall it looked from below like a little 
 crown upon the peak. Aristodemos was not eager to 
 go up into the town, so he cast about for a shepherd hut 
 where they might pass the night. Between Orchomenos 
 and the farther Moxmt Trachy ran a deep guUy, the only 
 wooded spot at hand. A forest stretched along the gully 
 and spread up the slope of Trachy where it joined the 
 broad pine forest of the mountain. Aristodemos made 
 haste to reach this quiet glen. It was early afternoon, 
 but already in the forest here the air was dark and green 
 and cooL Down in the deep of the woods were places 
 of eternal twilight. 
 
 Not far within the forest he came to a wall which seemed 
 to surround a precinct. In the midst stood a noble cedar. 
 The place seemed solitary and decayed- The wall was 
 green with moss and crumbling, as if its sacredness were 
 long forgotten. Aristodemos began to doubt his finding 
 even a shepherd in this lonely wood. He was standing 
 near the wall, considering whither to turn, when a bright 
 sweet voice spoke behind him. 
 
 "Oh, hast thou come to sacrifice to my goddess?" 
 
 And turning he saw the eager figure of a little girl not 
 more than ten years old, a little virgin priestess clad in the 
 lon^ saffron robe of Artemis. She was such a blithe little 
 priestess and looked so fresh and sweet in her bright dress 
 that Aristodemos could not resist her unconscious entreaty . 
 
THROUGH AN ARCHAIC LAKD 303 
 
 "Yes, I was seeking her," he aaswered. 
 
 The girl clapped her hands in subdued delight, as a 
 childish nun might do. 
 
 "Oh, and I was afraid thou hadst but wandered into 
 the wood!" she said, relieved. "For, to speak truly, my 
 goddess hath not had one single worshipper this whole 
 summer. But she is very patient, my goddess. She 
 hath not yet made any sickness or trouble or barrenness 
 of ewes. She stands there in her tree content, and 
 smiles always." 
 
 "Perhaps she is satisfied with thy worship," said 
 Aristodemos, smiling down at her. 
 
 "But then, I am all alone," she answered, opening her 
 dark eyes wide. "She could not be satisfied with me 
 alone!" 
 
 "Alone?" repeated Aristodemos. "Thou, in this 
 lonely place?" 
 
 "Oh, my father and mother live behind the precinct. 
 They care for me and I care for the goddess. I alone. 
 Thou seest we are off the road," she ran on, "and there be 
 many priestesses up at the Sanctuary of Artemis Hynmia. 
 The folk go ever there with their gifts." 
 
 "Well, I am bringing my gift here," Aristodemos told 
 her. The little priestess smiled happily and reached out her 
 hand to Mendi, who eagerly put his chubby fist within it. 
 
 "Come, I will bring thee to her," she said leading 
 Mendi toward the half open gate. But at the gate she 
 paused again with sudden solicitude. "Thou knowest 
 my Artemis Ls very old. Thou wilt not think her ugly? 
 She is not like the new and bright gods up in the city. 
 But she Ls very, very holy." 
 
304 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "I am sure of it," said Aristodemos heartily. "Mendi 
 and I will see only her holiness." 
 
 Again she gave him her grateful smile and pushed back 
 the rusty gate. 
 
 What a surprise! Within the closure all was brder, 
 fresh beauty and care. Everywhere shone hyacinths, 
 blooming beyond their season, in purple masses so close 
 packed that they gave a soft, rich brightness to the place. 
 Two slender cypresses rose spear-like from the carpet of 
 blooms. But the garden was dominated and sheltered 
 as with a canopy by the great ancient cedar which stood 
 in the midst and stretched its arms abroad. The pre- 
 cinct was utterly quiet. Even the birds flitted overhead 
 without a sound. 
 
 "I tend the flowers a little," spoke the priestess softly 
 in answer to Aristodemos's look of surprise, "but not 
 much. The goddess loveth wild flowers. See how 
 they bloom! I think the lady goddess tends them with 
 her own hands. Thou knowest at Knidos she hath that 
 name — Hyacinth Nurse." 
 
 She led the way through the winding paths. And 
 as she did so a deer lifted himself up from a bed of 
 flowers and came to rub his wet nose against the Uttle 
 priestess's hands. He was very old and frail. His once 
 swift foot stumbled as he walked. Aristodemos saw that 
 he wore a golden collar on which was engraved: 
 
 "/ was caught a fawn 
 When Agapenor was at Ilium." 
 
 "Thou seest he is holy too," said the little priestess 
 proudly. "He hath outlived many generations of men." 
 
THROUGH AN ARCHAIC LAND 305 
 
 And then, through the broken wall beyond, Aristodemos 
 caught' glimpses of bright shy eyes looking in, a herd of 
 deer and their favms living close to their goddess who so 
 loved aU the wild creatures of the wood. 
 
 " Sbe is here!" then whispered the little priestess, with 
 awe in her voice. And there before them, in a low fork 
 of the great cedar, stood the small image of Artemis, 
 like a pillar having head and arms. She was black 
 with age and dripping with shiny oil from the frequent 
 anointings of her faithful little ministrant. Poor 
 enough she was as a reminder of an Immortal. Yet 
 somehow the goddess had never seemed so real as in 
 this simple place. Perhaps the gentle worship of her little 
 virgin had drawn the divine virgin nearer than they knew. 
 Certainly Aristodemos felt her there with new and sweeter 
 attributes than he had known before. Here she was not 
 that goddess in whose honour he had endured that cruel 
 scourging, but the goddess of all shy and gentle retire- 
 ments, lovely as her own fawns, shimner of cities and 
 the sight of men, the swift wild virgin with pure moon- 
 cold face. She was the divine, fleet huntress, running in 
 the untrodden deep of the wood — huntress and yet 
 protectress of all that was wild grown or had its life 
 beyond the care of men. Yes, Artemis was here! 
 
 "Where can I find my sacrificial gift?" he asked softly. 
 
 "There is a goatherd lives yonder across the plain 
 about a mile away. I know he will afford thee one." 
 
 "I will go to him," said Aristodemos promptly. But as 
 he started away the little priestess said wistfully: 
 
 "If the goddess might have a white goat — Yet — yet 
 — she will be glad of a speckled one." 
 
306 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "It shall be a white goat," smiled Aristodemos assur- 
 ingly, and was gone. 
 
 When he returned the joy of the little priestess was 
 pretty to see. 
 
 "It is Damon's white kid!" she cried. "The flower 
 of his flock! And thou hast not forgot to crown 
 her." 
 
 The fire was flickering like a jewel on the altar under 
 the cedar. The torch and lustral bowl were ready. The 
 little priestess herself was crowned for the rite. 
 
 "The boy must feed the flame," she said, "for very 
 kindly is my fair goddess to all that are young, even the 
 sucking young of all creatures of the field, to flowers and 
 young shrubs; but most of all to babies and little children." 
 And with the tenderest of little smiles she instructed 
 Mendi with his baby hands to toss the sacred fir cones 
 on the flame. Thus they made ready. 
 
 "Tell me first thy name," said Aristodemos, turning to 
 her. 
 
 "Kallisto," answered the priestess in surprise. 
 
 "Kallisto," he repeated. "The prayer shall be for 
 thee." 
 
 Then in the forest quiet they made to the goddess 
 their sacrifice and offering. 
 
 That night they feasted in the hut with the parents 
 of the maid. Not in many years had that simple house- 
 hold been so gay. And next day, to Mendi's great delight, 
 Aristodemos lingered still. There was a healing in the 
 gentle place and in the unconscious sweetness of the little 
 devotee. 
 
 The second paprning they resumed their journey. The 
 
THROUGH AN ARCHAIC LAND 307 
 
 priestess went with them to the edge of the wood, loath 
 even now to let them go. 
 
 "Thou wilt come again?" she said. "Say thou wilt 
 come again." 
 
 Then, for the first time since he had met her, Aristo- 
 demos recollected his curse. 
 
 " No, no," he said hastily. " I am making a long journey. 
 And after that — I think I shall meet death before I 
 come this way again." 
 
 But the priestess looked up with so dismayed a face at 
 the change in him that he was instantly contrite. 
 
 "And if I should return," he said brightly, " thou 
 mayest be gone. When thou art older, will surely come 
 a goodly youth to persuade thee from thy goddess." 
 
 "But I could not leave my goddess. She hath no 
 one but me," protested the child priestess stoutly. 
 
 "Thou canst not know. The youth may persuade 
 very strongly. Thy service may be finished and even 
 thy goddess may not fulfill all thy need." 
 
 The child did not answer him. She bowed her head, 
 and Aristodemos saw that she was weeping. A moment 
 he bent over her, so close that he touched the fragrant 
 hyacinths crowning her hair. Then once more he lifted 
 Mendi and hurried down the road. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 The Unsatisfied Curse 
 
 CANST tell me which road leadeth north? These 
 mountain paths be hard to hit upon." 
 The dull shepherd stopped wide-eyed to gaze 
 at Aristodemos and the boy, and pointed vaguely up 
 the moimtain. No doubt he was strange to the Laconian 
 speech. He was certainly much concerned lest his sheep 
 wander off, and kept pulling them in with his crook even 
 as he talked. For the place was wild. 
 
 But Aristodemos took his directing — indeed he had 
 no other — and swung on up the mountain. They had 
 won now to northern Arkadia. They had passed Stym- 
 phalos by its reedy lake, pausing in awe at the wild gorge 
 where the outlet-river plimges from sight roaring into 
 its cavern and disappearing beneath the mountain. 
 Now they were Ttialdng for Pheneos, traversing the lower 
 slope of mighty Kyllene, the highest summit of the coun- 
 try. For days Aristodemos had seen Kyllene as he 
 walked, its sides dark with pine, its peak already white 
 
 308 
 
THE UNSATISFIED CURSE 309 
 
 with snow, and the clouds, now hiding, now re- 
 vealing its mighty mass. But once upon its side they 
 found the mountain tough climbing. 
 
 About two hours up the mountain the path parted. 
 Aristodemos followed the left fork, but it dwindled into 
 a mere sheep track. As he turned to retrace his steps 
 a thick cloud settled upon the slope and he could not see 
 more than a yard before him. Then followed a swift, 
 heavy snow and blotted out the path. 
 
 Mendi began to cry from cold and fear. He was a brave 
 baby, but he had never seen snow before and its stinging 
 whiteness was terrifying. Aristodemos held the little 
 one close under his cloak, though he was himself benumbed 
 with the unaccustomed cold. He tried awhile to find 
 the path but without success. Finally he determined 
 to make the best of his way straight down the slope. 
 But great chasms interrupted him, and he had much 
 difficulty in making any progress around them. 
 
 "Mendi, dear," he said, "canst not stop thy 
 crying? Demos will bring thee to a warm place soon." 
 
 But Mendi clung close, clutching at him in terror. 
 
 "Run! Run!" he pleaded. "Big men in the trees! 
 Mendi's afraid!" 
 
 "There are no men in the trees, little man. It is 
 only the white rain." 
 
 But Mendi began to point, screaming out with terror. 
 "See! See! Bad men with big catchy hands! Oh! 
 Oh!" 
 
 To his dismay Aristodemos saw that the child was sick 
 and delirious. It was the curse! Ghostly and secret, 
 here in this wilderness it had already caught him! It 
 
310 THE SPARTAN 
 
 did not occur to him how Mendi had drunk of that stag- 
 nant pool by Mantinela. 
 
 "Oh, Mendi, Mendi," he cried in anguish, "so soon 
 hath it come upon thee? Is this the reward of thine 
 innocent love? Because in cruel Sparta thou alone didst 
 come to me?" 
 
 He wrapped the child tighter in his cloak, weeping 
 without restraint. He ran headlong in desperate search 
 of some way down the mountain. Not Mendi in his 
 delirium was more haunted than he. Moira, that mystic 
 power of evU, that goddess of no conceivable form, void, 
 brooding, terrible, soundless — Moira was utterly come 
 upon him! There was no escape! The innocent little 
 face against his breast, stricken with this sad new tor- 
 ment, filled him with despair. 
 
 He came at length below the belt of snow, but here 
 the rain fell heavily. He found a tiny path among the 
 pines which he followed miserably, and soon came out 
 upon an open cliflF. Far below lay the beautiful Lake 
 Pheneos, dimly seen through a rift in the cloud. He 
 hurried on, fearful that the path would dribble out and 
 disappear. Finally near nightfall he came upon a httle 
 hut so low, so poor, it seemed almost the habitation of 
 some animal rather than a dwelling of man. He could 
 scarcely hope for help from such poor folk, but he knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 It opened at once and a little old woman, brown as a 
 leaf, stood before him. She was bent and child-small, 
 as if age had dried her out and left her the diminutive 
 of herself. She scarcely reached above Aristodemos's 
 waist. 
 
THE UNSATISFIED CURSE 311 
 
 "Mother," he cried passionately, "my little boy is 
 dying! For the gods' sake let us rest with thee!" 
 
 She peered up at him with her eager, bright inquiry. 
 "Nay, do not ask!" she cried, drawing him with both 
 hands. "Come in, come in!" She drew him over the 
 threshold into the warmth and shut out the rain. "Tht! 
 — tht! — tht! Give me the child," she said, gathering 
 Mendi into her arms. "And don't lament so soon, 
 stranger! Sicker babes than this have got well again," 
 
 She took Mendi to the fire and began unwrapping him. 
 The old shepherd hobbled out of his corner and put a 
 stick upon the fire. 
 
 "There, there," crooned the old woman to the fretting 
 child. "See the warm fire! Shalt be dry of the cruel 
 rain! And shalt have milk! No? Then water — what- 
 ever thou wilt." 
 
 The old man moved about the hut, talking half to 
 Aristodemos, half to himself. 
 
 "Now Auge there, th' canst trust her — trust her!" 
 he mumbled nodding his head. "Nine times hath 
 Eleutho come o' th' house to her. Ay, nine lusty chil- 
 dren hath Auge borne, and well she knew to care for 
 'em. She knoweth every good plant o' th' mountain. 
 Yea, and that special healing plant that healeth all things 
 this side o' death. Blessed be Asklepios!" he added 
 piously. "But come young man, warm thyself. Thou 
 sure hast need o' fire?" 
 
 So very poor and low was the hovel that Aristodemos 
 had to stoop under the smoke-black roof. The rear of 
 the single room opened back into a natural cave, dark 
 and echoing their voices strangely. Yet never had he 
 
312 THE SPARTAN 
 
 felt such a warm human welcome: It went to the very 
 marrow with its healing and ready love. He knelt by 
 the fire, lifting his numbed hands to the blaze and watch- 
 ing the ancient woman at her deft ministrations. 
 
 "And what have I — what reward for thy good kind- 
 ness?" he said brokenly. The guilty shadow of his 
 curse hung over him, into whose dread circle, perchance, 
 these also were being drawn by their deed of kiadness 
 to him. 
 
 "Who asked reward?" retorted the old woman sharply. 
 "It's forty years sin' I had a babe on my breast. Wouldst 
 not give old Auge a pleasure in her age?" She cuddled 
 the child close in her withered arms. 
 
 "And thou thinkest — thou thinkest perhaps he may 
 not die?" hesitated Aristodemos. 
 
 "Well, he's not dead yet," smiled the old woman 
 shrewdly. "We'll not give thee thy Styxpenny yet, will 
 we, little guest? " 
 
 She laid the child upon her couch and, reaching down 
 some dried herbs hanging from the rafter, began to steep 
 them in a little earthen pot at the fire. 
 
 "Pretty boy," she sang softly to Mendi. "Here is 
 good medicine. Wilt drink Auge's good warm medicine 
 and go to sleep? Then thou shalt be well." 
 
 As she leaned over her work her old eyes caught sight 
 of Aristodemos's hands where he warmed them at the 
 fire. They were brown, powerful hands, but the deft 
 fingers caught her eye. That was no shepherd hand! 
 He had thrown off his broad travelling hat and she saw 
 his easeful muscled shoulders bending toward the fire. 
 Such shoulders the Greeks always spoke of as "godlike." 
 
THE UNSATISFIED CURSE 313 
 
 She rose with a hushed, significant look and gestured 
 to her husband. 
 
 He shuffled forward at once. 
 
 "Master," he said humbly. "Master, thou sittest 
 at our hearth like a suppliant. Rather wilt thou not 
 receive our guest-honour?" And he dragged toward the 
 fire a rough, heavy bench. 
 
 "Thank thee.Father," said Aristodemos, half in dread. 
 He sat down and took Mendi in his arms. "Oh, see," 
 he whispered joyously, a moment later. "My .little 
 son hath fallen asleep." 
 
 But spite of Auge's care and medicines the fever took 
 its way with Mendi, wasting his little body and racking 
 him with pain. His piteous pleadings seemed to break 
 and break again Aristodemos's heart. Watching over 
 him night and day, what would he not have given for 
 one hour's respite to the little sufferer? 
 
 The curse seemed a very presence in the hut, a watcher 
 with him beside the little bed. At last even Auge began 
 to lose her confidence, and her face grew dark. Two 
 weeks had passed and Mendi had grown steadily weaker. 
 Auge stood in the door, looking out into the twilight. 
 The weather had changed. It was quite warm again. 
 
 Suddenly she turned upon Aristodemos. 
 
 "Thou canst save him thyself, an' thou wilt," she said 
 almost savagely. "Thou hast the power we mortals 
 lack. Why wilt not speak thy healing word? See" — 
 she spread her hands — "I have done all I know. I have 
 sacrificed to Apollo, to Asklepios — and to — ? Should 
 there be still some other rite?" 
 
 "Oh, Mother," pleaded Aristodemos too anguished 
 
314 THE SPARTAN 
 
 to note the strange significance of this speech, "dost thou 
 know nothing more — nothing more? WUt thou let him 
 go to The Dead?" 
 
 She looked at him long and incredulously, as though she 
 would say, "^Tiat, and not satisfied yet? ^Tiy dost 
 thou prove us so?" Then she answered with a patient 
 sigh: "I think there is yet one more help. They say 
 that, when all else fails, the great Mother" — she meant 
 Demeter — " will sometimes take the sick one to her own 
 bosom and give him of her own life." 
 
 "How take him?" 
 
 "Thou must lay him on a plowed field, and there her 
 life that goeth into the growing com may even come up 
 into him." 
 
 "Oh, then, Auge, quick! Quick! Let us go!" 
 
 He bent over the couch and took the poor little body, 
 now but a shadow of itself, in his arms. Then they went 
 out into the evening. 
 
 "Do thou tend him and pray," he said to Auge. "I 
 am afraid to touch him. I may bring him harm." 
 
 He sat apart from her as she laid Mendi in a furrow of 
 their small brown field. He bowed his head upon his 
 knees, and sat with tightened hands, hearing the soft wind 
 of the forest at his back, hearing Auge as she went down 
 to the spring now and then for water, hearing — oh, 
 through the long night hours — the low moaning of that 
 dear little voice that surely could never laugh again. 
 
 Toward morning the moaning grew softer and fainter, 
 and just before dawn ceased altogether. And in the 
 terrible silence he felt that Mendi was dead. 
 
 How swiftly the curse was fulfilling! He was beyond 
 
THE UNSATISFIED CUESE 315 
 
 grieving. He thought only of that little body free from 
 pain, lying there so still in the brown furrow. Mendi, 
 his little man, whose life by unknown Acheron should 
 flower out its youth — who could never suffer as he him- 
 self was suffering now. 
 
 And now came dawn, gray and imperceptible at first, 
 then flashing up golden spears upon distant mountain 
 tops. Auge, sitting like an unmoved fate in her place, 
 lifted a beckoning finger. He went softly to her. She 
 guided his trembling hand to Mendi's forehead. It was 
 moist and delicately warm. The gentle breath which he 
 had thought forever flown was coming and going evenly 
 through the parted Ups. 
 
 "Go thou and thank The Mother," whispered Auge. 
 " It was to her we should have come at the first." 
 
 Aristodemos dared not stay lest he wake the child. 
 He slipped away and ran toward the wood, lifting ador- 
 ing hands above his head as he ran and pouring out his 
 broken thanks to the blessed Demeter who had given him 
 back the life of his little son. 
 
CHAPTEB TWENTY-FIVE 
 Greriax Horpi^itg 
 
 MENDT? recoToy was steadv bat voy slov. It 
 needed all Aiige's visdom asd Aitstodeoxs's 
 care to nurse bim bac^ to beattb sjra?^. Asd 
 long b^ore be was strv-v-^ enoo^ to tiavd winter bad 
 settled down iqion Mount ^^rlle&e. Far, far b^w tbe 
 TaDey st31 kept its green, but tbe ~ cun-iin was already 
 deep insiK>w. 
 
 "And now tboa art a piisoner with 115," said old Auge 
 dteetily, "as dose as tboogb tboa hadst ehs'-~ apon 
 tbee. Tboa cooHst nevsr make tiby way down ^i:^::iili 
 tboee aoow^lkd zorges. Abai! listm!" Sbe bdd 
 up ber crookr-i fing» as the far off tbiind« of an ara- 
 landte boomed and resounded below tbeir diS. 
 
 "Meier." said AnstodcBios serlo-isly, "Smne gold I 
 bave to give the^ but not oioa^ to pay tbe firing of aD 
 winto-." 
 
 "Gold:" scoffed Ange. "And dost think we would 
 mis a god's Uessing by taking gold <d tbee? Ah, tbe 
 
 31« 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY 317 
 
 house is lonely throiigh the months of cold." She turned 
 to build up the fire. "Besides," she added, "art thou 
 not become as our son, and is not Mendi verily my grand- 
 son, given to my prayers by the holy Demeter?" 
 
 The winter world was a new world to Aristodemos. 
 In his boyhood he had seen snow falling like soft meal 
 in Athenian streets. But never snow that heaped and 
 stayed, making a silent solitude, burying the great pine 
 forest, and bending it heavy to the ground. The roof 
 of the hut was hooded deep in snow. Old Klitor had to 
 dig a burrow to their little spring where they got their 
 water. 
 
 "And 'tis not frozen yet, not frozen yet!" he would 
 proclaim proudly each morning, as he brought in his yoke 
 of water jars. "Known that spring since I was like little 
 Mendi, and it's never been frozen. Always the same, cold 
 in summer, warm in winter. That's our spring!" 
 
 And Aristodemos did not smile at his oft rej)eated 
 praise. There in the moimtain the little font was in- 
 deed a priceless treasure. 
 
 But the snow! "It is marble," Aristodemos said, 
 gazing at it like a wondering child. "What statues 
 Antenor could make of it! But they would perish, even 
 as men." 
 
 He went out into the snow and ran for exercise. He 
 would not let his body lose form and firmness there in 
 the narrow hut. It did not occur to Aristodemos that 
 he could even now neglect his training. 
 
 As the winter deepened Auge had to take to her bed 
 with rheumatism. Then old Klitor did her work to- 
 gether with his own. 
 
318 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Mother hath her years upon her — her years upon 
 her!" he would repeat, looking anxiously at her. He was 
 very proud of Auge. "She groweth small and small," 
 he said to Aristodemos, "like the brown leaves. Once 
 she was tall like me. She could lift like a man. Then 
 the gods began to shrink her — smaller, smaller, smaller. 
 She'll blow away some day like a mist, will my Auge. 
 Look here," he added, turning himself about, "she made 
 me this coat. And the goat's been dead these thirty 
 years — yea, before our children died — that goat she 
 made it of." 
 
 Aristodemos thought the old coat looked it, but he did 
 not say so. The pride of the countryman was a new thing 
 to him. He had known only city slaves and Spartan 
 serfs. 
 
 The hut was very dark. It had no windows, only the 
 opening overhead which served for a chimney, and the 
 door which on sunny days they left a little open for the 
 light. Sometimes for days together their mountain would 
 be blanketed in clouds and they lived in twilight. 
 And now for the first time Aristodemos knew the 
 cozy cheer of a winter fire. Mendi, whose cheeks were 
 again winning back their ruddiness, would shout and 
 dance with glee as he threw on the pine cones and 
 saw the blaze leap up. All the little room would be filled 
 with the glow, and in the deep curious cave at 
 the back the shadows would play flutteringly upon 
 the rocks. 
 
 In the long afternoons they would roast the chestnuts 
 and sweet acorns which Klitor had hoarded like a squirrel. 
 Then Auge, in her cracked voice, would sing to Mendi, 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY 319 
 
 leaning against her pillow, the songs she had sung long 
 ago in her childhood 
 
 oTav j3oppa<; irviy 
 
 KoKol irXol ek rrju 'EXXdSa 
 
 " When the north wind doth blow 
 Home to Hellas we will go." 
 
 She filled the child's ears with stories which, like the 
 Arkadian people, were "older than the moon." And Auge 
 hoarded stories as Klitor hoarded nuts — grotesque 
 folk tales, bred of the dark Arkadian mountains. There 
 were many stories of Pan in his grottoes or haunting the 
 shady groves. Her old father, now half a century dead, 
 tending his flock in Mount Mainalos when he was young, 
 had once actually heard Pan softly piping just over the 
 brow of the hill. "And," she closed the story, "that was 
 the beautifullest music my father ever heard." 
 
 "The shepherd man — did he go over the hill and see 
 Pan with his little goaty legs.'' " asked Mendi eagerly. 
 
 "No indeed, child! Dost think a pious man would 
 disturb a god at his music? " 
 
 She had a hundred stories of Herakles. For that 
 kindly hero had passed many times up and down Ar- 
 kadia, the length and breadth of it, doing those mighty 
 deeds of his. 'Twas he and none other had built the mon- 
 strous walls of those forgotten cities of Arkadia at which 
 Mendi and Aristodemos had so marvelled on their 
 journey up. No man could have piled them so. 'Twas 
 he had dug the new bed for the river Olbios to drain 
 the lake. Just over that hill to the south he had 
 
320 THE SPARTAN 
 
 killed the great Stymphalian birds, more terrible than 
 lions. 
 
 But Mendi liked best the story of " Herakles and the 
 Blue Jay." 
 
 "Once on a time," Auge would begin, "there was an 
 old man who lived in a cave on Mount Ostrakina. And 
 he had a lovely daughter whose name was Phialo. And 
 Phialo, wandering alone on the mountain, met one day 
 a glorious tall stranger. She did not ask, 'Who art 
 thou?' She knew it could be no other than the kindly 
 god, and she loved him very dearly and secretly became 
 his wife. By and by she bore him a son. But mean- 
 while Herakles had journeyed far away. 
 
 "Phialo's old father was very wroth with her, and 
 exposed her with her baby far out upon the savage 
 mountainside. There he bound her hand and foot to 
 a tree and left her to die. The baby wept and wailed, 
 but Phialo could not comfort him, for she was boimd. 
 
 "Now it chanced that Herakles was returning that 
 way again. And there in the mountain he heard a jay 
 calling and calling. Thou must know, Mendi, that a 
 jay when he wisheth can call just like a weeping child. 
 And good Herakles, thinking some child was alone in 
 the hills, turned aside and followed the voice of the bird. 
 But when he came up with the little bird on the tree he 
 heard yet other cries; for the jay had listened to the wail- 
 ing of Phialo's babe, and was mimicking its voice. 
 
 "So Herakles found the baby lying near a spring, and 
 hia poor Phialo bound to the tree. And the god undid 
 the bonds and lifted his own little son in his arms and 
 brought them both safe home again. And thou canst 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY sn 
 
 see the very spring to this day. It is called ' Kissa Spring ' 
 which is 'Blue Jay Spring'." 
 
 But Auge's favourite subject was a more terrible one, 
 — the"" Were Wolf." 
 
 "When men sacrifice to Lycian Zeus they make a 
 feast," she said, "and at that feast they mingle with the 
 sacrificial meat a bit of human flesh. And whoso by 
 chance eateth of this flesh becomes — a wolf!" 
 
 Here Auge would sit up in bed and shake her head, wolf 
 fashion, looking at Mendi with eyes very sharp and bright, 
 Aristodemos was continually astonished at her brightness 
 and quickness, which came so unexpectedly from a body 
 all shrivelled and foredone with age. 
 
 "But not straightway is he a wolf," she would go on. 
 "They lead him to a dark pool. There he must strip 
 and hang his clothes upon an oak. Then he must junip, 
 poor man, into the water and swim to the far side where 
 the woods are deep and wild. So in the woods he turns 
 into a wolf. Knowing himself to be a man, he is yet a 
 wolf, and must run night and day with the wolf pack. 
 He howls and scratches with his feet, his belly is lank and 
 hungry for men's flesh. He is like any other wolf. So he 
 must howl and run for nine long years. 
 
 "But if he is a good wolf, and never once in all that 
 time eats human flesh, then in the tenth year he may come 
 again to that same pool and jump in and swim back. 
 
 "When he climbs out of the water he finds himself 
 a man again. He finds his very garments hanging on the 
 tree. He puts them on and hurries home to his village. 
 But he is now nine years older. Perhaps his father and 
 mother have died, perhaps his wife. His little boy is 
 
S22 THE SPARTAN 
 
 grown and does not know him. Nine years of precious 
 life are gone, past mending. Strange are ways of Lycean 
 Zeus with men ! " 
 
 During this tale poor Mendi would back farther and 
 farther away from Auge, and the end of it would always 
 find him between Demos's knees with his head against 
 the broad protecting breast. The scrambling rush of 
 the wolf pack past their own door had often wakened 
 Mendi at night. He had heard them howl afar in the 
 hills. To think of the unhappy Were Wolf among them 
 out in the cold and snow was most dismal to the little 
 boy. 
 
 Aristodemos, too, believed the tale. Did he not 
 himself know of a man named Demainetos who 
 had been nine years a woU and who, as a man again, 
 had practised boxing and won a prize at the Olympian 
 Games? 
 
 " TeU Mendi about the Merry People — quick, quick!" 
 Mendi would urge, anxious to forget the Were Wolf. 
 
 And so Aristodemos would become the story teller. 
 
 "The people of Tiryns are the merriest people in the 
 whole broad world. They laugh and sing and make 
 merry all the time. Even when they wovdd, they can 
 not be serious. I wouldn't be surprised if Mendi here, 
 is a Tirynian. Eh, what thinkest thou, Auge?" 
 
 "I'm srn-e he is," nodded Auge. 
 
 "Well, the Tirynians grew tired of laughing always. 
 So they went to the Delphic Oracle and they said: 
 
 " ' Oh, Priestess, tell us how we may become serious.' 
 
 "And the priestess told them that if they would 
 sacrifice a bull to Poseidon and cast him into the sea 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY 323 
 
 without laughing, then they would become a staid and 
 sober folk. 
 
 "So the people of Tiryns went to the seashore, and 
 there they sacrificed the buU. But, just as they were 
 casting him in, keeping their faces long and serious, a 
 little boy — I think he must have been just about as big 
 Mendi — a little boy said something — " 
 
 "What — what?" asked Mendi, dancing impatiently. 
 
 " I don't know what. But it was something very'f unny . 
 Oh, very funny indeed! And all the people of Tiryns 
 broke out laughing right there on the seashore. And 
 since then the people of Tiryns can not help laughing 
 and being merry all the time." 
 
 But the evenings were never complete until Aristodemos 
 had sung. Klitor in his corner, Auge on her bed, would 
 sit in awed wonder as the little cottage rang full of the 
 glorious tone. And down in the glen even the wolves 
 seemed to stop their howling to listen to the rich, far 
 borne voice. Often he would improvise upon some wild 
 Arkadian legend. Or he would sing them a merry song 
 of their little household happenings. He would sing whole 
 books of Homer, and those odes of Pindar's which he 
 had heard as a child, and many a glorious song sung 
 only the once by an improvisor at some Karneian Festival. 
 For Aristodemos had that primitive bardic memory 
 which men possessed when their minds were yet unspoiled 
 by the use of books. 
 
 Even when he was not singing he would sit hour-long, 
 day-long almost, not sounding with his lips, but feeling 
 line by line the great Homeric periods untQ he came into 
 rhythmic physical oneness with the song. 
 
324 THE SPARTAN 
 
 All this time Aristodemos had never thought of help- 
 ing old Klitor with his work. Work was for mean men 
 and for slaves. A free citizen never marred his hands or 
 bent his back with it. Not that Aristodemos had any 
 dislike for work. He had never thought of it as in any 
 way related to him. So the old man went slowly about 
 his duties, tending the ewes, cooking the meals, fetching 
 water, while Aristodemos sat by the fire growing ever 
 more irked by the tedium of the hut. 
 
 But one dark dawn Aristodemos was roused by groans 
 from Klitor's bed. The young man sprang up and went 
 to him, where he lay on the floor by the fire. 
 
 "Oh, we are dead! We are dead!" he was moaning. 
 "Poor Auge, poor Auge! Why did not one child remain 
 to us!" 
 
 "What is it, Klitor? Klitor, tell me," cried Aristo- 
 demos, bending over him. 
 
 Klitor looked up stupidly. 
 
 "The pains! Auge's pains, here in my legs, my back. 
 Oh! — I can't move!" 
 
 "But if it is Auge's pains thou wilt get well again. 
 Thou art not dying." 
 
 "How shall I get well? We will starve. Auge can 
 not move. The sheep will die. Thou must try to get 
 forth with Mendi down the mountain. We are very 
 old. Many like us perish in the winter." 
 
 "Why, Klitor! Klitor!" 
 
 Auge awoke and began to wail in low patient fashion 
 in her corner. Aristodemos looked from one to the other. 
 This was a terrible pass. These two old creatures, bed- 
 ridden in their hut! 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY 325 
 
 "I will not leave you, Klitor." 
 
 "Nay, thou wouldst sure perish on the way, Master, 
 thou and the child," groaned Klitor desperately. 
 
 Still Aristodemos stood. It was dawning upon him 
 that he could do Klitor's work and save them all. He 
 looked at the yoke standing in the corner. Should he, 
 a Spartan citizen, put that thing upon his neck? Should 
 he milk and tend sheep like a slave? Ah, the gods were 
 humiliating him, perhaps bringing close his curse by a 
 kind of trick! His face grew stern. The curse — per- 
 haps the curse was touching Klitor now. Well, he would 
 fight it! These kind old souls should have the strength 
 of his two hands to keep them from death. 
 
 "It is nothing," he said quietly to Klitor. "Am I 
 not strong?" But Klitor did not notice him. "Mother 
 — good mother," he said to Auge, "thou wilt break 
 my heart with thy weeping. I can care for thee. I can 
 do all that thou needest." 
 
 " Thou ! " cried Klitor in astonishment. " Thou couldst 
 not. I could never see thee do it." 
 
 "Shut thine eyes, then. For I will surely serve thee," 
 said Aristodemos, laughing at his amazed face. 
 
 "I am ashamed," said the old man. He tried to rise 
 from the floor, but fell back with a groan. 
 
 "There, there, Klitor," said Aristodemos, bringing 
 his own covering to throw over the trembling form. 
 "Lie still and warm. Ye are both my children and must 
 obey me now." 
 
 He went over to the corner, lifted the yoke and awk- 
 wardly enough set it on his shoulders. Mendi clapped 
 his hands. "Didst not put on the jars!" he cried. 
 
326 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Here — here!" and he dragged the wooden jars across 
 the floor. Aristodemos had to stoop while the child, 
 with glee at the employment, hung the jars to the yoke. 
 Then they went out into the bitter cold morning. 
 
 "What doth KUtor next?" he asked the child after 
 he had filled the jars. For Mendi had always followed 
 the old man about his work. 
 
 "Brings aU the sheepies and gives 'em drinks," said 
 the little teacher. 
 
 Aristodemos went to the tiny fold that was builded 
 into the cave with the hut and opened the gate for the 
 huddled sheep which were all Klitor's wealth. But the 
 sheep would not come to a strange shepherd. 
 
 "Their names, Mendi.?" he said. 
 
 Mendi pushed among them touching each with his 
 chubby finger. "Lyxo, Erato, Auge, Dike," he called, 
 unconsciously imitating Klitor's very tone. The sheep 
 came at once. The Uttle fellow trotted down to the 
 spring and they followed liim in a line down the path. 
 Aristodemos watched the child, his eyes shining with 
 fatherly love. 
 
 But the milking was a more difficult matter. Aristo- 
 demos tried it long and patiently but with poor success, 
 and at last had to go humbly to Auge for instructions. 
 The two old creatures were lying, still awestruck, on 
 their beds. They had hardly beUeved Aristodemos 
 would come back to the hut again. 
 
 "But thou canst not do it," said Auge, between scorn 
 and reverence. "Thou, with thy hands!" 
 
 "Yes, Auge, with my hands. Surely not in any other 
 way," 
 
GRECIAN HOSPIT^y^ITY 327 
 
 At this Auge laughed, sat up in bed, and with her old 
 knotted hands went through the motions of milking. 
 It was the greatest joke of her life and she chuckled in 
 great delight. Aristodemos was an apt learner and 
 before many days was as skilled as Klitor at the work. 
 Cooking he had often done after himting in the Taygetos. 
 He kept the fire bright with new fuel and swept the house 
 far cleaner than Auge had done, for he had a soldier's 
 neatness. 
 
 All tediousness was now forgotten. There was a duty 
 for every hour of the day. 
 
 "I have three children to care for," he would say 
 merrily, "and Auge is the youngest of them all." 
 
 So the long winter wore slowly away, an endless season 
 to Aristodemos who had known only the short, rainy 
 winters of Athens and Sparta. His round of work 
 brought him wondrous close to Mother Earth, and the 
 kindly influence of forest and sky. He never, indeed, 
 went forth of the hut to look at the stars, and yet he never 
 walked beneath them, folding the bleating ewes or draw- 
 ing water for Auge, without being keenly aware of them, 
 burning like lamps above him. 
 
 At last Auge could hobble about the hut once more. 
 Then presently Klitor grew better. Perhaps the big 
 fire that Aristodemos had kept so constantly roaring had 
 put life again into their old bones. 
 
 Then came the month Anthesterion when in the valley 
 the streams begin to leap free. Then Elaphebolion, 
 the beginning of flowers in the low meadows and the first 
 greening of the olives. Still, the snow lay deep on Mount 
 Kyllene. Not until the beginning of Moimychion were 
 
828 THE SPARTAN 
 
 the mountain paths free enough, or his two old children 
 strong enough, for Aristodemos to start away. 
 
 "But now will our winter just begin," jsaid Auge, 
 looking at him with tearful eyes. "Thou and the child 
 have made springtime in the hut all these frozen months." 
 
 It was a still frosty morning of blue sky and bright 
 flitting clouds when Aristodemos made ready to go. 
 He had secretly halved Antiphon's gold and left one share 
 of it on the hearth where Auge would discover it as she 
 worked. 
 
 It was very hard to part from these two good simple 
 friends whose hold upon the earth life was so slender 
 and whom he certainly could not see again. Auge had 
 been weeping through the night and was frankly weeping 
 now; but Klitor took on a certain dignity and ceremony 
 at the parting. 
 
 They stood outside the door. Aristodemos was cloaked 
 and sandalled for the journey, his broad hat flung back 
 from his neck, his staff in his hand. Mendi sat upon 
 his shoulder digging his heels into Aristodemos's chest 
 for a foothold, his arms waving free. He wore a tiny 
 goatskin coat that Auge had made for him. Not other- 
 wise had Hermes looked with the infant Dionysos when 
 he bore the baby god to be brought up by the nymphs, 
 those ready nurse maids of divine infancy. 
 
 Klitor brought out a little cruse of oil, holding it 
 preciously in his two hands. 
 
 "Now," he said, "thou goest away. I shall not see thee 
 at another time. Thy coming was strange and thou hast 
 bent thy back to labour, as gods sometimes do when it 
 pleases them to visit mortal men. This cruse of oil is 
 
GRECIAN HOSPITALITY 329 
 
 many times refined and very fragrant. I do not know 
 whither thou art really tending, but take thou it as an 
 offering — perchance to thyself — or — pour it out as 
 thou seest fit." 
 
 "An offering? Great Zeus, Klitor, thou hast not 
 thought me — a god !" faltered Aristodemos in astonish- 
 ment,, thinking how intimate they had been together. 
 
 "Oh, no, — thou art not," old Klitor repeated, with 
 evident wish not to offend. "Of course thou art not! 
 Nevertheless, take thou the oil as our gift. It is our last. 
 We made it with great care. But we can make it no 
 longer." 
 
 Aristodemos put it away from him. 
 
 "It would comfort us to know our gift was in thy hand. 
 Dionysos was also unknown," Klitor added significantly, 
 "to those who saw him first." 
 
 "But thou didst help us out of the kindness of thy 
 heart, and not because thou thoughtest me a god?" 
 asked Aristodemos wonderingly. 
 
 "The child was sick," answered Klitor simply, "and 
 even when this roof hid many children from the rain of 
 Zeus the traveller was always welcome." 
 
 "Ah, Klitor, thou art all astray in this matter. But 
 I will gladly take thy gift and give it to the Delphian 
 Apollo. May 'the good god' bless thee! " 
 
 Aristodemos would not trust himself to speak longer 
 with them. He put up a hand to steady Mendi on his 
 perch, then turned and went swinging down the path 
 with his wonderful assurance of step among loose stones. 
 The old couple standing at the door watched him go. 
 
 "But he could not save the child," spoke Auge's bushed 
 
330 THE SPARTAN 
 
 voice in the silence. "It was I had to take him to 
 Demeter and pray." 
 
 At this moment Aristodemos came to the last cliff turn 
 and, looking back, waved his staff to them in farewell. 
 As he did so a little white cloud rolling lazily up the 
 gorge, collided softly with the cliff and folded him from 
 their view. 
 
 And Klitor, with a quiet, significant look at his wife, 
 turned and stepped with tremulous difficulty over his 
 high threshold. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 
 
 An Arkadian Interlude 
 
 HOWEVER much we may love the shyness of 
 spring — her slow, slow coming, each day the 
 added hint, the faint breath of difference — 
 yet after all it is the surprise of spring that we love the 
 best. We love spring because we have forgotten her. 
 Such a surprise, many times intensified, Aristodemos now 
 experienced. This had been his first real winter, his 
 first long months of cold and snow. And now a few 
 hours' swift striding had brought him down from the 
 bleak unaltered heights of Mount Kyllene to the verge 
 of this laughing valley and all the livingness of the 
 awakened year. It was really only March; but in Ar- 
 kady the power of May was already abroad. 
 
 Behind him rose the forest, all aslope, arbutus-haunted, 
 freshly green, the mountain's last declivity. Below him 
 lay Lake Pheneos, clear opal in its deep mountain cup. 
 How the wind blew! It sang in his ears a very satyr- 
 tune to set the heart' a dancing. He had to shout to 
 
 331 
 
332 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Mendi by his side to make himself heard above its glorious 
 sounding. The blue-green waters of the lake ran like a 
 tide under the wind's merry urging. At the end of the 
 lake a stretch of long-grassed meadow ran on in billows 
 with the waters — all, all imder the current wind. The 
 trees, too, bowed and ran. It was as if the whole earth 
 were leaping to some new-imagined goal. 
 
 Aristodemos was only twenty-four. The season could 
 not but get into his blood. All that had been inspiriting 
 in his life, his loves, his hopes, his triumphs at Sparta, 
 all seemed to leap again within him. He hugged 
 Mendi to him with an exulting sense of nearness, as 
 though the child were verily the son of his own body. 
 
 He came down to the lake and turned northward along 
 the shore to Pheneos city. He walked swiftly, with a 
 light forward motion, with his hat flung back, his golden 
 head now darkling in the shadows, now gleaming in the 
 sun. There lingered about him yet that subtle immortal 
 look which the Greeks called "youth." Yet he was not 
 a youth, he was a man, and carried his head with a certain 
 calm erectness that would have been deemed overbold 
 in the Greek Ephebos. His level brows, his deep set 
 serious eyes, were of full manhood — a rich, vigorous 
 face, broad of forehead, even cheeked and strong, with 
 robust chin and full, firm lips. And it was pure with a 
 kind of soldierly purity — had a noble habit of expression. 
 Only as he smiled was it delicate, when his lips played 
 into such tenderness that you seemed to look suddenly 
 quite into his unprotected heart and must inevitably 
 love him as you would a child. 
 
 Such a face would be sure of notice at Delphi where 
 
AN AKKADIAN INTERLUDE 333 
 
 those statesmen-priests knew men and recognized power 
 when they saw it. 
 
 "Mendi, Mendi," he said in happy excitement. "What 
 was that story Auge used to tell thee about the Aroanios 
 fishes?" 
 
 "Eh? Hueh?" asked Mendi — for he always put this 
 birdlike question before making his real answer. 
 Then, as if he remembered, "Oh, sing-fishes!" he cried. 
 "Fishes sing in the river." 
 
 "Wouldst hear them?" 
 
 "Yes. Fishes sing for Mendi!" And the child began 
 to clap his eager little hands. 
 
 "Art so easily gladdened, little man?" said Aristodemos 
 kissing him. " Perhaps we can find them for thee. They 
 are not far away." 
 
 They passed unpausing through the small Arkadian 
 city of Pheneos and were quickly out again in 
 the open, turning off from their road southwestward 
 toward Mount Penteleia, beyond which flows the 
 Aroanios. 
 
 Now this going was not toward Delphi. Delphi meant 
 the parting from Mendi, and that parting was become 
 something from which he was turning his face away and 
 of which he could not bring himseK to think. Up in 
 £he mountain hut his little playfellow had become hiS' 
 passion. The change had come unperceived. There 
 had been rekindled a kind of second dawn in his soul 
 that was all of the child. Here in these lonely moimtains 
 with their unbroken quiet, their secluding snows and now 
 their masterful spirit of spring, the past had been closed 
 over. The great civic life of Sparta, his own tragedy. 
 
3Si THE SPAETAN 
 
 the impendiiig national disaster — all had grown unreal 
 and far away. 
 
 He began to cheat himself with suppositions. likdy 
 enough the child's fatJier was dead, had forgotten or 
 had never cared so very much. Or he had taken a new 
 wife and was rearing to himself a new brood among 
 whom an older son would be HI wdcome. 
 
 He even dreamed of going back to the frieiidly little 
 priestesi, and felt again with longing that gentle kiss 
 <rf hers. The youth in him was loving life again, and 
 Hades, peopled with his friends, did not call him now. 
 
 Yet, after aD, it was a strange, snatching joy that he 
 had. He was really looking at each beauty with the 
 profound seardiing that one uses toward a parting friend. 
 It was his last springtime. The delicate, starry look of 
 the forest (of leaves very small; , the earliest flowers 
 hanging on threadlike stem, (only deepwood flowers 
 dare venture out with so frail a hold), then the orchards 
 like great festal processions canopied in bloom of snowy 
 pear and flushing wild apple — all, all were his last. 
 He must look his fill now, for he would not meet them on 
 thdir next return. 
 
 Yet all the more he smiled and held to the boy. 
 
 "SoOTi," he said, "soon we will come to thy river and 
 to thy fish that sing. But thou art not in haste, Mendi? " 
 
 Mendi was in haste enough. But he was not sorry to 
 be set down in a poppy meadow for reaming. 
 
 "There gather thy fill," said Aristodemos, and threw 
 himself upon the turf. He lay with face dose to the 
 ground, gazing across to an opposite green slope warm 
 in the sunshine and peopled with feeding sheep. The 
 
AN AKKADIAN INTERLUDE 335 
 
 thin piping of a shepherd came across to him. The tune 
 was quaint and old. The faint, incessant tinkle of the 
 sheep bells made him drowse. 
 
 Presently a breeze sprang up and the sheep, stirred 
 by it, began to move down the slope in a tremulous, long, 
 tinkling line. There was one black ewe that walked 
 apart, she and her mottled lamb. The obedient shepherd 
 rose and followed them. Slowly they crossed the little 
 brook and filed up again to where Aristodemos lay. He 
 saw the shepherd's shaggy goatskin coat and heard him 
 as he came, humming a song to himself — not chanting 
 it aloud as a city dweller would, but humming it under 
 his breath as if his much aloneness made him shy of his 
 own voice. He greeted Aristodemos with an old time 
 Arkadian greeting and so passed out of sight, he and 
 his companion sheep. 
 
 Still Aristodemos lay and watched the powerful white 
 clouds roll gleaming up the sky from behind the sharp 
 cut crest of the slope, floating clear at last and sailing 
 on, trailing each its shadow over the grass. To his 
 Greek mind such shadows were alive, attendant spirits 
 whose power he did not question. They brought to his 
 mind the Epimeliads, those flock nymphs who dwell 
 among the rocks in lonely grazing places and sometimes 
 challenge the unwary shepherd to a dance. For to him 
 nature was alive and personal, full of greetings and of 
 shy elusions. 
 
 At such a leisurely rate it took them three whole days 
 to reach the Aroanios, though it was scarcely fifteen miles 
 distant from Klitor's hut. Here they sought out the place 
 where the fish were said to sing. They sat together on 
 
336 THE SPAETAN 
 
 the bank of the deep swift stream, man and child with 
 equal faith in the wonder. The sun sank and the steep 
 forest about them gave forth its sharp evening scent. 
 But still they listened; for the fish, it was said, sang 
 oftenest at evening. A nightingale awoke in the tangle 
 and poured out her sad interrupted song so rich in 
 memory. 
 
 "Hark — the sing-fishes ! " whispered Mendi in rapture. 
 
 "No; little son, not yet. Wait a while," said Aris- 
 todemos, with a far away look. 
 
 It was not until black dark that they gave up and went 
 back disappointed and hungry to the shepherd's hut. 
 
 "For this disappointment thou shalt see Styx," quoth 
 Aristodemos, making further excuse to wander. "Art 
 old enough to remember it, and 'tis a God-touched place." 
 
 Aristodemos talked to the child of wonderful Stygian 
 oaths that might not be broken, of the river flowing some- 
 how on, down through Hades itself, and how a man might 
 make oath by the river and drink its water unharmed. 
 But if he should ever break the oath, be it a lifetime 
 after, the sacred water would then poison him and he 
 would forthwith die. 
 
 So upon a day of fitful spring showers and sunbursts 
 the two travellers left Nonakris, and took the way — it 
 could not be called road — to the Styx. They had talked 
 merrily in the mountains, merrily among those views of 
 the infinite world and sky. But here they hushed their 
 voices and clambered down in silence. For the Styx 
 flows in a gorge so difficult of descent that Aristodemos 
 had to cling by roots and branches, or leap down and lift 
 Mendi after, or go creeping along ledges where the clammy 
 
AN ARKADIAN INTERLUDE 837 
 
 wall seemed to push him off, while the chasm sheered 
 from the footpath on his other side. 
 
 Down, down they went, leaving the broken sunshine 
 and the wind's merry piping. Bottom gained at last, 
 they stood in the chill twilight, the dread cliffs rising 
 above them to the narrow sky. The air was lifelessly 
 still. The gorge was closed at the upper or western end 
 by a great precipice erect as a wall. There, six hundred 
 feet above them, they could see the little Styx itseff come 
 tumbling over the top of the wall as if out of the sky and 
 then fall trickling and showering down to their feet. 
 So tiny was the river, so terrible the fall, that only in a 
 sparkle of rain did it reach the deep at last. And as 
 they stood there, its faint showery sound like a meaning- 
 ful whisper filled their ears. 
 
 Aristodemos had no words — even for the child. It 
 seemed to him as though but one more leap would bring 
 the fearless little river into Hades itself. ■ Was the portal 
 to eternal shadows in this very ravine? 
 
 A sound echoed through the gorge — a stone set fall- 
 ing by some human foot above them. Then voices 
 echoed in hollow reverberation through the place. 
 
 He peered upward and saw a company of men cling- 
 ing their difficult way down the cleft where he had just 
 descended. The round gleam of a helm, the touch of a 
 crimson cloak, told him they were soldiers. 
 
 Ah, he could not meet soldiers even though they were 
 unknown to him. He made what haste he could along 
 the gorge and hid in a cleft. 
 
 Nearer they came, great athletic fellows hushed like 
 children in a temple. They stopped in the floor of the 
 
338 THE SPARTAN 
 
 gorge where the breathless river gathered itself in a pool. 
 Then one dipped a vessel into the water, and holding it 
 to the others to drink, told off the vows that were between 
 them. Aristodemos could not hear aU, only that the vows 
 were of Persia, and Mardonios and of keeping faith with 
 the Hellas League. 
 
 But at those few words his long winter shrank into a 
 moment. He was at one again with the old soldier life, 
 with the great doings of the world, and the world danger. 
 Again "Hellas," the Greek master-passion, swept his 
 soul. He trembled ia his hiding place. Tears ran down his 
 cheeks — tears of sheer yearning to go out and fight as 
 these men were about to do. 
 
 And now he was seized with a very boy's impatience 
 to get out of the gorge — could hardly wait for the men 
 to leave. Soon as they were out of sight he began to 
 scale the cliffs, hurriedly, feverishly. 
 
 "Mendi," he said, "Mendi, we were going to Delphi. 
 We have lost time by the way." 
 
 His purpose seemed to give him chase. He hastened 
 as if under a goad. How less than a man was he become! 
 How he had dreamed so long, and HeUas trembling on 
 the verge ! What though he was cut off and apart from all 
 the fighting. Hellas! Hellas! still was all his thought 
 and all his sorrow. And would he have made 
 Mendi an outlaw with himself, destroying every noble 
 chance for the child? Mendi must have a country, a 
 father — his own father. Mendi at least must be a Hel- 
 lene. There was no other way. To get Mendi that 
 father was the one straight manly deed left for Aristode- 
 mos. And over this he was dallying hke a woman! 
 
AN ARKADIAN INTERLUDE 339 
 
 In such high mood he sped toward Delphi, to give up his 
 last sweet hold of life. Beyond Delphi he did not think. 
 
 No loitering now — only haste, haste! 
 
 This was not renunciation. Renunciation would have 
 seemed a strange foolishness to him. It was no question 
 of doing right or wrong. He did not think of it so. He 
 had a haK-conscious reasoning about it which sounds 
 strange to modern ears, but which to his Hellenic mind 
 was simple and inevitable. "Life is sad," he said, "and 
 to-morrow we die. Therefore, let us be noble!" This 
 was the strange "therefore" that came to the mind of 
 every noble Greek. 
 
 A strange sequence indeed. But the minds which 
 thought those beautiful forms out of the marble, that 
 drew a veil of lovely mythic wonder over their hills and 
 valleys and ennobled even the simple wayside flowers — 
 likewise thought nobly upon life. The beauty that they 
 loved in outward things they loved also in things within. 
 As they loved a beautiful temple, a swift stepping youth, 
 even so they loved a just law, a logical system of thought, 
 a high deed — loved them with a curious intensity. 
 It was not the moral side of goodness that appealed to 
 them but its sheer beauty, its harmonious fitness. 
 
 "Let us be noble!" they said lovingly, doggedly. 
 
 It was in religion that they went astray. Their gods 
 were but so many enigmas. There was no real goodness 
 in the heavens, no real kindness in the powers that ruled. 
 
 "But if the universe is confused and ugly, then all 
 the more," cried the intrepid Greeks, "let us be noble!" 
 Even in such brave fashion did they fling back at their 
 puzzling gods. 
 
340 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Yet Aristodemos, for all his high mood, found that the 
 sorrow of parting with the child ate into his heart more 
 than he would have confessed. And as he came to cities 
 once again, to the abodes of men, as he passed smoking 
 altars and foot-echoing temples, he could not but be 
 sensible of a shadow upon the very gods themselves. 
 He did not in any wise doubt the reality of the gods, but 
 he accused them in his heart. Those bright beings, so 
 fair, so sure themselves of life, what right had they so 
 wantonly to vex and fret man's little day, which must 
 so soon go down in darkness ! It was the shadow of that 
 sorrow which forever was to trouble the Greek race that 
 now crossed the mirror of Aristodemos's soul. For whUe, 
 from first to last the best in the Hebrew heart beat up- 
 ward with irrepressible joy toward his God, the best in the 
 Greek heart through all the centuries contended bitterly 
 with his. We hear the Greek pleading pitiful-wise 
 with his blessed gods that they would be only as good as 
 he himself, only as just and fair and kind as he himself 
 could be. Perhaps the fact was that in the story-telling 
 childhood of the Greek race. Homer and the unknown 
 writers of the Theogonia had fixed the character of the 
 gods forever before they could come to their own at the 
 hands of the sensitive worshipful Greek maturity. How- 
 ever that may be, as the Greek awoke he looked out upon 
 his Zeus, his Athena, even his Apollo, with sad and troub- 
 led eyes, questioning and trying them until after some 
 centuries he found refuge in his own calm philosophy. 
 
 In Aristodemos's day such bitter questioning was as 
 yet only as the hovering of dark wings over Greece. 
 But already the deep spirit of iEschylus was stirring. 
 
AN AKKADIAN INTERLUDE 341 
 
 Pindar was becoming a high voiced prophet. No think- 
 ing Greek could escape it. 
 
 And so the vague, high questioning assailed Aristodemos 
 in the wild, gave hurry to his feet, drove him for refuge 
 to the Delphi place, there to hide like a wounded bird in 
 its temple eaves. There surely he would find some 
 wisdom, some clue and higher calm. 
 
 As he journeyed, those stories which had a:mused his 
 childhood, which he had heard among the slaves and 
 from Antiphon, came back to him distressfully clear. 
 How helpless sometimes were the gods themselves, how 
 fooKsh and headlong in their sudden loves. It was well 
 enough for Zeus to be amorous — he was by nature the 
 father and begetter of men. But Apollo, his boyhood's 
 love! It hurt Aristodemos that Apollo should be other 
 than pure. That amour of the god with imwilling Kreiisa 
 the daughter of Erechtheus, there in the cave at the 
 Acropolis. He had seen the place often. He remembered 
 it now with a swift, involuntary scorn. Leonidas or 
 Lykos would never have so demeaned themselves! 
 
 His youthful devotion to Apollo had been a kind of 
 friendship, a familiarity, a natural pleasure daily renewed 
 by acts of ritual. But now! What had he to do with 
 that face of calm, ineffable brightness, that god of ]oy, 
 to whom even the winter season was a discomfort not to 
 be borne? And the god's image, so easily vivid in his 
 boyish days, was faded now, and far. 
 
 Once, indeed, he almost felt an access of faith in Apollo. 
 He had awakened upon the mountain side before sunrise, 
 when earth and sky lay in the bright quiet of dawn — 
 the pure twilight which with all its likeness to the evening 
 
342 THE SPARTAN 
 
 can never be mistaken for it, because of its subtle differ- 
 ence of growing and of hope. Mendi lay waking beside 
 him, his warm cheeks flushed with his sleep. 
 
 Then it was that a small cloud was blown softly across 
 the valley, and stole like a presence toward him. It was 
 not taller than the trees, and very defined. It moved 
 in delicate silence, nearer, nearer, until the heart of 
 Aristodembs burned within him. 
 
 "Thou immortal god!" he said, not daring to speak 
 Apollo's name. His voice trembled with something more 
 like love than fear. 
 
 He cast down his eyes not daring to look. He glanced 
 toward the child hoping he too had perceived it. At last 
 he lifted his head again, feeling — ah, the cold breath of the 
 fog. Here was his cloud torn among the laurels, melting 
 to naught. Foolish heart that he was, why had he hoped? 
 
 At length, after several days of almost silent journey- 
 ing, Mendi and Aristodemos came out of Arkadia into 
 the mountains of Achaia — and found themselves upon 
 the ridge of a long headland flanked by gorges on either 
 side. Thence they looked down far below upon the 
 blue Corinthian Gulf, and saw the white fingers of the 
 surf running and returning on the gentle beach, spimding 
 their deep fresh music. Beyond the Gulf rose the 
 mountains of Phokis folding and hiding away the sacred 
 Oracle of Greece. Next morning Aristodemos found 
 himself with Mendi at his knee in a little bobbing boat, 
 with coveted Delphi growing slowly nearer across the 
 dancing distance. 
 
 Thus, sorrowing, groping, loving, he came to Delphi 
 at last. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 
 
 The^ Place of Golden Tripods 
 
 A BAND of pilgrims were hurrying along the steep 
 way that mounted to Delphi. They were 
 eager to reach the precinct before nightfall. 
 Among them Aristodemos carried the tired Mendi 
 on his shoulder. Of all these questioners he perhaps 
 bore the bitterest question. He was nearing the goal of 
 a long, anxious faring. But the gods were capricious. 
 He began to wonder how the Pythia would receive an 
 accursed man. For some Olympian reason, hidden from 
 him, his very presence at Delphi might be a sacrilege 
 which Apollo would wrathfuUy resent. It might be a 
 part of the very curse that he should come hither to be 
 danmed. Others might ask cure for themselves, but 
 with so many chances of refusal and the almost certainty 
 of wrecking the whole purpose of his coming, Aristodemos 
 dared not ask cure of his curse. And even Delphi, he 
 reflected, could not cure a curse until after some fashion 
 the dark Erinyes, those insatiable ones, had had their 
 
 343 
 
344 THE SPARTAN 
 
 will upon the man . No, he would keep silence and run 
 his chance. 
 
 The road led here through theKrissaian Plain, a steep- 
 walled vale, rich and fertile, full of yellowing com. In 
 moist places oleanders and pomegranates flamed, generous 
 of red bloom and far flung sc-ent. 
 
 Now the road turned to the right and made northeast 
 for Delphi, mounting above the fields and up through the 
 steep olive groves until Aristodemos could look back 
 over grove, field and plain and out upon the Corintlmui 
 Gulf which he had crossed that morning. In the Pleistos 
 Bavine below the road were the famous potteries with 
 their hovering haze of smoke. The potter slaves, their 
 day's work done, flocked carolling along the road and 
 minted with the travellers. Among them Aristodemos 
 saw a dream-eyed vase painter with his arm frankly 
 about his sweethearL 
 
 Hi^er and stiD higher climbed the way. It was a 
 happy way toward Delphi. The throng grew momently 
 more talkative, eager, expectant. They began to point 
 out distant places, clear seen on the high mountain sides. 
 But Aristodemos was so absorbed in his own thoughts 
 that he forgot the famous turning of the road until, at a 
 step around a little spur, suddenly he found himself with- 
 in a vast amphitheatre of bills and the whole of sacred 
 Delphi, stem and beautiful, open before him. There 
 lay the precinct of the Oracle, contained within its wall, 
 quadrate on its sunny slope. Crowning it upon its far 
 side was the pure great temple of the god's own voice, 
 very dean and chaste at the foot of savage cliffs. 
 
 The precinct was crowded with little coloured teiiq>les 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 345 
 
 all m a golden mist of sunset light, those bright treasuries 
 of the god, uncounted and precious. Amid them Aris- 
 todemos caught a confused gleam of brazen tripods 
 and far famed statues. He could see the white zig-zag 
 of the Sacred Way winding upward through the sloping 
 precinct, among the thick set fanes, to lose itself from 
 view around the Great Temple's eastern front. 
 
 Close beyond the Oracle rose the two yellow, shining 
 cliffs, almost a thousand feet high, catching full face the 
 setting sun. They were a great curve of golden wall, 
 cleft midway by a narrow gorge of cascades. Phaidriades 
 "the Shining Ones" the loving Delphians called them. 
 They likened them to the bright pinions of the sun, as 
 if Phoebus himself were some glorious hovering creature 
 stretching vast protecting wings about his Sacred Place. 
 Back of the cliffs the mountains soared, their stupendous 
 circle enclosing the whole vale. And still above these, 
 hidden by the cliff, he knew that Parnassos lifted its 
 gleaming snows high in the blue. 
 
 Ah, "Sacred Delphi," "Navel of the World," "Earth's 
 Deep-Murmuring Seat," "Voice-Place of Prophecy," 
 " Presence of the God. ' ' In all Hellas what is like to thee ! 
 
 Pilgrims and populace swept on into the town. But 
 Aristodemos stood still at the turn breathing like a runner. 
 He lifted supplicating hands above his head. He was 
 not praying. He was only sensible of the vivid exalta- 
 tion of the place. 
 
 "We will not go in to-night," he told Mendi, "not to- 
 night. There is no place for us in the town." So they 
 slept near the roadway under the high stars and escaped 
 the sordid haggling of a Delphian inn. 
 
346 THE SPARTAN 
 
 They awoke with the lark's first notes and clambered 
 down into the Pleistos ravine for their morning plunge. 
 Then the two pilgrims, fresh from their dip in the cold 
 stream, climbed up to the road again and made toward the 
 "Place of Golden Tripods." 
 
 The road led along a terrace. Below at his right 
 huddled the roofs of common Delphi, in steep downward 
 succession. Above the road, in the sacred Delphi where 
 the priests had their homes, the pleasant houses rose 
 aspiring, tier after tier, to where the splendid New Sta- 
 dion was building close to the cHff. Statues of victors 
 stood at the street corners, mostly music victors holding 
 lyre and plectron. Now they passed along the high pre- 
 cinct wall and came at last to the sacred Eastern Gate. 
 
 Here Aristodemos paused, and lifting Mendi to his 
 face gazed so closely into his eyes that he saw tiim all 
 blurred and dim. 
 
 "Kiss me, my dear son," he said gently. 
 
 The child kissed his cheek. But Aristodemos looked 
 away lost in struggling thought, as if he had forgotten 
 the child in his arms. Then his gaze returned, and even 
 Mendi understood that it was in some sense a parting. 
 
 "Demos not shut Mendi in the big house — No, no!" 
 he cried, clinging to him. 
 
 "No, little son. Demos will never put thee anywhere 
 save in thine own father's arms." 
 
 He put the child down, and with sudden, grave self- 
 mastery stood erect in the serene prayer-attitude of the 
 Greek. 
 
 "Hail, Paian, healing God!" he said. "Good luck 
 to thee and blessing. Child of Latona!" 
 
■ ^^^r w^^ *ttw **• 
 
 > 
 
 ^ 
 
 t* 
 
 The Phicr (if (Idhlen Tripods 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 347 
 
 The porter opened. Aristodemos washed hands in 
 the white lustral basin, dipped Mendi's chubby palms, 
 and so, from defilement free, they entered the sacred 
 place. As says the Delphic proverb : 
 
 "Oh, stranger, if holy of soul, 
 Enter the shrine of the holy god 
 Having but touched the lustral water. 
 For lustration is an easy matter to the good. 
 But an evil man 
 The whole of Ocean can not cleanse with its streams." 
 
 "Comest thou a visitor or a consultant?" asked the 
 porter. 
 
 "A consultant." 
 
 "Then thy way is there." He pointed to a doorway 
 at the left of the paved court. For they were not yet 
 within the Precinct, but in a vestibule of the gate. The 
 door led into a short corridor, this again to a courtyard 
 open to the sky and surrounded by a pleasant colonnade. 
 This was the receiving place of the priests. 
 
 The white robed men there gathered looked more 
 like a group of statesmen than the devotees of a god. 
 And statesmen they really were, a little sacred tribe of 
 them, each born into the noble race and bred in the proud 
 traditions of the Oracle — its greatness, its responsibility. 
 These men felt the broad destiny of Hellas to be in their 
 hands. 
 
 As Aristodemos entered the chief priest was speaking, 
 an old man remarkable for a beautiful white beard and a 
 humorous brightness of eye. The younger men had 
 turned toward him with interest and respect. They did 
 
348 THE SPARTAN 
 
 not at once notice Aristodemos as he stood near the 
 door half dreading that they should see him, awed at 
 the dignity of the place. Then one of the priests started 
 eagerly toward him. 
 
 "Hast thou been waiting?" he said courteously. 
 "Come where we can speak alone. I am Nikander." 
 
 He led Aristodemos to the colonnade, looking upon him 
 with kind but very observant eyes. 
 
 "Thou art in trouble, my son?" he said when they 
 stood alone. "What wilt thou have of the god?" 
 
 "Nothing for myself," answered Aristodemos hastily, 
 and fancied that Nikander looked a little disappointed. 
 " It is for this boy here — not my son, save by adoption. 
 Will the god direct me to the boy's father?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly he will, for thy purpose seems simple 
 and good." The priest took out his waxed tablet. " Who 
 asks the question?" he said, preparing to write the 
 name. 
 
 Aristodemos felt his heart tighten in the pause. 
 
 "The question Is — Is from the boy himself, Mendl a 
 Chian." 
 
 "Of Chios?" asked the priest, looking up doubtfully 
 from his writing. 
 
 "That is where the trader said he bought him," Aris- 
 todemos hastened to explain. He had not known that he 
 would be questioned thus. "It Is probably not his 
 birthplace. That is what I wish to know." 
 
 "Tell me all the story." The priest drew him to a 
 sunny seat. And there Aristodemos began to tell him 
 Mendi's story, warming to the task, freeing his tongue at 
 the last. 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 349 
 
 " And oh, Nikander, look at him ! Is he not pure Greek? 
 Was it not a sacrilege to enslave such a Greek?" 
 
 "Yes — he seems well bom and thou didst well to 
 free him. But, having adopted him dost thou not wish 
 to keep him for thyself? But — perhaps thou hast now 
 a firstborn of thine own." 
 
 "No. I am not even married. But the father, if he 
 be living — think of the sorrow, the loss of such a son!" 
 
 "And thou wouldst restore him, then, for that father's 
 sake?" 
 
 " Yes, and — and — " Aristodemos hesitated again, 
 — " and for the child's sake." 
 
 The priest sat awhile in silent thought, observing now 
 Aristodemos, now Mendi who was playing knuckle- 
 bones on the floor. Presently he said: 
 
 "And thou sayest there is a charm he wore?" 
 
 "Yes. Come, here, Mendi." 
 
 Mendi rose, and the priest quietly slipped the string 
 from his pretty neck. But Mendi forthwith burst into 
 angry tears. "Naughty man! Naughty man!" he 
 cried, struggling and grasping after his luckpenny.- 
 He did not ask Aristodemos's help, but made his 
 own fight. The priest, laughing, held the amulet out of 
 reach. 
 
 "Not much slave spirit there!" he said merrily, while 
 Aristodemos, greatly shocked at Mendi's disrespect, 
 tried to quiet him. "Leave the coin with me," said 
 Nikander. "We priests like to discuss such matters 
 before we go in to the god with the question. 'Know 
 thyself saith Apollo, and he loveth the understanding 
 and open mind. Not readily doth he give answer to the 
 
350 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ignorant or witless questioner. And when he doth, the 
 mortal never foUoweth it aright. 
 
 "And now, as thou perhaps knowest, there are three 
 days to the seventh of the month, our lucky day, when 
 the Oracle is like to speak. Already the Pythia hath 
 begun her purification that she may be able to receive 
 within her mind the prophetic spirit of the god. Go 
 about the Precinct and take thy fill of looking. For 
 never again will thine eyes behold such riches of beauty. 
 Unless," he added smiling, "it be thy happy fate to 
 visit again the Oracle of Apollo." 
 
 He accompanied Aristodemos to the inner gate, and 
 pushed it open with a pleasure in his welcome that made 
 the welcome very sweet to receive. 
 
 "Loxias fare with thee!" he said. "Ask for Nikander 
 when thou hast need of anything." 
 
 The portal clanged to and Aristodemos breathed 
 free again. He found himself shut into a spacious 
 treasureland. A moment he stood bewildered. Then he 
 felt rise within him that excitement which the Greek 
 always felt in the presence of art. He started eagerly 
 toward a near group of statues. Well might he turn to 
 them — Athens's thank-offering after glorious Marathon! 
 There in gentle dignity under their light-roofed canopy 
 stood Athens's peculiar gods and heroes, those who had so 
 filled Aristodemos's mind in childhood, and happily had 
 never been dethroned. Erechtheus was there, and Ce- 
 crops, and Pandion from whose loins he himself was 
 sprung, and Pallas, his own goddess, virgin pure. It 
 was like a "Welcome home." Aristodemos swept out 
 both hands to them. 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 351 
 
 "My gods!" he cried. "My own heroes, keepers of 
 my father's hearth!" 
 
 But he was fairly beyond speech. He began to go 
 from one to the other close and eager. And now he 
 perceived in the old familiarity something mysteriously 
 new, a living quality such as he had never seen in stone 
 before. Pausanias, seeing these noble statues centuries 
 later, said Phidias had made them. But Phidias was at 
 this time but a twelve-year boy. The statues were of 
 the simpler, yet really as beautiful, art of the generation 
 before his. 
 
 They stood erect, planted on both feet. The simple 
 artist knew no other way. They had a tightness of 
 figure like lusty buds close-folded. Not yet quite free 
 of archaic bonds, they nevertheless were alive. The 
 foolish archaic smile had suddenly given place to a pre- 
 occupied seriousness. The square faces, grave full lips, 
 deep eyes, broad brows and low yet lovely heads, all 
 prefigured the glorious Parthenon frieze. But the full 
 outflung divineness of the Phidian Immortals was as yet 
 withheld. Instead there breathed from them a spirit 
 of dignified innocence, the strength and reserve of a 
 noble immaturity. 
 
 Aristodemos had never seen such statues before. The 
 art had grown suddenly — overnight, as it were. While 
 he had been shut away in Sparta, patient hands and 
 dreamful hearts had been at work. In the midst of all 
 the tumult of the war Greek art had been growing toward 
 that marvellous Phidian climax which was to come, that 
 vision of gods and perfect men which still to-day lights 
 the heart of humanity. 
 
352 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Aristodemos lifted the wondering Mendi from one to 
 another, crying: 
 
 "See, see, Mendi — thy Demos's own forefather. 
 And see here, the Maiden Pallas, how pure, how serious! 
 She looks at us as if she knew us fpr her own. Look well, 
 Mendi. Some day thou wilt hear of Marathon whose 
 glory is as yet too great for thee." 
 
 He lavished the bright moments here like a spend- 
 thrift. It was long before he could break away to look 
 about the splendid Precinct. 
 
 Before him was the Sacred Way, paved and white, 
 mounting the hillside in its great triple zigzag to the 
 Temple. On its either hand, rose the brilliant-coloured 
 treasure houses and colonnades, the painted statues stand- 
 ing all about in the open, like people. The Way Side was 
 however not so crowded as it later became. There still 
 were open spaces full of laurel, now just abloom. Bees 
 boomed everywhere. They were especially associated 
 with Apollo. For it was the bees, with their wax 
 and gauzy wings, that were famed to have built the first 
 temple at Delphi. 
 
 The morning was a great heartful of sun. A fresh 
 spring wind was blowing. Ah, the Way was before him. 
 Is it any wonder that to the sore-burdened Aristodemos 
 it seemed a kind of divine holiday? 
 
 He began by turning back to look at things in their 
 order, and saw standing near the Gate the famous Cor- 
 cyrean Bull. He told Mendi the story of the bull leaving 
 his herd and bellowing on the sea-shore until theCor- 
 cyreans, heeding him, had gone down and caught the 
 countless shoals of tunnies, the beginning of their great 
 
PL\CE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 353 
 
 sea wealth. Wherefore the grateful CorejTeans had 
 offered this bronze effigy of their benefactor to the Del- 
 phian god. 
 
 The great feUow stood on his pedestal with that 
 quaint animation and intelligence which the art of early 
 Greece bestowed upon animals — perhaps because the 
 simple sculptors believed them more capable of thought 
 than we do. He was truly modelled, spare and sharp- 
 cut like a Japanese bronze. 
 
 Now Aristodemos resumed his progress up the Sacred 
 Way. He saw the Tarentine Victory Offering, whose 
 story also he knew. Indeed, as he mounted, the wondrous 
 Way seemed to Aristodemos a path of visible victories, 
 each telling its own brave familiar tale. 
 
 Further up the hill Aristodemos now noticed a high 
 projecting bastion or platform flankii^ the Way and 
 looking out over the Precinct walls. Atop of it in the sim- 
 shine stood a tiny bright temple. It was the far-famed 
 Siphnian Treasury. Truly the little fane in its gemlike 
 perfection deserved to be so uplifted. It was old Ionic, 
 exceeding simple of form, a mere chamber with two 
 slender columns in front forming, with the forward- 
 reaching side-walls, a little shady portico. But upon 
 this simplicity was carved a richness of chaste ornament 
 that even now in its ruin is beyond compare. 
 
 Aristodemos mounted its tower-like platform for a 
 closer view. The frieze showed a living procession cut 
 with the depth and delicacy of a master hand. Herakles, 
 Pelops, gods contending with giants, a whole scene from 
 Homer. Such sculptures were the open story books of 
 the Greeks. On the front pediment Apollo was 
 
354 THE SPARTAN 
 
 fighting Herakles for the Dephic tripod — seat of 
 prophecy. 
 
 Looking on this pictured contest, Aristodemos suddenly 
 realized how deeply anxious Apollo was to speak with 
 men. Had not the god thus battled with each successive 
 possessor of the Oracle back to its original owner, Gaia, 
 — Mother Earth — until at last he had made it wholly 
 his own and could speak without hindrance to men of 
 asking-hearts.'' With a new depth of reverence toward 
 his boyhood's god, Aristodemos entered the little fane 
 to worship. Mendi walked silent beside him holding his 
 hand. 
 
 When he came out again the sunlight had broadened 
 into mid-morning. The place was filling with people all 
 a-gaze and excited. The great day of the year was at 
 hand, the Springday, Birthday of Apollo, the first day 
 on which Apollo was like to speak after the winter silence. 
 
 For Delphi was all winter the possession of Dionysos 
 and those strange practices which that passionate god 
 compelled. But now, in the blessed springtime, Apollo 
 was returned to his own from his far wintering in the 
 Hyperborean land. Now ceased the dissonant flute play- 
 ing, the frantic worship, the ranging of wild, ecstatic 
 women over Parnassos. Now succeeded the high worship 
 of the law-giving and law-obeying god. It was the 
 triumph of civilization, the mastery of thought and order 
 over chaotic and barbaric conditions. And civilization was 
 not then so old that it could be taken for granted. It 
 was a novel and uncertain heritage, a matter for pride 
 and emotion, as with it the Greek faced a barbarous world. 
 
 The very music of Apollo set forth the change. From 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 355 
 
 hillside and temple Aristodemos could hear it, the sweet 
 quieting music of the god, the soimding lyre, the clear, 
 well ordered paean, the discreet song. It was very stately, 
 like a confident music of victory. 
 
 Aristodemos came down from the little temple to the 
 Way and mingled with the crowd. It was a quiet crowd, 
 yet throbbing with controlled emotion. He moved slowly 
 on gazing eagerly as he walked, the weary Uttle Mendi 
 trudging it at his side holding fast his hand. 
 
 But near the Way's first turn Aristodemos stopped, 
 wide-eyed. Whose was that familiar back — that man 
 there on the neighbouring temple porch? He should 
 know that back, for it certainly was Spartan. Aristo- 
 demos hastily recalled the old men he knew. Ha, it 
 was Tisias, the father of Demonax — a man who had 
 lost an only son at Thermopylae! 
 
 A heavy trembling seized Aristodemos. He snatched 
 Mendi up and darted behind a group of statues. ^Tiat 
 to do? — rim now from this temple place, throw away 
 the whole purpose for which he had journeyed so far, be the 
 coward that they called him? But he had gained on the 
 road a kind of needful imprudence that served him now. 
 
 "No, Mendi, no!" he said, so fiercely that Mendi won- 
 dered, open-eyed. "We'll get thine Oracle, cheap or dear. 
 Tisias can do no harm that is not already done !" 
 
 He stayed behind the statues, though, until he saw the 
 old man come down from the shrine, go down the Way, 
 and enter the Siphnian Treasury which he himself had 
 just quitted. 
 
 "Good gods!" he said, with a laugh that frightened the 
 boy. 
 
356 THE SPAETAN 
 
 They came oat again upon the Way, roonded the turn, 
 and there faced a marvellous sight — a colossal marble 
 Sphynx, brightly coloured, topping a lofty column, 
 uplifting her wings on high- How she startled him with 
 her wide outlooking eyes, smiling that grave mysterions 
 smile. The sight gave change to his mind so that he went 
 on up the Way, gaining interest again in what he saw. 
 He passed the ragged natural rock where the famous 
 Sibyl had once chanted her prophesies and dark sayings. 
 Then he came to the ancient threshing floor, where every 
 ei^th ye^ the great ritual drama, ' ' Apollo Vanquishing 
 the ^^thon," was pofonned. Then he made the last 
 turn of the Way and b^an to mount steeply along the 
 eastern face of the Great Temple's foundation. At his 
 ri^t stood the gifts of the eariy tyrants, the goldoi 
 bowl of Lydian Croesus, the golden lion of Cretan Midas, 
 and huge silver craters, the rich metal-woik of the East, 
 so splendidly engraved that not a fingertip could toudi 
 where the wondrous graver s tool had not moAred. 
 
 Here, too, at the most conspicuous part of the Way, 
 stood crowded multitudes of statues, Zeus, Herakks, 
 Latona the Mother, Artemis the sister of the Delphian 
 god, Achilles on horseback with Patroklos running beside 
 the horse. Here were votive daiiots and countless 
 bronze animals, wolf, goat, dolphin, bison, ox, and many 
 noble horses. And here stood the famous bronze date- 
 palm, with its lifelike roots and the fn^ squatting at the 
 base. 
 
 And here, most prominent of all, stood the Apollos, 
 statues so ancient that their very artists had become 
 mythicaL And side by side with these stood statues fresh 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 357 
 
 from yesterday. Here were ApoUos of pure gold, of gold 
 and silver mixed, of bronze and of marble. Here Apollo 
 contended with Hei'akles, seized a leaping deer, talked 
 with his mother and sister, lifted up in victorious hands 
 the figureheads of captured ships of Salamis. 
 
 Here at this Crown of the Way Apollo's worshippers 
 might see him in all the acts of his unending life, might 
 greet him in every aspect that they loved and knew. 
 Later Apollo was to become a kind of poet-dreamer, with 
 lax garments and flowing hair. But when Aristodemos 
 climbed the Way to the temple Apollo was the young 
 prophet, the god of vision alight with the high power of 
 song, the "Stern Avenger," "Strong helper," "Phoebus of 
 the Golden Sword," "Far Darter," "Healing God." Such 
 names they called him, and with such attributes they 
 revealed him here. 
 
 Aristodemos's starved nature grew riotous of feasting. 
 He was conscious of nothing but the pure joy of beholding. 
 His heart was full. No place was left in him for hunger 
 or for dread. 
 
 In such high mood he climbed the final steps to the 
 temple platform. A strange fragrance met him. Then 
 upon the broad outspread terrace, he found himself 
 facing the great Temple front — the Temple of the 
 Oracle, robust, calm, and strong like the god whose home 
 it was. A noble Doric colonnade marched full around it, 
 and all was overlaid with the rich elemental colours which 
 the Greeks loved, red mastering the rest. Atop the roof 
 the winged akroteria gave their lightness and flying 
 aspect to the whole. Above the temple the great cliflPs 
 soared to the sky. Aristodemos drew a long breath. 
 
358 Thiii BjrAitxAiN 
 
 Suddenly an eagle swooped down from the height 
 toward the great open-air altar to snatch at the sacrifice. 
 Then Aristodemos heard the sharp twanging of a bow 
 and the cry of the wounded bird as it fled screaming into 
 the blue. 
 
 "Wilt steal from the great god himself?" cried an 
 indignant young voice, and Aristodemos was aware of 
 a young altar-defender, who now laid aside his bow and, 
 taking up a fresh laurel, began to sweep and purify the 
 temple threshold. He was a blooming boy, his hair yet 
 moist from the ceremonial bath, his white robes fresh 
 upon him. 
 
 The place was very quiet. And now the boy was bring- 
 ing out a golden ewer filled, as Aristodemos knew, with 
 the sacred water of Kastalia. He began to sprinkle, as 
 it were, dew upon the place, singing softly to himself, 
 
 " With hands from all defilement free." 
 
 Aristodemos watched him, longing ardently to go him- 
 self within the Temple, yet not daring to do so. He took 
 out his coin irresolute. But it was only enough for his 
 single oflFering at the receiving of the Oracle. No; he 
 must wait the three days. He turned away. But the 
 gentle boy hastened after him. 
 
 "There has been offered this morning a general sacrifice 
 for strangers," he told Aristodemos kindly. Delphi was 
 never grasping of gifts. Her welcome was equal for 
 rich and for poor. 
 
 So Aristodemos, with Mendi asleep on his shoulder, 
 stepped over the threshold into the great shadowy temple. 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 359 
 
 The lofty temple chamber was the place of the "very 
 holy" things, objects which had been familiar to Aristo- 
 demos all his life. Could he be actually looking upon 
 them now? In the middle of the room rose the great 
 Omphalos Stone, "Navel of the Earth," dome shaped, 
 shining with oil and hung about with bright woolen 
 fillets. 
 
 An eagle of pure gold stood on either hand. Here 
 had met the two eagles which Zeus had sent flying from 
 the ends of the earth to find the centre. Near it was 
 Apollo's hearth, where leaped his eternal fire, filling the 
 lofty place with fiickering light and setting the eagle- 
 wings aflutter as with life. 
 
 Aristodemos stopped to spell out the famous "Maxims 
 of the Sages," set in golden letters on a pillar: 
 
 "Know thyself." 
 "Nothing in excess." 
 
 These were tokens of the age-long bond between 
 Delphi and the Wisdom-Lovers. For Delphi had her 
 philosophers long before Athens. She was in close 
 touch with the philosophers of Ionia and of the far 
 Italian coast. Even now their deep questioning was 
 exerting its secret uplifting influence upon Delphi, pruning 
 away her crude Doric ceremonial and giving her an author- 
 ity of actual moral law, which she in turn was teaching 
 to all Greece. To Delphi men came to be made clean, 
 and Delphi was learning to make them really clean. 
 It was in this great, solemn chamber that consultants 
 received their Oracles. Few but kings and ambassadors 
 
360 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ever entered the adytum in the crypt, beyond, where the 
 god spoke. 
 
 But now Aristodemos came upon an object which was 
 entirely new to him — a large iron chair near the Om- 
 phalos. A lyre lay upon it. With childish impulse he 
 reached out and touched the strings. Then he noticed 
 how polished it was. Evidently it was a "companion of 
 many songs." 
 
 He lingered long in this holy place. Then he thought- 
 fully left the great chamber, came out into the bright sun 
 and made his way down from the temple steps toward the 
 new ofPering of Gelon. 
 
 He was looking deeply absorbed at this splendid 
 group when he heard a voice near him suddenly cry out. 
 It was a cry of amazement and emotion. Aristodemos 
 turned fiercely to face Tisias. But he faced another 
 instead. The man started toward him. He was an 
 unforgettable man of about middle age, shorter than 
 Aristodemos, but beautiful and very strong. His large, 
 eager eyes searched Aristodemos with wonderful bright- 
 ness. 
 
 "By holy Apollo!" he cried again, seizing Aristodemos's 
 wrist. "Lykos again in the flesh! Whence art thou? 
 Of Athens — of Athens?" 
 
 "No," stammered Aristodemos. 
 
 "Of Sparta, then? The boy went to Sparta." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then art thou Aristodemos, son of I-ykos? Answer! 
 Answer!" 
 
 But Aristodemos did not answer. He stood silent and 
 white, appalled at the sudden meeting. He knew at once 
 
PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS 361 
 
 his father's friend. He felt the man's outreaching joy. 
 Yet in all his confusion he had but the one instinct — to 
 hide from Pindar the shame that would tarnish Lykos's 
 memory. He covdd never wrap his curse like an evil 
 garment about that clear, bright, honoured figure. 
 
 "There was an Aristodemos, son of Lykos," he slowly 
 answered at last, "but he is dead." 
 
 The man dropped Aristodemos's hand as if in sudden 
 awe of him. 
 
 "Then have the gods made Lykos over again because 
 of his beauty," he said. 
 
 He stood gazing at Aristodemos, his face quivering 
 with emotion. Aristodemos, fearing to trust himself, 
 turned almost rudely away. 
 
 "No — no! Do not move!" cried the other. "So 
 
 — thy head turned aside! Oh, I could embrace thee for 
 my friend!" 
 
 Aristodemos darted a startled, appealing look at the 
 man. 
 
 "Forgive me," said the stranger, "I have taken 
 liberties with thee. Thy likeness is so marvellous. 
 Good luck to thee, and free joy of Delphi!" 
 
 He was gone. Aristodemos stood helpless on the spot. 
 Then he clasped Mendi to him and hurried out of the 
 Precinct down across the wild ravine and out into the 
 hiUs beyond. 
 
 But the other man hastened off full of purpose. He 
 strode in among the priests. 
 
 "Which of you received that young man this morning, 
 
 — the beautiful one with golden hair, the one with the 
 child? Who is he?" 
 
362 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Nikander rose and came to him smiling at his vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 "Who is he?" urged Pindar. "What is his name?" 
 
 "He gave no name," replied Nikander. "He made his 
 request in the child's name — a rather unusual and 
 noble request." 
 
 "And who the child?" 
 
 "A Chian, he says. But I do not believe it." 
 
 "Nay; but answer me more fully, I beg. If I could 
 only know whether he be Lykos's son! Can you not tell 
 me something ?" 
 
 "Would that I might, dear friend. The young man 
 hath great need." 
 
 "Think you so? Oh, think you so indeed? I too read 
 sorrow in his face." 
 
 "It is the look," said wise Nikander, "of a man under a 
 curse. I have seen it before, and it is like nothing else 
 — the curse-look in the eyes." 
 
 "Oh — oh!" cried the other imder his breath, as if 
 Nikander had struck him. Then he added, "That 
 explains! That explains! But Lykos's son! I must 
 find if it be he. Will I lose him, think you? Will he 
 stay for the Oracle?" 
 
 "He will certainly stay for the Oracle," answered the 
 quiet priest. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 
 
 The Pythia Speaks 
 
 BEFORE sunrise on the day of the Oracle Aris- 
 todemos re-entered the Precinct by an obscure 
 gate and threaded narrow byways to the grove 
 above the Great Temple. Even now he could hardly 
 believe that he was come again, his contest within had 
 been so sharp against it. This sudden meeting with 
 Pindar had stirred him to the depths. Before, he had 
 seemed to have something of the unmoved quality of 
 Fate herself. He had faced Fate so long. But Pindar! 
 Pindar! How Aristodemos loved him! Yet he must not 
 meet Pindar again. A public stoning at old Tisias's 
 hands could never break him, but Pindar's kindness 
 might. He must not meet with Pindar! 
 
 Aristodemos sat among the laurels breathing the sweet 
 air, looking down to where the crowded temple roofs 
 brightened in the morning sun. Footsteps presently 
 broke the silence. It was Nikander mounting the path. 
 Were these priests omniscient! How had Nikander 
 
 363 
 
364 THE SPARTAN 
 
 kftown that he was here? Aristodemos started anx- 
 iously to his feet. Then he saw that Nikander was 
 s miling . 
 
 " Is all well with thee? " he said as he came up. " Thou 
 hast not let me do thee any service." 
 
 Mendi, with childish impulse, ran to him, reaching 
 out his little hands. 
 
 "Mendi loves thee!" he said frankly. 
 
 The priest lifted the child in his arms. 
 
 "Hast a httle boy at home, too? " questioned the child. 
 
 "Yes ! How knowest thou that? " answered Nikander, 
 a swift happy light in his eyes. 
 
 Then Mendi suddenly recollected. 
 
 "That little boy wear Mendi's luckpenny now," he 
 said ruefully. 
 
 "No, indeed, he will not, thou Shrewdness !" laughed 
 Nikander. And taking out the amulet he threw it over 
 the baby neck. "Thou art full of hvunours. Yesterday 
 thou foughtest — to-day thou lovest." 
 
 He looked over Mendi's curls, watching Aristodemos's 
 face. Indeed, through all the coUoquy Aristodemos 
 had felt that Nikander was keenly watching him. 
 
 "Thou must find it veiy hard to part with this little 
 lover of thine," he said to him. 
 
 "It is necessary — " began Aristodemos, then turned 
 away his head so abruptly that Nikander hastened to 
 add: 
 
 "It is time for our sacrifice. We must be going. The 
 fythia will be eariy at the Tripod." 
 
 He turned, still holding Mendi, and the three hastened 
 down the slope. 
 
THE PYTHIA SPEAKS 365 
 
 First they sought the Kastalian Spring under the foot 
 of the Phaidriad Cliffs just where the mighty gorge 
 cleaves them. The gathering worshippers talked softly, 
 but the gorge gave back mysteriously the murmur of their 
 voices. The precious water of Kastaly stood crystal in 
 its square basin, with broad marble steps leading down. 
 Here all consultants must wash their hair before ap- 
 proaching the Oracle. 
 
 Aristodemos divested himself and Mendi of their 
 garments. The priest never forgot the beauty of the 
 unnamed suppliant who, "in the ripeness of golden 
 crowned youth," descended with his child into. the clear 
 water. Then the two re-clothed, crowned their wet 
 heads with laurel, binding them with bright fillets, and 
 went on to the Fore Temple, where they made their 
 sacrifices. Afterward they returned in the full morning 
 sunlight to the Temple of Apollo. 
 
 On the way Nikander said to Aristodemos : 
 
 "Thou art bidden down into the very Sanctuary, the 
 Place of the Tripod. It is a rare privilege, but Pindar 
 hath desired it for thee, and with us a wish of Pindar is 
 almost law." 
 
 "He is very kind," stammered Aristodemos. 
 
 "He is very great. Here in Delphi we honour him as 
 no poet hath been honoured. He is close to the god. 
 Didst thou not see his iron chair in the temple? There 
 by the hour he sits and sings. We Delphians are honoured 
 by his presence and his songs. For he hath visions. 
 Pindar hath taken a strong liking for thee." 
 
 "No, no," corrected Aristodemos. "He hath fancied 
 some resemblance." 
 
366 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Nay, young man. It is thyself." 
 
 "MyseK?" 
 
 "Yes. So he hath told me." 
 
 Aristodemos trembled inwardly. How little chance 
 there really was to avoid Pindar. And how impossible 
 to compose himself for a meeting. He scanned the group 
 of consultants about the Great Altar on the terrace. 
 But Pindar was not among them. 
 
 The company was a mixed one — a sailor who had had 
 a dream and feared to make his voyage; a farmer asking 
 about the planting of his field; a pompous ambassador 
 with a secret inquiry from an Eastern king. There was 
 also a young ambassador from a distant Western colony 
 desiring to settle a dispute with the mother city. And 
 last of all a sunny old Athenian who, being white haired 
 and near his end, was come to free his slaves. 
 
 "'Twere a pity to sell them," he whispered aside to 
 Aristodemos. "And I am sure they won't go with me to 
 Hades. So I'm selling them to Apollo." And selling 
 them to the god he actually was. The documents were 
 already signed and sealed by which Apollo bought them 
 for a price. And the god would set them free. No dis- 
 honest master or heir would ever claim a slave again in 
 face of such a document. In such wise Apollo protected 
 the weak. 
 
 But as they were talking a sudden silence fell upon 
 the crowd. 
 
 The Pythia led by the white-haired Hosios had ap- 
 peared upon the terrace. She was dressed in a long 
 robe, was laurel crowned and had loose flowing hair. She 
 was only an ignorant peasant girl and went to her task 
 
THE PYTHIA SPEAKS 367 
 
 docile, but visibly unwilling. She had fasted some days. 
 She had run through the purifying laurel smoke. She 
 had chewed the laurel leaves. And now, even before 
 entering the shrine, she was upon the verge of ecstasy. 
 A year ago she had doubtless been a wholesome country 
 maid. But her sacred duties had been severe. She lifted 
 to the Hosios a pale pinched face with pointed, trembling 
 chin, keeping her eyes upon his and seeing naught else. 
 He seemed to lead her by that gaze of his rather than 
 by the hand. He himself was silent and intent. So they 
 entered the fane. 
 
 The consultants followed, an awed procession, halting 
 in the main room of the temple. Only Aristodemos and 
 Mendi with the Eastern ambassador went onward with 
 the priests. 
 
 A rude ladder led down into the holy place, a gloomy 
 cave partly roofed over by slabs of stone. The roof was 
 thick hung with fresh laurel. In the floor was a narrow 
 rift of black depth. Astride this rose the Tripod, golden 
 and tall. Near by stood the very ancient golden statue 
 of Apollo and the altar whose low clear flame played with 
 unearthly glitter upon the golden things and sent the 
 shadows starting among the laurel. 
 
 Mendi convulsively clasped Aristodemos's neck and hid 
 his face. Aristodemos himself was in awe beyond measure. 
 
 In the tense silence they gathered about the Tripod. 
 And the little Pythia, with eyes still flxed and held by 
 the eyes of the ancient priest, lifted her hands to him 
 like a child to be taken. She was very thin and light. 
 The priest lifted her easily to her high perilous seat of 
 prophecy. 
 
368 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Then for the first time her eyes wavered. There came 
 into them a look of comprehension and mute appeal. 
 Aristodemos thought she would have spoken. But the 
 old Hosios lifted his finger before her, slowly waving it. 
 Her black wide eyes followed its waving, move for move. 
 Again she was still. So they waited. 
 
 Above them the laurel boughs gave out the smell of 
 green woods in the cave-like place. The awe-stricken 
 worshippers fixedly watched the Pythia on the Tripod 
 as men watch the sacred face of death. Aristodemos 
 began to feel strangely sleepy. A dreamlike, floating 
 sensation almost overcame him. 
 
 Then in the heavy silence he heard, or thought he 
 heard, a murmuring from beneath. The watchers stirred 
 uneasily and glanced into each other's white faces. On 
 the face of the Uttle Pythia came a look of mortal fear. 
 
 A cold vapour puffed up from the cleft, filling the place 
 with its clammy damp and smell of caves — 
 
 Then, with a sharp cry, the Pythia was seized. 
 
 It was a terrible sight. So strong was the onrush 
 of the god upon the frail spirit of the girl that it twisted 
 and convulsed her with the fury of its inner stress. It 
 seemed to flood away every vestige of her own tiny 
 consciousness and leave her but the vibrating, well-nigh 
 breaking instrument of Apollo's will. 
 
 She swayed, almost fell from the Tripod. Then her 
 girlish body stiffened upright. She leaned forward, one 
 arm outstretched, her black eyes brightening to a glassy 
 stare. 
 
 "0 ApoUon! 'PoUon! 'PoUon.'" 
 
 The place rang with her terrible, never-to-be-forgotten 
 
THE PYTHIA SPEAKS 369 
 
 cry, as if all the weight of all the past and future of the 
 world lay upon that little maid. 
 
 At first the cry was naught but the god's name. Then 
 she began to form words. 
 
 " Oh, I see- — I see — " she repeated many times. 
 Then, "7 see — a ship. It carrieth a whole city upon a 
 sea of storm. 1 see — / see — It is war — it gleameth 
 — red — red ! And the man — he giveth laws to a 
 people. Laws — not like the laws of other peoples. — / 
 see the man — I see — I see — I see — I — " Her 
 shriU voice grew fainter, dying upon her lips. 
 
 The old priest stirred. Aristodemos saw him lean 
 forward with eyes as glassy as the Pythia's own, and 
 with terrible, uplifted hand. 
 
 "Whence? Whence come they.?" he commanded. 
 "Thou knowest! Speak!" 
 
 She feU a-moaning and wringing her hands. Then 
 quite suddenly, and in measured tones and swaying to 
 the rhythm, she began to chant: 
 
 "Phokaia — Hyele 
 Phokaia — Hyele 
 Phokaia — Hyele." 
 
 What could the priests make of all this? 
 
 Yet at her words a gleam of delighted faith lighted the 
 Hosios's face and was answered in Nikander's. Was it 
 not a marvel that to the utterly ignorant little Pythia 
 the god should give this vision of a long-past battle in 
 far Ionia? Nikander understood that vision. He knew 
 how that the citizens of Ionian Phokaia, rather than 
 
370 THE SPARTAJN 
 
 submit to the Persians, had sailed away far to the West, 
 and how the remnant of them had founded the now thriv- 
 ing young city of Hyele upon the Italian Coast. He 
 knew also of the brilliant young philosopher and leader 
 whose fame was growing so great and who had given to 
 the new city its good laws. Indeed, for the past three 
 days the priests had been eagerly discussing that same 
 young philosopher, whose name was so like the child's 
 name, and whose city's coin was the child's luckpenny. 
 
 It never occurred even to these clear-thinking men 
 that the ecstatic Pythia might somehow be reflecting in 
 a vacant mind their own intense thoughts. They were 
 dealing with powers which they did not understand. 
 And who shall say that the god did not guide their 
 simple faith? 
 
 But now the Pythia was rambling on about a palace 
 by a broad river, a palace of golden doors and gardens 
 and cypress trees, until the eyes of the stout old am- 
 bassador started from his head. 
 
 "The King's own royal gardens!" he whispered. 
 
 Then the Pythia swooned. The kindly Hosios caught 
 her in his arms and bore her tenderly away, white and 
 dishevelled as her own trailing robes. 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 
 
 The Singer of Delphi 
 
 ARISTODEMOS came out strangely shaken, look- 
 ing on the light of day as if he too had been 
 '■ away from earth. He hurried from the temple. 
 He felt that he must be alone with this vast experience. 
 He had beheld what he believed to be the active crea- 
 tive force of all Greek song and all Greek civilization. 
 He had seen the fount of it bubbling up in chaotic strength 
 too full to be articulate. But to him it was not a blind 
 force. It was the exuberant expressiveness of the intelli- 
 gent god, of Apollo himself. 
 
 So overwhelmed was he by his thoughts that he hurried 
 up the slope and along to where the stadion was build- 
 ing. There by chance he came to the rock-cut steps that 
 led to the long and dangerous way up the cliff. He 
 bounded up, swinging Mendi to his shoulder, glad to 
 vent his strength upon the difficult climb. 
 
 He reached the top of Delphi's lofty cliff. It was the 
 first step in the grand Parnassian staircase, a thousand 
 
 371 
 
372 THE SPARTAN 
 
 feet above the Oracle and three thousand above the sea. 
 He found himself upon a broad plateau broken with 
 clumps of fir, and bounded on three sides by mountains. 
 He swiftly followed the track across the level to a place 
 marked by a statue of Pan. Then he began to mount 
 the path to the farther heights, a still greater climb, 
 until he came suddenly upon a cavern in the mountain- 
 side. The sun struck glittering into the forest of stalac- 
 tite columns within its shadowy depths. 
 
 "Oh, pretty, pretty!" cried Mendi. He had enjoyed 
 the mad climb with gales of laughter. 
 
 "Why, Mendi, we have found the Korykian Cave!" 
 said Aristodemos, as he caught sight of the rough stone 
 at the entrance bearing the dedication to Pan and the 
 Nymphs. It was indeed a place for nymphs to sport 
 in, so cool and away from the world. He wandered in 
 among the shadows, then sat down to rest, letting the 
 child play about him and looking out through the columns 
 to the bright opening. 
 
 Mendi was in treasure land. He picked up the bright 
 stones, bringing them one by one to Aristodemos. "For 
 Demos, " he kept saying. " All for Demos." Aristodemos 
 was monotonously thinking, " The Oracle ! The Oracle ! " 
 To-day perhaps, he would receive it. What difficult 
 mandate would it lay upon him? What would it reveal? 
 One thing at any rate it must reveal — the parting from 
 the child. "Oh, Mendi, Mendi!" he cried, catching 
 him up as he came with gifts and fondly kissing him, 
 then hiding his face for very bitterness of thought. 
 
 At this moment the air outside the cave was swept 
 with a sweet, wild strain of music. He lifted his bead. 
 
THE SINGER OF DELPHI 373 
 
 intently listening. Was it some god in this mountain 
 place? 
 
 Aristodemos seized Mendi's hand and rushed out. 
 Now he heard it clear, the song and the strong-swept 
 lyre. He saw a man wrapped in a thick shepherd's 
 cloak sitting at a little distance at the cliff-edge over- 
 looking the great dip of valley. 
 
 If he had stopped to think he would never have 
 approached that music. Such an uplifted column of 
 song only one man could rear. But in his bitter mood 
 he recked not who the glorious singer must be. The 
 music sounded like a god's, and he drew near as dumb 
 animals follow the music of Orpheus. He did not speak, 
 but when he had come quite close the singer felt his 
 presence and turned. Ah, how quickly he did all 
 things! 
 
 Aristodemos began to back away with foolish, blunder- 
 ing apologies. But Pindar looked straight into his 
 face and silenced him. Then he said seriously: 
 
 "Young man, why dost thou avoid me? What evil 
 word hast thou heard of me? " 
 
 "Oh, no — no evil!" 
 
 "And yet," said Pindar darkening, "thou dost avoid." 
 
 Aristodemus stood silent. 
 
 "Oho!" said Pindar quickly, "Some natural dislike! 
 I had not thought of that." 
 
 Aristodemos had been too absorbed in his own be- 
 wilderment to reflect that he could in any way afifront 
 or grieve the poet. 
 
 "No, no, Pindar!" he cried in great distress. "Thou 
 whom all men honour and love! O thou — " 
 
374 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He seemed so desperately wrought upon that Pindar, 
 fearing he had gone too far, laid a quieting hand upon 
 him. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, " I will not accuse thee. That 
 is," he added with a smile, "not if thou stayest. There 
 are not many who would deny Pindar a pleasure, and I 
 greatly desire it. It is thy likeness. My friend Lykos 
 was exceeding dear to me." 
 
 Aristedomos dared not speak. There was so much 
 that he was in peril of saying. He stood gazing at Pindar, 
 half-haunted, yet so hungrily eager that Pindar almost 
 wept beholding him. 
 
 "Thou wilt stay?" he asked gently. "For the sake 
 of the likeness. For the sake of my dead friend." 
 
 Aristodemus stood long as one dazed. Then he bent 
 down quickly to the child. 
 
 "Sit here, Mendi," he said, "here in this safe place," 
 giving him his bright pebbles. "Here are thy little toys." 
 
 Pindar could not but notice how tender he was with 
 the child. 
 
 Then Aristodemos sat down at Pindar's side, perturbed, 
 wondering what diflScult question he would next have to 
 face. But the poet did not speak again. He sat silent 
 awhile, looking off southward into the illimitable distance 
 that lay below, where the Gulf of Corinth stretched blue 
 and far, and where rose the shadowy mountains in Ar- 
 kadia. At length he absently reached for his lyre and 
 began to play. 
 
 He played wanderingly, carelessly. Yet Aristodemos 
 was astonished at the masterly grasp of the tones, like 
 strength at play. He forgot his anxiety and caution. 
 
THE SINGER OF DELPHI 375 
 
 Then Pindar, as if he had gathered his thought 
 together, began to sing: 
 
 "In a little moment 
 Groweih up the delight of men; 
 Yea, and in like sort 
 Falleth it to ground. 
 
 "Things of a day — 
 What are we and what not? 
 Man is a dream of shadows. 
 Nevertheless, when a glory from God 
 Hath shined on him. 
 Clear light abideth upon man. 
 And life serene." 
 
 Aristodemos listened breathless. What did it mean? 
 What wonderful song was this? Life immortal was not 
 often spoken of by the Greeks. 
 
 But Pindar took up another strain: 
 
 "For those below shineth the strength of the sun. 
 While in our world it is night. 
 And the space of crimson flowered meadows 
 Before their city 
 
 Is full of the shade of frankincense 
 And fruits of gold. 
 
 "And some in horses and bodily feats. 
 And some in dicing, some in harping 
 Have delight; 
 
 Among them thriveth all fair, flowering bliss. 
 And fragrance streameth ever 
 Through the lovely land. 
 As they mingle incense of every kind 
 Upon the altars of the gods." 
 
376 THE SPARTAN 
 
 There he stopped. The exalted calm of the song had 
 worked its will with the younger man. He had never 
 heard anything like this. 
 
 "What does it mean?" he cried. "Of whom singest 
 thou this?" 
 
 It was the question Pindar had hoped for. He was 
 by no means unconscious of his power, and he was now 
 exerting it with full intent. 
 
 "I sing it," he said quietly, "I sing it of the dead. 
 But there is one, always one, whom I think of in singing 
 it. He was my sworn brother. Since him I have had 
 no friend. Never lived there one like him." 
 
 He paused, dreaming himself into the past. 
 
 "He had a son that I could almost have loved in 
 his stead — a manly boy." 
 
 He heard Aristodemos take a troubled, deep breath. 
 
 "I talked with the child as we came from the burial 
 of his father. I held the little mourner in my arms, and 
 he questioned, oh, so deeply ! After that I was summoned 
 suddenly to Thebes. And when at length I came back 
 the boy was gone. Ah, but he was his father's true son ! " 
 
 "But he too is dead," said Aristodemos. 
 
 "Yes. And thou didst really know him in Sparta?" 
 
 "When he weis a boy." 
 
 "And so he is dead," said Pindar. "If he were living 
 how I would love him! Yes, even if he had come upon 
 some great evil." 
 
 Aristodemos looked up with dismay. How much did 
 Pindar really know or guess? 
 
 But Pindar was inscrutable. 
 
 "Well, well," he said after a long silence, sweeping 
 
THE SINGER OF DELPHI 377 
 
 a broad chord upon the lyre. " Hear this ! " and he struck 
 into a high-sounding strain, not of the dead but of the 
 living: 
 
 "/ -pray thee, lover of splendour. 
 Most beautiful among the cities of men. 
 Haunt of Persephone, 
 Thou who by the banks of Akragas stream 
 Nourishest thy flocks. 
 Thou inhabitest a city builded pleasantly — " 
 
 So he sang on and on, of things splendid but not 
 significant. Then gradually his tune changed. Aris- 
 todemos heard now a curiously familiar strain, now a 
 wandering approach to an old haunting melody. At 
 last Pindar was openly singing: 
 
 "Let Hellas join, let Hellas join together. 
 Drive them vnth shouts and with our glittering spears 
 Across the wine-dark sea!" 
 
 It was Lykos's old Karneian song, first sung at Sparta. 
 
 Aristodemos held himself motionless, clasping tightly 
 his knees. The song raced over his heart, tearing up the 
 precious things he had so long kept hid. He grew cold. 
 He broke into a sweat. Then like a flash his palm swept 
 out and rudely struck the vibrating strings to silence. 
 
 "Not that song, not that song!" he cried. "I can 
 not — " 
 
 Restraint was gone. Pindar might have had all his 
 story of him now. Yet Pindar still pushed him cruelly. 
 
 "That was my friend's song. He used to say that 
 his boy was bom of that song." 
 
 "But he was ill born, ill destined!" cried Aristodemos, 
 covering his face with quivering hands. 
 
S78 THE SPARTAN 
 
 " What? The son of Lykos — ill born? " 
 
 "No, no! It is of another I spoke — another! There 
 is no stain on Lykos 's memory!" 
 
 Aristodemos uttered the words, but he faltered over 
 them. His soul was in revolt. Another moment and 
 he would have turned and claimed his father, claimed 
 his father's friend — yes, and all the love that was his 
 right. 
 
 But now, with the light of certainty in his eyes, Pindar 
 quickly spoke again. 
 
 "Well do I know it," he said. "There is no stain 
 on Lykos's memory. Nor ever hath been stain on 
 Lykos's memory!" 
 
 The words caught Aristodemos like a trumpet call. 
 He steadied himself, lifted his head and kept silence. 
 Then the impetuous Pindar threw both arms about him. 
 For the ardent Greek had no reserve in his affection. 
 
 "Ah, dear stranger," he said, "my music hath a strange 
 power. Often and again it striketh a sorrow to men's 
 hearts — yea, even to hearts that have no proper sorrow. 
 Lykos indeed is dead," he cried, "his son also, even as 
 thou hast said — his son is dead. But, before the gods, 
 I love thee who art so like to him I loved!" 
 
 "Thou dost not — thou dost not know me!" urged 
 Aristodemos. 
 
 "No, I do not know thee," repeated Pindar, as he 
 proudly gazed into the set, brave face. " But I have seen 
 the Lykos look in thee, and for that I love thee." 
 
 And Aristodemos closed his eyes and hid his face on 
 Pindar's breast, even as he had done when a Uttle lad 
 at Athens. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY 
 
 At the Oracle's Bidding 
 
 IT WAS late afternoon before Aristodemos and Pindar 
 reached Delphi again. They went at once to the 
 place where the oracles were given forth. In a 
 closed room beyond a pleasant portico the priests were 
 sitting in deep consultation, trying in all faith to find the 
 will of Apollo in the chaotic words of the swooning 
 priestess. They pondered over their oracles with in- 
 finite care. 
 
 Nikander came to meet them. 
 
 "Thy oracle is ready," he said. "Sooner than all the 
 rest. It was very clear." He smiled, seeing the two 
 together, wondering how the wise Pindar had fared with 
 the nameless young man. 
 
 Aristodemos reached out a quick eager hand for the 
 tablet and read: 
 
 379 
 
380 THE SPABTAN 
 
 THE OBACLE 
 
 "Follow the path of the ship 
 
 that fleeing the wrath of the Persians 
 Carried a city afar 
 
 to the uttermost coasts of the sunset. 
 Touch thy far-wand' ring keel 
 
 in the mud of the dark-flowing Hales. 
 There is a town, Hyele, 
 
 though some have otherwise named it. 
 Find thee a man, of wisdom profound: 
 
 ^ofounder his sorrow! 
 If unto him thou deliver thy charge, 
 
 long kept, he will bless thee." 
 
 Aristodemos read the lines through, and then again 
 more slowly, knitting his brow and holding his nether lip 
 between thumb and finger — an old gesture of Lykos 
 which caused Pindar's heart to leap with memory. 
 
 "I don't understand it," he said. "Where is Hyele?" 
 
 " It is sometimes called Elea," said Nikander. 
 
 "But where in the world is it?" 
 
 "It is one of those young colonies of the far West, on 
 the Italian coast above Sicily." 
 
 The Delphians had a masterly knowledge of coasts 
 and indeed had directed most of the colonizing of the 
 Hellenic world. 
 
 Aristodemos wrung his hands in despair. "How the 
 gods are against me!" he cried. 
 
 "What is it? What ails thee?" cried Pindar, eagerly 
 taking the tablet. 
 
AT THE ORACLE'S BIDDING 381 
 
 "You see," said Nikander, "how clearly the place 
 is pointed out, and the man." 
 
 "Yes, but how to get across the broad sea! On land 
 I could walk — " Aristodemos was bitterly ashamed 
 of his poverty. 
 
 Nikander and Pindar exchanged glances. 
 
 "Thou dost not think, my son," said Nikander, laying 
 a friendly hand upon his shoulder, "that the god would 
 send thee a-journeying, and yet give thee no faring? 
 The gods are not foolish. And the gold that the Oracle 
 shall give thee is not to thee but to the child's father. 
 Will he not repay a hundredfold, having his boy again?" 
 
 Aristodemos turned away his face. 
 
 "It is not thine," concluded Nikander quietly, "to 
 question a transaction of the Oracle." 
 
 It was planned that Aristodemos should embark the 
 next day upon an expected ship for Sicily. But the 
 vessel did not arrive. So he remained at Delphi, while 
 Nikander daily sent down a slave to the port for ship 
 tidings. 
 
 The waiting was no barren time. It was Pindar's 
 time, and Pindar filled it. Aristodemos's whole nature 
 seemed to lift and blossom. He drank of that kindness 
 as a dry field drinks the rain. He felt strangely safe. 
 Pindar's love seemed to shut out even the curse, which 
 must be waiting somewhere dry-eyed for its fulfilling. 
 Strong and absorbing was that poet of the splendid fresh 
 life of Greece. Pindar drove Aristodemos to the full 
 length of his own daring thought and speculation. 
 
 Every morning he sought the young man. Sometimes 
 the swift joy of that waiting young face moved Pindar 
 
382 THE SPARTAN 
 
 so that he could scarce give him greeting. They walked 
 together about the Precinct or sat in the quiet grove. 
 Pindar was learning him, not his history; for to that 
 Pindar did not refer again, but to himself. 
 
 "But if Attica had been at once given over to the 
 Persian," Pindar argued one day, "the struggle would 
 have ended long ago." 
 
 "Ended! Yes — in shameful ruin!" cried Aristodemos 
 hotly. "Wouldst thou give up Athens?" 
 
 "But wouldst thou," urged Pindar, "lose all in trying 
 to save Athens?" 
 
 The old fire lighted Aristodemos's eyes. 
 
 "Pindar," he cried, "we must save all — Athens, 
 Bceotia, even Eretria! Oh, Pindar! what smallest state 
 of Hellas wouldst thou throw to the Persian dogs?" 
 
 Then Pindar, the first great Pan-Hellenist, threw back 
 his head with delighted laughter, crying: 
 
 "Not one, dear friend — not one! " And Aristodemos 
 saw that Pindar had been trying him. "Ah, would that 
 there were other Spartans who could see as broad a 
 Hellas as thou seest!" 
 
 "There was one who saw. Leonidas saw — " replied 
 Aristodemos. Then he stopped short, nor could Pindar 
 win from him another word concerning the war. 
 
 And with what eagerness did they discuss the great 
 questions that burned the hearts of ancient men. Are 
 the gods moral? What is the orderly world? And life 
 itself? For Pindar was forever trying to reach be- 
 yond death. He talked out his ventures with heedless 
 freedom, grasping and clarifying his thoughts by con- 
 tact with the fresh keen mind of the younger man. 
 
AT THE ORACLE'S BIDDING 383 
 
 Thus one day he turned upon him with great ear- 
 nestness. 
 
 " Spend not thy desire upon the life immortal, but seek 
 of the gods such gifts as are suited to thy mortality. 
 Use such tools as are at thy hand!" 
 
 Yet the next day, after a long, musing conversation 
 which had grown ever and ever more earnest, he 
 cried : 
 
 "Yes, the body is indeed subject to the great power 
 of death. But there remaineth yet alive the shadow of 
 life. It must be so, for this only is from the gods." 
 
 "The shadow of life!" repeated Aristodemos wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 Pindar mused on, the vision within him growing as he 
 talked. 
 
 " Whosoever hath been of good courage and hath had 
 pleasure in keeping oaths and hath refrained his soul 
 from iniquity, he shall travel the way of Zeus to the 
 Islands of the Blest. There: 
 
 "Evenly ever in sunlight night and day 
 An unvexed life the good receive 
 In that new world. 
 
 "There ocean breezes waft. 
 And golden flowers are glowing. 
 Glowing on splendrous trees. 
 
 "And other sweet flowers the water feedeth. 
 With wreaths whereof the blessed ones 
 Entwine their happy hands." 
 
384 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He was lost, singing. 
 
 "But," blundered in Aristodemos, "yesterday thou 
 wert saying, 'Desire not — ' " 
 
 "Yesterday I had no vision. To-day I have," said 
 the seer. "Not desire a life immortal.''" he repeated 
 scornlully. "But I do desire it, and thou desirest it. 
 We venture not to ask this from the gods. But — to-day 
 I see it! I see it plain! The steadfast in courage shall 
 surely live — shall surely live. Heed what I say, my 
 friend; for, by the gods, it is true!" 
 
 At these times not even the Hebrew prophets were 
 more commanding than Pindar. 
 
 With such startling contradictions he stung Aristo- 
 demos into immortal aspirations. He seemed to swing 
 him out of this contentious world into his own clear 
 spaces of thought. 
 
 But at last the ship came which would take him to 
 Corcyra, and Corcyra was a great port for the West. The 
 poet and Nikander both went down to Kirrha with him. 
 Nikander carried Mendi, who through these days had lived 
 among his own children. The priest had grown very fond 
 of the little fellow so happily snatched from slavery. 
 
 In the harbour rocked the ship Thetis at anchor. 
 
 "Thou art going a far journey," said Pindar, throwing 
 his arm over Aristodemos's shoulder. "But thou wilt 
 come back again when the quest is done." 
 
 "No, I think not." 
 
 " Nay, thou must come back ! Whither wilt thou go ? " 
 Pindar was full of anxiety for him. 
 
 "Oh," said Aristodemos with sudden weariness, "then 
 the gods will have done with me!" 
 
AT THE ORACLE'S BIDDING S86 
 
 He wtis finding it very difficult to part, still unrevealed, 
 from his father's friend. 
 
 The sailors began to stir along the deck and to heave up 
 the cable. 
 
 "They are ready!" cried Nikander, hurrying Aris- 
 todemos into the little boat and kissing Mendi as the 
 slave dipped oars. Pindar ran out deep into the water, 
 insisting ardently: "But thou must come! Here or at 
 Thebes thou wilt always find me. Thou must come to 
 me!" A few moments later Aristodemos had clambered 
 up into the busy, moving vessel. And Pindar and the 
 priest were already distant figures on the beach. 
 
 All that day Aristodemos lay stretched upon the deck, 
 while the shores of the Gulf drifted by — the retiring 
 hills with their blue rifts and valley shadows. Mighty 
 Pamassos seemed scarce farther away at sunset than in 
 the morning. He hardly knew why his mind should feel 
 so enlarged, spacious as the wind-blown sea. But 
 Pindar's spirit was potent with him. 
 
 At nights the ship put in to shore, for merchantmen 
 with valuable cargoes were discreet sailors. They would 
 build a fire upon the beach and sit around it with brown 
 faces to the light, talking loud, drinking deep, and sleep- 
 ing under the stars. 
 
 At Corcyra, after two weeks of waiting, he foxmd a 
 vessel carrying Cyprus copper and Chian wine to Taren- 
 tum, in Italy. The Boar was altogether boarlike in 
 shape, was furnished with a snout and tusks and had 
 upon her bows two great eyes. How else could she see 
 her way? She carried a broad low sail upon a central 
 mast and was painted bright red. 
 
386 THE SPARTAN 
 
 With the weighing of the anchor Aristodemos saw the 
 last of Greece. No more skirting of coasts. The clumsy 
 vessel rounded the northern point of Corcyra, squared 
 away her sail, and laid a direct coiu^e across for Italy. 
 Now he was alone with his quest in that circle of sky-met 
 sea, with the ship pointing unremittingly toward the 
 sunset. He felt himself sa iling out toward the world's 
 end, toward life's end, so far as he could see. Beyond 
 this last commission was nothing for him but the 
 waste of the sea and to face his curse to the 
 end. 
 
 Mendi was his stay. Aristodemos talked with him 
 by the hour in low, musing tones, nervously grasping 
 his little hands. But there was a doll-maker aboard 
 with whom Mendi had fallen in love on the dock at 
 Corcyra, a stocky man with a broad wrinkled face and a 
 bald head, save for gray tufts at the temples. He had 
 small eyes with drooping folded lids, which when he 
 smiled radiated wrinkles as if his whole face were twink- 
 ling. He had fashioned the child a doll of clay. Aris- 
 todemos had never thought of a doU for so sensible a boy 
 as Mendi. He had always treated Mendi as an equal. 
 So Mendi would wriggle away, and when Aristodemos 
 would go after him he would always find him in a circle 
 of laughing sailors playing knucklebones or sitting upon 
 the doll-maker's knee. 
 
 "Mendi, boy," said Aristodemos imprudently one day, 
 as he brought him back for the fifth time, "dost not 
 love thy Demos any longer?" 
 
 "Yes. I love Skyllis too. Skyllis made Mendi a — " 
 
 "SkyUis be hanged! He is an old slave dog!" 
 
AT THE ORACLE'S BIDDING 387 
 
 "Look," said Mendi contentedly, holding up his 
 wretched doll. 
 
 " Child, child, what a hideous thing! "cried Aristodemos, 
 pushing it away. Presently however Mendi trotted off 
 again, and Aristodemos soon heard his silvery laugh 
 amid the loud guffaws of the men, while he himself sat 
 brooding foolishly alone. 
 
 But Mendi belonged to him! No one, slave nor 
 king, should have one moment of the child until 
 
 He rose with a sudden sweep of anger and strode for- 
 ward to where Mendi sat among his merry comrades. 
 Aristodemos's face silenced them. He snatched up the 
 child and marched him back in disgrace. But there his 
 sUly anger melted. 
 
 "Do not leave me," he pleaded, holding him fast. 
 " Do not leave thy Demos now. So soon I will see thee 
 no more." And Mendi, awed by what he did not under- 
 stand, crouched whimpering against Aristodemos's breast. 
 
 The Boar soon sighted Italy, crawled south around 
 the heel of it, and sailed up into the Tarentine Gulf, 
 landing at Tarentum. Here Aristodemos was very 
 impatient at first, but as the days passed he lost his sense 
 of haste. After all, was not each day as the last that he 
 should keep his little son.? For he now began more 
 boldly to call Mendi his son, ignoring the anger of the 
 gods. He played marbles, knucklebones — whatever 
 Mendi commanded. He began to dread the coming of 
 the Elean ship. But it did finally come, nevertheless, 
 and aboard it the travellers began the longer portion of 
 their voyage. 
 
 They sailed down the Leukanian coast, putting in at 
 
388 THE SPAETAN 
 
 Herakleia, Sirls, ruined Sybaris — now a byword for luxury 
 — and Croton, where Pythagoras was still living and held 
 to be well-nigh divine by the devoted Society about him. 
 They also touched at Skylakion and Kaulonia. 
 
 At all the different ports Aristodemos went about 
 the docks astonished at their noisy traffic and crowded 
 shipping. He noticed in the streets how few were the 
 old men he met, and how many the young, active men 
 who walked swiftly and wore rich dress, like men who have 
 lately grown prosperous. They talked with him readily. 
 He noted in them a certain disposition to break away from 
 old customs and to speak and act in their own original ways. 
 
 For Italy was then the new, untried land, "The West," 
 the frontier of civilization. Hither came the adventurous 
 blood. Here, as if blown across the sea, a new HeUas 
 was blossoming. Yet, notwithstanding its prosperous 
 activity, the chief strength of this early fifth-century 
 "West" was really spiritual. It was new and lofty ideals 
 of hving, bold guesses of thought, fresh poesy, that these 
 young colonists sent back to the mother land. The 
 "Music of the Spheres," the noble "Pythagorean Brother- 
 hood," the "Parmenadean Life" and its famed "Coun- 
 tenance of Peace" — these were the commerce of that 
 ancient "West."' 
 
 The voyage was not without its danger. Some months 
 before this time Gelon, the tyrant of Syracuse, had con- 
 quered the Carthaginians at Himera and the sea was 
 stiU strewn with that human wreckage of war — desperate 
 men turned pirates. 
 
 As the ship rounded the southernmost cape of Italy 
 a gale blew them off from the protecting land. Then 
 
AT THE ORACLE'S BIDDING 389 
 
 the south wind seized them and blew them back again. 
 It was then that they saw on the horizon a pointed sail 
 that steadily drew near them. In spite of the high wind 
 the crew ran to the halyards, hoisted the yard and shook 
 down the whole great sail. The bulky merchant ship 
 heeled and groaned under the unaccustomed urging. 
 Aristodemos ran out from the cabin to find the deck 
 standing aslant like a slippery wall, and the mast leaning 
 almost level with the waves. 
 
 "Pirates! Pirates!" ran from one sailor's mouth to 
 the next, and, fearing rude men more than the rude seas, 
 they were trying the utmost power of their vessel. It was 
 an unequal race. The long Punic warship, refitted for 
 her disgraceful enterprise, leaped over the water like a 
 hound. 
 
 Aristodemos stood clinging to the latticed bulwark, 
 looking astern across the foam-flecked flood at the growing 
 sail. The possibility of battle made his blood tingle. 
 He waited with steady pleasure for the moment when 
 the ships should grapple and he should use his sword 
 again. 
 
 But that moment did not come. Under her labouring 
 sail the merchantman still kept ahead of her foe. Then 
 the storm closed down with rain and fog. Under cover of 
 this they changed her course and escaped. But they lay 
 hid several days in a narrow inlet before they ventured 
 out again. 
 
 Then, hugging the coast of Italy, they crept past smok- 
 ing .^tna, where the great earth-giant slumbered so 
 uneasily, past Scylla and Charybdis and so sped north- 
 ward toward their port of Elea. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 
 A Philosopher in His Garden 
 
 THERE it is! Elea! Elea! Ee — lee — aa!" 
 cried the lookout from the masthead. 
 The sailors on deck cut merry capers and 
 shouted a noisy sea song in delight over the prosperous 
 end of their long voyage. The uproar brought Aristode- 
 mos to the prow. But his landsman's eyes could make 
 out nothing but the same low coast that they had been 
 skirting for days. It seemed impossible that he could 
 have arrived thus suddenly at the goal of his interminable 
 journey from Sparta. 
 
 He dully watched the two headlands slowly open, 
 revealing at last the obscure entrance to the Hales. How 
 ran the Oracle? 
 
 " Touch thy far-wandering Iced 
 
 in the mud of the dark JUnoing Hales." 
 
 "Far-wandering" — surely! 
 
 The ship made her way, with much laborious rowing 
 
 390 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 391 
 
 and warping, up the little river into the artificial basin 
 that was the port of Elea. From here they could see, 
 still fiulher up the stream, the white houses and red-tiled 
 roofs of the town itself moimting the hill within its 
 encircling walls. Far away from the world and the 
 world's warring it seemed, and very secluded on the 
 western coast of this western land. Here, if anywhere, 
 men could practise undisturbed their own high virtues. 
 
 And in this town, at this very moment, was really 
 living — Mendi's father! 
 
 A sailor beside Aristodemos was looking along the 
 wharf to another ship discharging there. 
 
 "Hello!" he cried. "If there isn't the 'Dolphin', 
 already imloaded! And here comes the com!" pointing 
 to a line of slaves who were trotting up with full bags on 
 their heads. Com was the great return cargo from the 
 West. "They'll be off again for old Cyprus to-morrow! 
 Wonder if they'll run afoul of our Carthage friends! 
 Tell 'em to keep a lookout!" Sailors from the world's 
 ends are all neighbours in their own fashion. 
 
 Aristodemos led Mendi ashore and pushed his way 
 up the crowded, clamorous wharf. The landing of a 
 Tarentine ship was no small event and brought an eager 
 swarm of humanity to the docks. Fruit and water 
 vendors clamoured in his ear, hired-out slaves snatched 
 at his luggage, shouting, "I carry for you! Carry for 
 you!" 
 
 Piles of merchandise blocked his passage through the 
 sheds — sacks of salt from Daunia, ironware from far 
 Pontus, jars of Cyprus wine, oil of old Hellas and of the 
 new olives of Italy, spices from the East, pottery, smoked 
 
392 A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 
 
 and salt fish, tar and coils of rope. And back of all were 
 the great mounds of corn-bags awaiting shipment, all 
 piled so close that a landsman must wonder how ships 
 or men could find their own. And oh, the smells of it all ! 
 Aristodemos pushed through the press and hurried 
 on past the bazaars of the port. But how was he to find 
 Mendi's father? 
 
 "Find thee a man of wisdom profound : 
 profounder his sorrow!" 
 
 It was after all but a vague description. And he' was 
 utterly weary of difficulties! 
 
 A lusty merchant hailed him from his little booth. 
 
 "Come here to live with us. Master? Ye couldn't 
 do better. 'Tis the town of the whole coast !" 
 
 "No, I'm only a traveller," said Aristodemos. Then 
 he reahzed that he had best begin his search at once. 
 He turned to the merchant and asked climisily: 
 
 "Was this town ever attacked by pirates? Or did you 
 perhaps ever hear of a dame and her son being carried 
 off, two or three years ago?" 
 
 "What — what's that?" The man began to bustle 
 indignantly among his wares. "By Plutean Hermes, no! 
 Pirates! I'd have ye understand, stranger, that this 
 town is just as safe and civilized as any in old Hellas — 
 aye, and better governed! And look at the trade " 
 
 "I'm not a tradesman, I say," interposed Aristodemos 
 impatiently. 
 
 "What be ye then? I tell ye we don't have pirates 
 here! No, nor women-stealers! What be ye after, 
 anyhow? What be ye after?" 
 
THE SPARTAN 393 
 
 Aristodemos began to see trouble ahead. A stranger 
 was very much an alien in a city where he had no citizen 
 rights. Men about them were beginning to stop their 
 trade and listen. 
 
 "It was but a story I heard," he said. 
 
 "And a lie it was!" shouted the man. "A lie to ruin 
 trade. Never you believe it — not for a moment!" 
 
 The man evidently was of a quick temper and un- 
 certain tongue. Yet Aristodemos caught at his words 
 with a sort of hope that he was really ashamed of. Per- 
 haps after all Mendi might not have come from this 
 town. The Oracle might have had some meaning which 
 even the priests had misunderstood. And, should the 
 father not be found, Mendi would remain his own son. 
 
 Aristodemos and Mendi now left the port and ap- 
 proached the city gates. He was not without misgiving 
 as to their reception. For the merchant had been testy. 
 
 But once within the walls all his doubts vanished. 
 The spirit of the community could be sensed like an 
 aroma. Pleasant streets led up the hill whereon a temple 
 fa.shioned like the temples at home and holding the home 
 gods, smiled out over the western sea. The town was not 
 close-crowded within its walls as an older town would be. 
 Orange trees ashine with golden fruit stood about the 
 low white houses. 
 
 In the streets the young citizens strode past each 
 other as though the whole world were unweighted with 
 years and full of a glad vigour like their own. They 
 greeted Aristodemos with free and friendly looks, as men 
 who had dared the unknown western oceans and had 
 caught the mood of mental and social bigness. 
 
394 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Toward the hilltop Aristodemos touched one of the 
 young men on the arm. 
 
 "Canst thou tell me where I may look for a lodging?" 
 he asked. 
 
 The Elean gave him courteoua dircclioii, and iiddod: 
 "We do not sec many strangers hen; in Klea — thai in, 
 save traders. And thou art not a trader." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Thou'lt like our city," said the man with a touch of 
 welcome and pride. "There is no city in all Hellas that 
 hath so enlightened laws." 
 
 "Enlightened laws — and so far away?" 
 
 "Hast thou not heard?" the; Elean asked in(Tcdulou8, 
 For to the colonist his own colony was all the world. 
 
 "I have not been where I might hear," said Aristode- 
 mos. 
 
 "We have our laws," went on the Elean witli a quick 
 ring in his voice, "because we have our Lawgiver. He 
 indeed is Elea. Every year it is llie Elean custom for 
 the citizens to swear afresh to keep his laws. For they 
 are not like the laws of other men. They arc like the 
 words of the gods." 
 
 Aristodemos's face went ashen white. The Pytbia's 
 wailing voice rang in his mcinory — 
 
 "Jle giveth laws to a people 
 Not nice the laws of other peoplet." 
 
 "What is thy ruler's name?" he asked quietly. 
 "But Parmenides i«i not our ruler," firiMwercd the 
 young man joyously. "He is our philosopher and he 
 
A PHILOSOPHZB Ds HIS GAEDEX 395 
 
 guides the chy oat a[ the wise kindness oi his hearL 
 Yoong man, thoa art a brave dissembler, bnt art expressly 
 OMDe, oeverthdess, to sit at Li; feet. Be thaskfnl that 
 thoa mavesL M-rn come even from Croton, fran the 
 divine Pythagoras himself, to listen to him. For he hath 
 lie sec re* beyond the secret." 
 
 " — of vrudor-i prcfotx rtd : 
 
 f'-jfoander hit »jjrro«r!" 
 
 sang the insistent Orade. 
 
 " Tell me," broke oat Azistodemos, "hath this Fazmoi- 
 ides some sorrow, some great sorrow?" 
 
 The £lean cau^t his arm. 
 
 "Do not speak of it so jdainly, here in the pubHc 
 street. We who love him never talk of it at alL " 
 
 "But I mnst know," said Aristodemos ia his deep voice, 
 so earnestly that the young man led him to a quiet place 
 aparL 
 
 "I win tdl thee," he said hastity. "But never tiiink 
 that this sorrow is the displeasure of the gods. They do 
 not so. They do not harass men." 
 
 "But what is itr" quivCTed Aristodemos impatiently. 
 Moralizing was not his need just now, 
 
 "It was two years ago. Some Tyrian merchants tame 
 displaying choice silks and brazen wares upon the outer 
 beach. Everybody went to see. But that evening 
 Parmenides's little son was not to be found ia the house. 
 Parmenides and his slaves went out to search for him. 
 And the mother must have gone out afterward. She was 
 not like a woman, for she could think and was not afraid. 
 
396 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Someone saw her running alone down the beach road, 
 calling for the child. But we know nothing more, save 
 that in the morning the merchants were gone and the 
 woman as well as the child had disappeared." 
 
 Oh, the Oracle — the Oracle! How had he ever dared 
 to doubt it? 
 
 He had yet one more question. 
 
 "Hath the philosopher — perhaps — a new marriage? 
 — a new heir?" 
 
 "Parmenides? Oh no. Honourable and rich fathers 
 have offered their daughters. I do believe that, phil- 
 osopher though he is, he is secretly eating his heart out 
 in longing for his wife and son." The young devotee 
 sighed. "It is difficult to put by the things of this 
 world." 
 
 Aristodemos's eyes suddenly filled. But the tears 
 were for himseK and not at all for the sorrowing father. 
 
 " I see that thou art near to this matter," said the Elean. 
 
 Aristodemos seized both his hands. 
 
 "Yes, yes — I am near to it. But for the love of the 
 gods, be silent. I will do well, not ill, I promise thee. 
 Do not speak of me!" 
 
 "I will not," said the young man, wondering at him. 
 "Thy secret is thine own." But before he cpuld speak 
 further Aristodemos had caught up Mendi and hurried 
 on. 
 
 The inn was at a corner of the market. On the way 
 thither Mendi stopped him before a toy booth, wanting 
 to buy. 
 
 "Whatever thou wilt," said Aristodemos, setting him 
 down before the booth. Mendi choose a little rolling 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 397 
 
 wheel, and Aristodemos gave the man a gold coin. The 
 merchant returned the change in silver. Then Mendi, 
 dropping his wheel, drew down Aristodemos's palm to 
 look within. 
 
 "0-oh!" he shouted. "Many, many luckpennies! 
 All my penny! Demos — look! All my penny!" 
 
 Aristodemos looked with amazement. They were 
 indeed the self -same coin — the Athena head, the lion 
 — quite the same. "But no — not quite the same," 
 he told Mendi, as with shaking fingers he lifted the child's 
 well known piece. "Thine saith, 'IIAP ' " 
 
 "'MENIAES,' surely — Tarmenides'," put in the 
 grinning merchant. 
 
 "The gods are pursuing me!" thought Aristodemos, 
 and he hurried to the inn. 
 
 They had a cell-like room and a narrow couch. For the 
 Greeks never learned the comfort of sleeping spaciously. 
 Aristodemos lay all night open-eyed. Once he leaned 
 over close to the child in the darkness, smoothing the 
 cover, and Mendi threw out a hot little hand, murmuring, 
 "Demos — Demos." Was he indeed so constantly 
 in the child's mind ? 
 
 He re-lived that last evening in Sparta. "Nobody 
 followed me," said Aristodemos, "nobody but thou, 
 little man." 
 
 And now Mendi's unconsciousness of the parting 
 began to smite him in the darkness with a sense of his 
 having deceived the child. It seemed the last refined 
 cruelty of the gods, to take away his son so unpreparedly 
 at the last. 
 
 " He is mine ! He is mine !" he kept repeating to himself. 
 
398 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Gray dawn at last crept into the room. Then the 
 golden sunrise. 
 
 Aristodemos rose, washed Mendi's whole body and 
 combed his hair. He dressed him in a little white chiton 
 which he had bought yesterday of the merchant at the 
 port. Then he gave him food. He lingered with 
 exquisite care over these services. 
 
 "Demos makes Mendi beautiful!" said the child, 
 delighted. 
 
 "The gods have made thee beautiful," said Aristo- 
 demos, kissing the fresh little face. "When thou art a 
 man thou wilt be more beautiful still." 
 
 " When I be man, I be like my Demos," laughed Mendi, 
 running his two hands into Aristodemos's thick hair and 
 pulling his head down beside his own. 
 
 They went out into the staring sunshine. Men were 
 passing to and fro, even as yesterday. 
 
 "Where will I find Parmenides?" he asked. 
 
 "At this hour," they told him, "he walks in his garden." 
 
 So, following their direction, Aristodemos passed out 
 through the farther gate of the city and along a ridge 
 where he soon came upon the garden. It was enclosed 
 in a luxuriant hedge, a pleasant place, with shadowy 
 trees and many flowers, grown evidently for use in the 
 garden's tiny temple. For the Greeks, lovers of flowers 
 though they were, never had gardens or used flowers for 
 themselves. Gardens were always sacred, always planted 
 to pleasure the Immortals, and were enjoyed only as 
 casual privileges by mortals entering there. 
 
 Aristodemos holding Mendi's hand crept into the 
 hedge and peeped through. He seemed to be fulfilling 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 399 
 
 some blind obedience of which he scarce remembered the 
 meaning. He could see near at hand a grassy space 
 with a small altar. Farther away was the little temple 
 among the trees. He could hear voices, but the speakers 
 were hidden from him behind flowering oleanders. 
 
 An eager, youthful voice was saying: 
 
 "But, Parmenides, the earth moves in a perfectly 
 meted path, and the measured stars circling in heaven 
 give forth their divine chorus of ordered song. As 
 saith Herakleitos, 'The invisible harmony is better 
 than the visible, the unheard than the heard.' Is not 
 this subtle potency of number immanent in all the 
 universe.'' And is not this the First Principle? Surely, 
 Parmenides, you can not go beyond this?" 
 
 Evidently this was some young disciple of Pythagoras 
 newly come from Croton. Aristodemos was startled 
 out of his dullness by the strange, far-searching words. 
 
 "But I do go beyond it," came a rich deep voice, the 
 very essence of quietude. "Beyond number itself is 
 the thought of number. Thought is pure reality. And 
 'Thought' is one and the same with 'That-to-which- 
 thought-is-directed.' It is indifferent," he added, "where 
 I begin; for thither I shall return again." 
 
 "But 'Thought'?" came again the boyish, troubled 
 voice. "Dost thou mean my thinking and thine?" 
 
 "Yes, and all thinking. But beyond 'Thought' again is 
 'Being'," said the authoritative one, "for without 'Being' 
 thou wilt find no thought. 'Being' is birthless, deathless, 
 knows no 'was' nor 'shall be' but ever 'is'. Go tell them 
 that at Croton. Ah, Polykritos, such thoughts as 
 these are like immortal charioteers. Sometimes they 
 
400 THE SPARTAN 
 
 bear me aloft to the uttermost parts of heaven, to the 
 gates of Day and Night." 
 
 Parmenides spoke with inspired conviction. Even 
 philosophers were young in Italy then, and did not doubt 
 but they might win the very essence of all truth. This 
 man, shut away from other sages, undiscouraged by others' 
 failures, thought with an almost childish directness 
 unhampered by sidelong speculation and with a poet's 
 glow of imagination. The note of bitterness that sounds 
 through the questions of Socrates was not in him. 
 
 The Pythagorean youth, Polykritos, lifted once more 
 his argumentative voice. But Aristodemos did not hear 
 him. Under his laurel hedge he was opening a clear, 
 unspoiled mind like a chalice, to the fulfilling wisdom 
 which he had heard. Could it be that behind the change- 
 ful procession of the glorious Immortals was "The One?" 
 His thought grew dizzy with the uplift. 
 
 Mendi began to move restlessly. 
 
 "Be still," he commanded in a whisper. "Thy father 
 is speaking! Thy father! Dost not hear him?" 
 
 But the discussion was already ended. Polykritos 
 was now taking his leave. Presently a slave boy appeared 
 and set incense and barley by the altar, making ready for 
 the sacrifice. 
 
 Then along the green path with bent thoughtful head, 
 came the Philosopher himself. 
 
 Aristodemos had not expected to see a man like this. 
 
 He was not beyond thirty-five years, and he had a 
 look of out-of-doors and of abundant life. Yet withal 
 there was the scholar's gentleness in his bearing, and his 
 eyes had the look of deep inner absorption which comes 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 401 
 
 of dwelling with the invisible. His slender face was one 
 to move the soul like a great quiet song, for in this 
 young man had grown up the imperturbable virtue of 
 the wise. Socrates, that ruthless old scrutinizer, who saw 
 him fully sixty years later than this, says of him: 
 
 "I have a kind of reverence, not so much for Melissos 
 and the others who say that 'AH is one and at rest' as 
 for the great leader himself, Parmenides, venerable and 
 'aweful' as in Homeric language he may be called. Him 
 I should be ashamed to approach in a spirit unworthy 
 of him. I met him when he was an old man and I a 
 mere youth, and he appeared to me to have a glorious 
 depth of mind. And I am afraid we may not fully under- 
 stand his language and may fall short even more of his 
 meaning." 
 
 The young philosopher was busying himself about the 
 altar. He lighted the incense and the dim blue smoke 
 rose among the quiet trees. Then, standing back from 
 the altar, he lifted up his hands and began aloud, as was 
 Greek custom, his morning prayer. 
 
 "My God, who art the One Being, whom men have not 
 known, worshipping the beautiful fleeting images of 
 thee — My God, Indivisible, Birthless and Deathless, 
 take me to Thyself! For I like thee am a thinking being, 
 and thought to thought unites, as flame to flame. 
 
 "Oh, keep me from the all-incredible path that leadeth 
 backward to confusion, for now I am grievously like to 
 stumble into it. Relieve me from this my sorrow. Love 
 first of all thou didst create. But love confuseth and 
 shattereth the mind. Whom I have lost, I have lost. 
 Keep my thoughts from her. Let me not still forever 
 
402 THE SPARTAN 
 
 like a fool expect her, putting, with every footstep, every 
 sound, the sword afresh into my heart." 
 
 He began to pace back and forth before the altar, 
 more at struggle with himself than at prayer. 
 
 "Where is my strength?" he cried. "Where is my 
 wisdom? They flow from me like water! I lose them! 
 Day by day the vision departeth from me! And my 
 son — oh, my little son! Must he wander and suffer 
 afar, his sweet mind darkened by the words of foolish 
 men — dumb, unreasoning cattle? Or hast thou 
 snatched him from degradation by swift death?" He 
 stopped suddenly. " Oh, God, let me know him dead! 
 A sign — a sign!" 
 
 Tears broke his voice. Tears ran down his rare 
 dispassionate face. Aristodemos heard him breathing 
 like one in pain, and lowered his eyes. To see that lofty, 
 calm mind breaking with sorrow was beyond his daring. 
 So, turning, Aristodemos saw Mendi close at his knee and 
 fast asleep. He lifted him. 
 
 "Demos will go now?" said the sleepy little voice. 
 
 "Hush, child." Aristodemos as he spoke was aware 
 that he was weeping. Yet he was very deliberate. 
 
 He stripped off the single little garment, so that Mendi 
 was clothed upon only with his luckpenny and his own 
 childish beauty. 
 
 "Now!" he whispered, kissing the plump shoulders. 
 "Thou must go out to that man yonder. Lift thy luck- 
 penny thus in thy hand, and say to him, 'Father, I am 
 thy son. I am come from Delphic Apollo.' Oh, but 
 canst thou say it?" 
 
 But Parmeilides had heard the stirring in the bushes 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 403 
 
 and now began to look about, confused. Aristodemos 
 quickly thrust the child out of the hedge with the stern, 
 unwonted whisper, "Go straight to him. Else I whip 
 thee!" 
 
 And Mendi, scared and stumbling, ran to the altar 
 and his father's knee. 
 
 For a moment Parmenides looked upon him unchanged. 
 Then there fell upon his face such a light of joy as Aris- 
 todemos had never seen. Nor even then did Parrnenides 
 cry out, but fell upon his knees before the child as if 
 suddenly bereft of all strength. 
 
 "Ye gods! Ye gods!" he said in a ringing whisper, 
 as he laid his hands upon the little body. Their two faces, 
 brought thus together, were wonderfully alike. 
 
 Aristodemos thought that Mendi would forget all his 
 message. Yet his last sight of the child was to be that of 
 his obedience. He lifted the luckpenny as bidden, and 
 began to repeat the words, "Father, I am thy son. Come 
 from Delphi 'Polio." 
 
 But Parmenides kissed the speaking lips and laid his 
 cheek, over the amulet against the little breast. 
 
 "My son!" he said with infinite tenderness. "What 
 need have I of a token. ' Thou art all token. All my son, 
 my son, my son !" 
 
 With that word ringing in his ears Aristodemos crept 
 out to the road. He started dazedly toward the city. 
 He was seeing nothing — nothing but that blessed joy 
 in the face of Parmenides. Over and over again his 
 memory kept performing that change until the trans- 
 formation became his own. The happiness of Parmenides 
 swept utterly through him. 
 
404 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He stopped in the road, amazed. To his Greek mind 
 this just and reasonable joy was quite inexplicable. 
 It did not occur to him to connect it with the restoration 
 which he had just accomplished. He had undertaken 
 it in despair, knowing that upon its completion he woidd 
 be barred forever from every honourable activity by his 
 curse. Ah, the curse — could it be alifting? But no, 
 curses never lifted; they fulfilled — fulfilled to the 
 end. 
 
 Yet again the happiness flooded him. 
 
 "Apollo, Oh, Apollo!" he sobbed in desperate doubt. 
 "Why dost thou entrap me.' I obeyed thine Oracle. 
 What art thou doing unto me?" 
 
 Word and prayer died upon his lips in the agony of his 
 questioning. Suddenly he seemed to hear actual words. 
 
 "Was not I, too, once unclean? And hast thou not 
 borne the yoke upon thy shoulders even as I, Apollo, 
 bore it in the fields of Admetos? By the yoke was I 
 cleansed!" 
 
 The yoke ^-? Why — yes, the yoke in Klitor's hut! 
 Aristodemos had quite forgotten how, from ancient days, 
 the Bearing-of-the-Yoke had been the ritual-cleansing 
 from blood guiltiness and curse. ' 
 
 "Is it that? Is it that, dear Son of Leto? The little 
 yoke I bore for Klitor?" 
 
 Suddenly he knew his answer: 
 
 " Thou hast fulfilled thy sorrow. 
 Apollo makes thee free!" 
 
 He stood there in the road, trembling, convinced, quiet. 
 
A PHILOSOPHER IN HIS GARDEN 405 
 
 tears wetting his face, yet his face aflame. He could not 
 comprehend this freedom! 
 
 Suddenly he loosed a mighty war-shout alone there 
 on the country road. 
 
 " I can fight for Hellas ! Paian ! O Paian !" 
 
 Then he leaped and ran headlong, not through the city 
 but down the rough hiU and along the river for the port. 
 The "Dolphin," that ship for Cyprus! She was to be 
 off to-day. He might yet win to her ! 
 
 He reached the wharves, pushed shouting through the 
 confusion and the crowds. The "Dolphin" was already 
 out in the stream floating down with the current. The 
 sailors were shaking down the sail. Aristodemos called 
 wildly to a boatman and offered him such a fare as made 
 him spring to his oars. 
 
 "Ahoy! Ahoy!" shouted Aristodemos from his skiff, 
 while the swarming labourers and sailors crowded the 
 edge of the docks and swelled the laughing uproar — 
 "A passenger! A passenger!" 
 
 The seamen heard. They loosed sheets, turned their 
 flapping sail into the wind and lost a little headway. 
 In a moment the breathless rowing boatman had brought 
 Aristodemos to the ship's side. 
 
 "What's this?" roared the captain. "Just a madman? 
 I thought the whole city must be afire!" 
 
 "No, it is only a soldier!" said Aristodemos still in a 
 voice of shoutiag. "A soldier who is going back to 
 Hellas and to fight!" 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 
 
 Through Unvdlling Seas 
 
 THAT night he slept as he had not slept for a year. 
 He lay at the prow between sea and stars. One 
 deep long breath, and day surprised him. He 
 awoke refreshed as a child. It was as though he had 
 been long ill without knowing it, and now was sud- 
 denly well. 
 
 He saw the sun spring up out of the sea — not Phoebus's 
 self, yet in some sort the splendour of his power, the 
 flaming signal of the God of Purifications. 
 
 "Blessed Son of Leto!" he cried. "Thou, even thou, 
 hast lifted my curse and given me wings!" 
 
 The ship beneath him was leaping its way onward 
 through the. bright sea. He took up his fresh gift of 
 life. He would go to Pindar. Now he could confess 
 himself Lykos's son. He would take to himself this 
 good love of his father's friend. All life he would take 
 to the full. He would hurry to the Athenian army. 
 Sparta was out of the question. Ah, he had always been 
 
 406 
 
THROUGH UNWILLING SEAS 407 
 
 an Athenian, never a Spartan. He would go to his 
 birthplace among clear-thinking men. 
 
 As he lay there on the deck the deified Leonidas seemed 
 to be with him almost visibly at his side. 
 
 "Dost not see, Leondrion," he whispered intensely, 
 "I am going into battle. Come, fight with me again 
 for Hellas as our Kastor and Polydeukes fight among the 
 host. Hellas hath need of thee!" So he persuaded the 
 hero-spirit of his friend. 
 
 Then, roused by his surging thoughts, he rose and 
 strode among the men. The sailors who had brought 
 him to Elea would never have recognized their wan-faced, 
 silent passenger in this full-lifed young man. He talked 
 and sang with the crew, spoke cheerily to the slaves, and 
 told merry stories by the camp fire when they bivouacked 
 ashore at night. On days of calm he would stamp the 
 deck with impatience. Yet, even then he would laugh at 
 his own bad temper. ' 
 
 The "Dolphin" rounded southern Italy, coasted up into 
 the Tarentine Gulf with the usual landings and inter- 
 ruptions, made out again and, free of lapygia, spread 
 wing at last for Greece. But oh, the journey was as 
 long as a life! How could it be otherwise, with his heart 
 so leaping out of him toward Greece, and his body 
 lagging in a half helpless ship at every caprice of the de- 
 laying sea? 
 
 Two days of favouring wind brought them across to 
 Corcyra, where, barely touching, the little ship flew down 
 the island-guarded shore of Akarnania, past the broad 
 opening of the Corinthian Gulf and southward still, 
 skirting the shpres of Peloponnese, where faint and far 
 
408 THE SPARTAN 
 
 inland, like white Titans against the sky, Aristodemos 
 could discern the pure peaks of Taygetos. 
 
 When the morning was calm he would dive from the 
 side, vent his strength upon the sea, climb in again puffing 
 and laughing, shake his streaming hair out of his eyes 
 and take breath for another day. It was thus he put off 
 his consuming dread that the battles might be fought 
 before he could reach the army. 
 
 They touched at Pylos. Aristodemos qu^tioned 
 breathlessly. Here was news at last! 
 
 Mardonios had wintered in Thessaly. He had kq>t 
 with him the best fighting troops of Persia — a vast host 
 still, and the more powerful for the pruning away of the 
 rabble. Mardonios was expected to march upon Athens. 
 But whether he had yet marched they did not know. 
 
 Aristodemos ran back to the ship. 
 
 "O, ye gods," he cried as the ship weighed anchor once 
 more, "bring me there in time!" 
 
 But at this first contact with Greece he had come once 
 more within the dread circle of the great Persian Shadow. 
 Pindar had called it, "The Tantalos Stone that is hanging 
 over us." For ten years it had hung over Hellas. Thoe 
 had been no real relief. Marathon, Thermopylae, 
 Salamis — all these were but heroic incidents in a useless 
 resistance. Hellas lacked still the conclusive achievement 
 that was to render aU these battles victories. 
 
 Those meagre, half snatched tidiags at Pylos most 
 suffice Aristodemos until the "Dolphin" should readi 
 her haven at Cythera. There he could easily get swift 
 ship for Athens. But he felt as if he could not endure 
 the suspense another day. 
 
THROUGH Os^n^LIXG SEAS 409 
 
 They rounded Cape Tsenanun. Already the barren 
 gray outline of Cythera was rismg from the sea, a desolate 
 birthplace for the tender goddess of love. But there under 
 those treacherous high promontories a quick northern 
 blast swept down upon the Uttle ship with blinding raia, 
 driving her helpless down the Southern Sea in instant 
 fear of foundering. Then the wind abated and left them 
 with huddled saU, unknowing where they were. Once more 
 they turned northward and the fourth morning sighted 
 Crete stretching like a long and lofty wall across the 
 entrance to the ^gean. Based in the purple sea and 
 soaring with billowing peaks into the snows of upper air, 
 it seemed set there in the buoyant morning gloriously 
 to enclose Greece and her precious islands from the world. 
 
 "And is that Crete.''" asked Aristodemos of the captain, 
 shading his eyes for the brightness of those snowy sum- 
 mits. 
 
 "Praise Aphrodite, it is!" 
 
 "And then we will soon make Cythera?" 
 
 Cythera! Not he! He could better market his com 
 in Crete, now that he was so near. That he was consigned 
 to Cythera mattered little to a Grecian captain. And 
 the trifling consideration of a passenger's convenience was 
 of no weight whatever. So Aristodemos together with 
 the com and the other merchandise was dumped on the 
 wharf at Lebena, the port of Gortyna, on the southern 
 shore of Crete. 
 
 Aristodemos quickly got him across the Cretan ridge 
 to Knosos on the northern shore. Here the citizens 
 were fuU of rumours of the war, how obtained it would 
 be hard to say. But sailors have far-hearing ears. 
 
410 THE SPARTAN 
 
 First of all, Mardonios had marched south from 
 Thessaly. To the restless Aristodemos this news was 
 harrowing to the last degree. 
 
 And — "the tempting of Athens!" had the stranger 
 heard of that? No? Then was he to hear a most 
 glorious thing! Mardonios had sent envoys and tempted 
 Athens with an overwhelming bribe. He had offered 
 them the security of their own Attica and the posses- 
 sion of any other land of Hellas which they might choose, 
 if only they would ally with Persia. 
 
 "And Athens's answer?" burst in Aristodemos, his 
 blood suddenly singing in his ears. 
 
 The famous Athenian answer had already passed into 
 tradition. 
 
 "There is not gold enough on earth, nor under it, 
 nor any land so goodly, that we should consent to take 
 them and enslave Hellas by making any alliance with 
 the Medes!" 
 
 "Oh, ye gods, what a city!" cried out Aristodemos. 
 
 " Of course Mardonios is in a fury. And he has marched 
 straight upon Athens." 
 
 Aristodemos's face grew stern with the sudden realizing 
 of the terrible cost Athens was paying for her fidelity 
 to Greece. 
 
 "Have not the Spartans come to Athens?" he asked 
 sharply. 
 
 "I have heard that the Athenians are expecting them. 
 If only some ship would bring us news! Perhaps they 
 are fighting now!" 
 
 "Fighting now!" groaned Aristodemos as he turned 
 and hurried to the shore. Only now did he begin to 
 
THROUGH UNWILLING SEAS 411 
 
 realize the calamity of this Cretan stoppage. In time 
 of peace he could have got ship for Athens almost any 
 day. But the long Persian war had swept the ^gean 
 as clear of sails as an undiscovered sea. Day by day he 
 haunted the docks, straining his eyes for a sail until his 
 sight grew confused and he saw saUs where sails there were 
 none. There seemed some wild thing in his breast trying 
 to leap out across the Cretan Sea. The men about the 
 wharves grew familiar with his restless pacing figure. 
 
 After three weeks a single ship appeared. Aristodemos 
 was aboard her before she could anchor. She was a 
 merchant vessel of Euboea and the captain calmly an- 
 nounced that he was going home. The Cretans cried 
 out against such folly. But the man had had a long and 
 terrible faring. He was going home, he said, and to stay. 
 He was minded to see whether he could recognize his 
 wife, and whether or not his little lad had grown a beard. 
 Aristodemos threw his arms about the stubborn sailor- 
 man and kissed him. He saw from his very jolly reck- 
 lessness that the man was not to be restrained. 
 
 So the next morning Aristodemos was away with him 
 on the purple, crisping sea, sail to the wind, keel to the 
 foam, both singing the steady music of a ship before the 
 breeze. The second morning Melos grew great before 
 them, and shortly afterward they glided in among the 
 Cyclades. On all sides in the expanse of the iEgean 
 lay "The Islands, " delicate ashen gray upon the violet sea. 
 
 Night fell, and still the ship sped on. Blessed winds, 
 blowing so steadily from the south! Blessed homesick 
 captain, who for his homesickness would not loiter! On 
 they sped in the moon's full light, leaving a silvery 
 
412 THE SPARTAN 
 
 wake heaving upon the sea. Soft sea mists lay about the 
 Islands' bases, but their summits rose clear in the moon- 
 light — there and there, and there. Aristodemos could 
 number them as if it were day. 
 
 Rest he could not. The going! The going! It was 
 to him like the satisfying of hunger. 
 
 Another day they sped, and presently rounding Keos, 
 entered the quiet waters between Attica and Eubcea. 
 The captain had promised to set Aristodemos on the Attic 
 shore. 
 
 Night came at last. The captain put in under the 
 shore, lowered a boat, and rumbled him a hearty 
 goodbye. Then Aristodemos was in the little skiflF 
 creeping alone in the misty dark, the shore looming 
 larger, larger before him. Could it be Attica thus 
 stepping at once into reality, after the long years? 
 
 He leaped ashore and made his way up the silent beach. 
 He was strangely quiet of heart. The rising moon showed 
 that he had landed in a little bay almost circled by a rocky 
 headland where in the midst lay a small peaked island, 
 sharp against the moon. Then with a flash he recog- 
 nized the place. By a strange chance he had come ashore 
 upon the very region of his father's tribal land. Yonder 
 were the fields that Lykos had been visiting the day 
 Aristodemos was born. That dark opening beyond was 
 the glen where Aristodemos as a boy had used to hear the 
 nightingales. And oh, the smell of the stubble giving 
 forth its fragrance to the dews! He could see no more 
 for the sudden tumult and the tears. 
 
 He hurried forward along the well known path. Oh 
 the fair land, the fair land! How it sang to his heart 
 
THROUGH UNWILLING SEAS 413 
 
 in the moonlight! How infinitely sweet was the road's 
 every turning — the expectancy of what lay beyond and 
 of finding it unchanged, eloquent of memory. All the 
 loves of his life seemed to sweep into the one love of home- 
 land. 
 
 To-morrow he would be in Athens. Its familiar streets, 
 temples and sunny colonnades shone bright as day within 
 his mind. His love was like sight. 
 
 Then of a sudden the desertedness of the land smote 
 him. He began to see that the region was changed. The 
 Persian had been here. His mark lay everywhere — 
 upon the wasted fields, upon the broken farm huts whose 
 doors hung open vacantly. He passed little groves of 
 pine trees, sacred and still, whose very stillness made the 
 menace more oppressive. 
 
 His course, however, was plain. He must get around 
 the Persians to the Athenian army wherever it might 
 be. Was the enemy at Athens? Had the Athenians 
 fled? Had they fought that day? Would they be 
 fighting to-morrow? He had not a single clew. Nor 
 had he met a soul upon the road. The peasants must 
 have fled to the hUls. He must be quick. An hour's 
 delay now niight lose him his battle-chance. He hurried 
 on under the brightening moon, looking keenly for some 
 indication. 
 
 As he neared the base of Hymettos he saw beyond a 
 field a faint gleam of light from a thicket. Peasant or 
 Persian would afford him some knowledge of his way, 
 and knowledge he must have. He crept across the field. 
 
 In the thicket he perceived a low hut with open door. 
 No peasant, surely, would be so foolhardy as to keep a 
 
414 THE SPARTAN 
 
 light. He drew near and listened. All was quiet. 
 Making ready his weapon he cautiously looked in. The 
 place seemed empty. Then in the corner on a heap of 
 straw, he saw no man, but a woman asleep. A woman? 
 A mere slip of sC peasant girl pale and lean, a black tangle 
 of hair half hiding her face. 
 
 Without a stir her eyes opened and gazed wide upon 
 Aristodemos, two black pools of terror. He tried to 
 speak low to her, but she broke in with her cries: 
 
 "O — oh, oh! I thought the Persians were gone! 
 Don't take me off. Master! Master; don't take me off!" 
 
 "Hush — hush!" commanded Aristodemos. 
 
 But she flattened herself against the wall and kept 
 whispering on, "Don't take me off!" 
 
 "Woman," he cried with rising impatience, "use eyes 
 and sense! I am an Athenian! Where is the Athenian 
 army? " 
 
 She opened her mouth and gazed at him. "Athe- 
 nian? But the Persians be all about! " 
 
 "Are they at Athens?" 
 
 "Yes, at Athens." 
 
 "When were they here?" 
 
 "Fore yesterday. They came on a sudden. They 
 killed my man in the field. And his father and mother 
 got off to the hills, and took my baby. Oh, they took 
 my baby away with them! They would not leave him 
 to me! They took my baby off to the hills!" 
 
 She began to cry again, putting her rough peasant fists 
 into her eyes like a child. 
 
 "But where are the Athenians?" he urged i^ain. 
 
 "Oh, how do I know?" she sobbed. "But all the 
 
THROUGH UNWILLING SEAS 415 
 
 Persians have gone back to Athens. And why don't 
 the old mother bring me back my son again? He hath 
 no fit food in the hills, and here my breasts are full with 
 the milk that is his!" 
 
 Aristodemos was turning hurriedly away. But the 
 misery of the little mother-figure made him pause upon 
 the threshold. 
 
 "Why not go after the child thyself?" 
 
 "He is only two days born — my first bom!" 
 
 Aristodemos knew the sturdy ways of these peasant 
 mothers. 
 
 "Still thou couldst follow," he said. 
 
 "Nay, Master, I would follow," she urged, "but my 
 leg here is broke." 
 
 He stepped quickly back into the hut again. "Great 
 Zeus!" he said with that deepening of voice he had when 
 suddenly moved, "and hast thou been alone here in 
 pain? " 
 
 She did not answer. This question was beside her 
 point. 
 
 "They will come back," she pleaded. "Will they not? 
 See. I have set the light. They will see the light and 
 know that the house is safe again. Won't they come, 
 then?" 
 
 "Art thou not afraid to He here with the light that 
 anyone may see?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I have oil. Oh, I will keep it 
 burning! They must see it soon. It is so hard to wait!" 
 
 "Zeus be merciful! And thou naught but a child!" 
 
 At this she took offence. "My son will not call me a 
 child." 
 
416 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Nor will I! Nor will I." 
 
 Aristodemos had seen the wellspring outside. Ha 
 hurriedly refilled her jug and set it beside her. Then he 
 opened his wallet and gave her well nigh all his store. 
 And while she still dumbly wondered at him he left her. 
 
 "I am a fool," he told himself as he strode along the 
 road again, "to give away my bread. I have grown 
 soft with much wandering!" But his heart beat to the 
 high tune, and he could not put by the ragged figure 
 with the generous breasts and the childish waiting eyes. 
 The incident greatly intensified his sense of the bitter 
 danger he so longed to lift. Her patient, perilous waiting 
 seemed one with the waiting of Hellas. 
 
 As night deepened he began to climb the well remem- 
 bered pass of Hymettos. He held his Cretan sword 
 bare in his hand. For Hymettos Pass would be sentinelled. 
 If he could get across Hymettos perhaps he could see the 
 situation of the armies on the Attic plain. 
 
 The moon set as he climbed. He climbed on cautiously 
 in the darkness, making his way from height to height. He 
 reached the top. But still he saw no sign of Persian guard 
 or any trace of man. He crossed the ridge and made his 
 way down the more gradual slopes of the Athenian 
 side. Presently he left the travelled way and keeping 
 to the hills made for a high, projecting spur overlooldng 
 the city. At last he knew that Athens must lie beneath 
 him. He shaded his eyes, but in the first gray of dawn 
 could see nothing. The suspense of this last impatient 
 moment was insupportable. 
 
 The day broke slowly. It was the roads that first 
 grew visible, the Eleusis road and the straight road to 
 
THROUGH UNWILLING SEAS 417 
 
 the sea. Then the olive clumps pricked through the 
 mists of the Hissos. Then suddenly the whole sky was 
 a-sail with soft pink clouds and the Saronic Gulf ran in 
 ruddy fire and little Salamis, only a year old to fame, rose 
 like a purple hyacinth from the sea. 
 
 But what was this appearance in the plain below him 
 — this wheel-shaped space of blackness.'' A breath of 
 smoke drew from it, fouling the delicate mists. A ragged 
 hill of ruins rose in the midst. 
 
 Athens! Oh, crown of woes! Not Athens burned as a 
 year ago; but Athens ruined, destroyed, changed like a face 
 of death. He trembled so that for a moment he could 
 not look. He stood dull with whirling mind. Athens — 
 destroyed! Athens — destroyed! Then where were the 
 Persians? He brushed his confused eyes and began to 
 scan the plain for her destroyers. But to his amazement 
 he saw no sign of them anywhere. Still he stood upon his 
 ledge, gazing, gazing! He was astounded and astray. 
 
 Then he took his decision, and plunged down the moun- 
 tain. The Persians would not be in that burned city. 
 They must have destroyed because they were about to 
 depart. But the Athenians — why, the Athenians would 
 cling to Athens. He was sure to find some Athenians 
 there — if not the army. 
 
 He reached the little valley of the Ilissos and reck- 
 lessly made for the Olympieion. The great temple, still 
 unfinished, stood outside the city wall, its huge columns 
 silent in the morning. Aristodemos crept within. From 
 here he could watch the spring, KaUirrhoe. If any Persian 
 garrison remained, the men would show themselves here 
 at the city's chief water supply. Or, if the city held 
 
418 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Athenians, they too must come. An hour he watched. 
 But neither Persian nor Athenian came down the worn 
 path. At intervals a thrush in the thicket scattered 
 the silence. 
 
 He was deeply puzzled. He stepped out, resolved to 
 take his chance. A section of the great city wall had 
 been pulled down. He clambered over, and saw — oh, 
 what he saw! 
 
 At first he recognized nothing. Then he could make 
 out that the place of fire-blasted trees below him had been 
 the Precinct of the Lenaian Dionysos, and those tumbled 
 blocks and colimms the god's little temple, the broken 
 wine jars telling of its merry spring festival where the 
 freemen had tasted the new vintage. 
 
 A lame, dwarfish slave was skulking among the jars, 
 but catching sight of Aristodemos he cried out in a sort 
 of gibberish and fled hobbling away. Aristodemos sprang 
 down from the wall and caught him, only to find that he 
 was deaf and mute as well as lame. No wonder the 
 Persian had left him behind. 
 
 Then Aristodemos ran on headlong toward the mid-city, 
 cnmching with his blackened sandals the cinders of pre- 
 cious things, leaping the fallen house-walls in his way. 
 Was it for this that he had come so far? He began to 
 cry out as he ran: 
 
 "Athens, O Athens! Art thou no more, and can I 
 yet be alive!" 
 
 He came to the little valley between the Pnyx and the 
 Acropolis. This was one of the oldest quarters of Athens, 
 where the early population had crowded like confined 
 waters between hills. Here had stood the huddled 
 
THROUGH UNWaLING SEAS 419 
 
 dwellings roof to roof, rude ancestral homes proudly 
 owned by families of old Athenian blood. Here had 
 wound the tortuous, narrow streets, full of neighbour- 
 folk, obstructed with herms at the corners and with 
 doorway pillar-gods. It had been a busy place, diflBcult 
 to thread without many a stoppage and delay. But now 
 he could walk straight across the quarter as across an 
 open field. Masses of charred timbers, low walls, quad- 
 rangles curiously small filled with ruin of thatch and 
 household wreckage — these were all that remained of 
 the homes he had known so well. 
 
 Oh, the aloneness of the place! Only the fountain at 
 the foot of Pnyx Hill broke the silence with its continuous 
 pouring. The waters gushed cheerily from the familiar 
 lion mouths. Ah, generous little fountain. No one 
 to drink of thee now! 
 
 Aristodemos turned and ran up the Nine-Gated Ter- 
 races of the Acropolis height. Up there surely there 
 must be some little faithfulness, seme priests who had 
 remained hid in the temple. 
 
 His dear temple of Athena, the bright Hecatompedon, 
 was a row of blackened pillar-stumps upholding nothing. 
 The whole shrine lay open to the immodest glare of the 
 sun. Even the aloof, dim chamber of the goddess was 
 ravished of its privacy. The morning breeze swept 
 wantonly through, whirling the ashes along the marble 
 floor. The brilliant sculptures lay heaped in fragments 
 all about him — Herakles down-hurled from his lofty 
 pediment lay among the broken coils of his gorgeous 
 Snake — Athena herself, her arms off at the elbows 
 and fallen erect among the ruins, seemed still to menace 
 
420 THE SPARTAN 
 
 the broken Giant at her feet. And everywhere, every- 
 where his childhood's favourites, the Korai, those delicate 
 maiden statues, smiled up to him from the littered ground. 
 And — oh, horror ! — was that his mother's face there 
 among them? Was she pursuing him here? But it was 
 only the statue he was used to think so like her in his 
 childish days. 
 
 Aristodemos was crying now like a child, unrestrainedly 
 and aloud. It was the broken crying of a man who has 
 lost his grasp and is bewildered. His Athens was 
 obliterated. 
 
 He stumbled blindly down the steep again. Just 
 within the Nine-Gates his foot struck something that 
 rang out. It was an Athenian cuirass, a spoil dropped by 
 the Persians. Its crested helm lay near together with its 
 shield, a splendid thing blazoning Athena's owl, emblem 
 of the beloved, vanished city. The sight brought him 
 to himself. He lifted the shield to its place on his arm. 
 The touch of it was like a draught of new wine. 
 
 He came to his own quarter, the Inner Kerameikos. 
 But here he turned away his head as he ran, lest he see 
 his father's house and be again unmanned. 
 
 But where — where were the Athenians? He must 
 find them, if only a remnant of the army. He must find 
 them if only to die with them, now that this last struggle 
 was come. But where? Where? 
 
 Suddenly he recalled as an almost forgotten dream 
 that he had heard the sailors of Antikyra say: "Before 
 the Salamis battle all the Athenians retired to Salamis 
 Island." Salamis? Had they perhaps gone thither 
 again? His heart lifted with the hope. 
 
THROUGH UNWn.LING SEAS 421 
 
 He now found himself at the Thriasian Gate, upon the 
 Eleusis Road. He would hurry to Eleusis, where he 
 was sure of a boat to cross to Salamis. His road ran 
 through the Outer Kerameikos. Here he suddenly 
 came face to face with his father's tomb. "Father, my 
 father!" he sobbed, for a carven portrait of Lykos had 
 been set there. The tomb had been changed. Someone, 
 Pindar no doubt, had carved upon it the old epitaph: 
 
 "Pity me, who was so beautiful and am dead." 
 
 "No, my father!" Aristodemos spoke aloud to his dead. 
 "Rather pity me who must live and see what I have 
 seen." 
 
 Did the grave speak, or was it his own booming thought 
 that answered him? Suddenly the whole vast wrong 
 and ruin seemed to sweep through and infuriate him. 
 He sprang away with face terrible of expression. He 
 rushed down the road heavily yet swiftly like a maddened 
 bull. He was filled with a wrath that was in itself a 
 strength. Mile upon mile he ran, feeling no weight, 
 though his new armour was heavy upon him. He ran 
 through the olive wood, leaped the Kephissos at a bound. 
 Familiar things he passed unseeing. There was in him a 
 battle-hunger which drove him. No restraint was left 
 in him. He must find the army. He must fight now, or 
 go mad. 
 
 At the hill of Aigaleos he slowed a little. Then he 
 climbed on with incredible strength. At last he found 
 himself at the well known turn of the hill that would 
 reveal to him Salamis and its bay and Eleusis on the low, 
 
422 THE SPARTAN 
 
 curving shore. He paused, dreading to look. What if 
 they had destroyed Eleusis also? 
 
 He swept around the turn. 
 
 Merciful Zeus ! There th^ were ! There they were ! His 
 dear Athenians ! They were crossing back from Salamis to 
 Eleusis. The shore was thronging with them. The bright 
 armour of their moving forms was flashing in the sun. The 
 whole bay was white-winged with ^ps plying from Sala- 
 mis. Tossing row-boats were making their way among 
 the sail with hurrying oars. Every coming craft, big 
 or little, was loaded to the gunwale with men. And far 
 down along the Isthmian Boad he could see the oncoming 
 phalanxes from the south. At last all Greece was 
 meeting in full force. And he, Aristodemos, was come 
 in time! 
 
 Even as he looked he hurried toward the place, down 
 the rough hill and along the old shore road. Fleet with 
 joy, he sped around the curve of the Bay like a wing- 
 footed Hermes, his upturned face as bright and expect- 
 ant as the face of the god-messenger himself. He began 
 to hear the general bustle of the landing, then the great 
 hearty shoutings as boatload after boatload made the 
 shore. Then a new and louder clamour! Another troop 
 had arrived from the north. 
 
 Nearer and nearer he came to them. He could hear 
 the greetings, the mingled voices, the grind of moving 
 shields, the hammering of armourers, the neighing of 
 horses — all the din and roar of busy moving thousands. 
 Louder it grew, and louder. Now it was all about him. 
 Again and yet again the stupendous shouting of the 
 armies drowned all voices in one valorous roar. 
 
THROUGH UXWrtXIXG SEAS 423 
 
 Then suddenly, oh, wonderful! above the tumultuous 
 noise, clear and powerful, with glorious swinging step, 
 sounded the old Spartan marching song. The Spartans! 
 The Spartans had come up! The welcoming Athenians 
 joined their song. Surely it was but yesterday that 
 Aristodemos had marched to those same mighty 
 choruses. 
 
 These joyous battle sounds of united Greece wiped out 
 his bitter year as though it had not been. Some living 
 source within him welled up unscathed from trial. His 
 readiness to love, his readiness to hope and to believe. 
 was fresh, unstained and new. 
 
 Now he was elbowing his way through a press of shout- 
 ing, noisy Athenians. He came to the water's edge 
 where the Athenian officers stood. Only now, when 
 it became necessary to make himself known, did he 
 recollect himself. 
 
 Would they drive him off, these exuberant, life-full 
 men? Would th^ snatch his chance of action from him? 
 Well, let them stone him, now, where he stood! "I 
 will have death or I will fight for Greece!" he thought 
 doggedly. 
 
 A tall, quiet-voiced officer was standing at the shore, 
 directing the landing and ordering the disposition of 
 the camp. Aristodemos went to him. 
 
 "May I join your company?" he asked. Spite of 
 himself he began to tremble from sheer solicitude and 
 ardour. 
 
 The man, who was Aristides, bent upon him a searching 
 look. 
 
 "I have not seen thee in Athens." 
 
424 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "No. I have been long an exile. But — I was born 
 there. Lykos of Pandion's tribe was my father." 
 
 "Join the company of Olympiodoros yonder," said 
 Aristides. "That is thy deme." 
 
 "May I? May I?" whispered Aristodemos, suddenly 
 unbelieving. 
 
 "Yes, my son. Why not.''" said the general, looking 
 kindly at the flushed, glad face. Then he turned quickly 
 to his business. 
 
 Aristodemos bounded away to help with the boats, 
 and, as he did so, broke into glad song with the rest. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 
 
 Hellas in Arms at Last 
 
 OH, THE exuberant companionship, the glad 
 activity, the babble of Athenian talk, the bursts 
 of laughter and the shouting! Already his 
 long solitariness seemed to Aristodemos but a dream. 
 
 "Come, lend a hand here!" called a big-bearded 
 Athenian as he caught a rope from a landing boat. Aris- 
 todemos sprang to haul with him, but before they could 
 bring the craft in her eager passengers had leaped over- 
 board and were scrambling ashore through the surf. 
 Already the rowers were pushing oflF for another load. 
 
 "See how bright my shield is!" childishly called a boy 
 who had just got ashore. Evidently he had recently 
 been admitted to the ranks. 
 
 "It will be dulled enough when thou comest back," 
 said Aristodemos, with the smile of an old soldier. "A 
 shield gets battered when a brave man carries it." 
 
 "But the Spartans ! The Spartans are with us at last !" 
 the Athenians kept telling the new-comers. They had 
 
 425 
 
426 THE SPARTAN 
 
 reason enough to rejoice over it. For it was only at 
 the last minute, and after fierce persuasions and threats, 
 that reluctant Sparta had sent her army north of the 
 Isthmos. 
 
 "Here come the Eretrians down the Athens road, and 
 the Styrians after them!" As the new troops came in, 
 great shouts of welcome went up from the soldiers on the 
 beach. 
 
 Hardly had this shouting died down when the Leuka- 
 dians and Anaktorians came in sight on the mountarn 
 road. The united army rose to honour them, for they 
 were come from the farthest west of Greece, from the 
 shore of Akamania and from an island lying off the shore. 
 How dusty they looked after their long march, and how 
 they grinned with pride at the welcome they got! 
 
 So through the busy afternoon and far into the night 
 they kept coming in. Greece was draining herself for 
 this last effort of freedom. Never in her whole histofy 
 did she assemble so large a force. Already a hundred 
 thousand men were marshalled at Eleusis. Aristodemos 
 watched the swelling ranks with imutterable satisfaction. 
 The heart within him seemed filling, filling with the 
 coming of every new troop. 
 
 All the while he was very busy, here helping a youth 
 with his too-spirited horse, there adjusting a shield- 
 strap, or sharing the evening meal. Everybody spoke 
 to him and everybody took his presence for granted. 
 Now he stopped to watch a man coming out from a plunge 
 in the sea, his long hair dripping, his fine shoulders glis- 
 tening in the sunset hght. The man stumbled over 
 Bomething in the water. 
 
m ARMS AT LAST 427 
 
 "Holy Mother of Kore!" he cried with a wry face. 
 "How will I look, now, limping into battle!" 
 
 Then he bent and lifted something out of the water. 
 It proved to be an iron boat-anchor with a chain. "Here's 
 the crab!" he called out, dragging it out with him. 
 "Come out of the sea. Thou art my lawful captive. 
 Thou shalt serve me in battle!" 
 
 His comrades gathered jeering around, evidently ex- 
 pecting some piece of droUeiy. He dressed, put on his 
 corselet, and began to fasten the anchor chain to his belt. 
 
 "What! Thou'rt never going to lug that thing into 
 battle!" laughed Aristodemos. For the man seemed so 
 extravagantly in earnest. 
 
 "Won't I though.' See here!" And picking up the 
 anchor be ran forward a few steps with it, then cast it 
 and began to fight an imaginary foe. 
 
 The soldiers laughed uproariously. "Anchored in the 
 fight! Ho, Sophanes! They may sink you, but they 
 won't drive you! A new warship! Oh, Sophanes! what 
 next?" And they put him through his performance 
 again for the benefit of the newcomers who crowded up. 
 He was evidently a whimsical favourite among the men. 
 
 Yet it was from this same boy-hearted giant that 
 Aristodemos got the clearest account of the Persian 
 movements and of Aristides's probable plan. The two 
 sat on the moonlit beach and talked far into the night 
 with the quiet gravity of men upon the eve of battle. 
 
 "You see," said Sophanes, "the Persians left Athens 
 several days ago, made a raid over here on Megara, and 
 when they heard the Spartans were coming, marched 
 back ^ain through Attica up into Boeotia. They 
 
428 THE SPARTAN 
 
 went through Dekeleia on the way. I wonder what 
 they left of it!" Sophanes was quiet for a while, thinking 
 of his home. "And that was the move," he went on, 
 "that fetched those Spartans out of their good-for-noth- 
 ing despicable Peloponnese. Embassies and arguments 
 never would have brought them!" 
 
 Aristodemos knit his brows. 
 
 "Don't you see?" explained Sophanes, "Mardonios 
 means to found an empire in Boeotia and to include all 
 northern Greece. Ei! the Spartans suddenly woke up 
 when they saw a Persian frontier on the Corinthian 
 Gulf!" 
 
 "The gods be thanked they're here, from whatever 
 cause!" said Aristodemos. 
 
 "Now," said Sophanes, "we'll march into Bceotia 
 and fight the Persians there." 
 
 "And renegade Thebes will be their stronghold, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Thebes will be their dinner-table, and the north 
 their market-garden. We must manage to cut them off 
 from Thebes and the north. But Thebes isn't big enough 
 to hold them. No; to my thinking we'll storm no city. 
 It's a wrestle of two armies in open field. He that beats 
 the other hath the prize — and the prize will be Hellas. 
 Great Zeus, what an army we've got!" cried Sophanes 
 with enthusiasm. " We'll settle with those Persian beasts 
 for destroying our Athens!" 
 
 "Athens!" breathed Aristodemos with sudden recol- 
 lection. " I passed through Athens to-day!" 
 
 "To-day? Alone? Oh, how did it look?" 
 
 Aristodemos covered his face with his hands. Sophanes 
 
IN ARMS AT LAST 429 
 
 laid his arm heartily about his shoulder. "I thank the 
 gods they spared me such a sight!" he said. 
 
 At midnight the army was drawn up on the beach, 
 whUe the priests set up their altars and made sacrifices. 
 
 They stood in deep silence, until at last the exultant 
 word came down the waiting line: 
 
 "The sacrifices are favourable!" 
 
 Then they set out on the Platsean Road. And how 
 the battle pipes sounded in the darkness! Aristodemos 
 had heard them last at Thermopylae. He found himself 
 once more in the moving column, breathing men close 
 about him, his sword tapping its familiar click upon his 
 thigh. He had a glorious sense of being with his own. 
 
 Sophanes marched beside him. He was still undaunted 
 of his whimsical purpose and lugged his anchor. He 
 would not even trust it to his slave. The noisy cheer 
 of the afternoon had given place to a great seriousness in 
 the ranks, a weight of purpose which kept the men silent 
 as they marched. 
 
 They passed through the blackness of an olive wood, 
 blindly stepping in each other's tracks. Then they came 
 out among low, starlit hills, and marching steadily, 
 presently began to climb toward the mountains. Then 
 with gray dawn they came to the pass leading over the 
 Kithairon range into Boeotia. 
 
 "Ha — there is Eleutheria! " called Sophanes. "Like 
 an old gray eagle on her nest! Couldn't we touch up 
 those traitor Thebans with a bit of Athenian deviltry?" 
 But the gray-towered fortress standing like another 
 rock upon its rocky precipice gave no sign of life, and the 
 army shouted derision as it passed. 
 
430 THE SPARTAN 
 
 Up the steep defile they wound from height to height. 
 The brightness of the morning air seemed to warm their 
 blood, for as they climbed the column burst into song. 
 And what should they be singing but the old doggerel 
 that Aristodemos had stmg in his childhood! 
 
 "In a myrtle bough shall my sword lie hid. 
 Thus Harmodios and Aristogeiton did. 
 The day they struck the tyrant down 
 And made our Athens a freemen's town." 
 
 In its strength of eight thousand Athenian voices the 
 merry banquet song took on a thunderous dignity. Aris- 
 todemos joined in with a mighty joy. The air echoed, 
 the pine clad slopes gave back, 
 
 "A freemen's town! — A freeman's town!" 
 
 Yes; a freemen's town had Athens ever been, from the 
 time when Erechtheus had builded it. And now, though 
 the city was no more than a cinder heap on the plain, 
 the very mountains were still undauntedly proclaiming 
 it, 
 
 "A freemen's town — a freeman's town." 
 
 They reached the top of the pass and began to pour 
 down over it. There the wide Boeotian plain, sun filled 
 and generous, sweeping to its far blue mountain horizon, 
 lay suddenly spread below them. There was the birth- 
 place of Dionysos and Herakles, and there in the far 
 distance Helikon of Apollo and the Muses with its twin 
 peaks. That great white mass in the west was beloved 
 
IN ARMS AT LAST 431 
 
 Parnassos, beyond which Delphi itself lay hid. Oh, 
 who would not, with his last blood, defend this crying 
 Hellas-land! 
 
 The tired fellows stood there, grimly smiling. "Shall 
 the Persian dogs hold this Boeotia?" 
 
 Then they marched silently down. On the last decliv- 
 ity they came to Erythrai. Here the scouts reported 
 that the Persians were encamped north of the Asopos 
 River, only two miles away, and were about to attack. 
 
 The Greeks made ready. They stretched out their 
 battle line across the road by which they had come, and 
 upon the low hills on either side. The Spartans took the 
 post of honour on the right flank, the Athenians took the 
 left, on the last outreaching spurs of Kithairon. The 
 other allies held the centre on the lower ground where 
 ran the road. 
 
 "There lies our battle-field," said Sophanes, gazing 
 down upon the two miles of plain rolling north to the 
 Asopos River. "The Persians are using the Asopos 
 as their barrier. And we shall have to keep open the 
 Kithairon passes — our men and supplies have got to 
 come that way." 
 
 Now their long, living line stood complete, its grounded 
 spears glittering, erect, its white crests tossing above the 
 level helms, shield touching shield doAsm the brazen 
 length. "Walled in with shields of bronze," says Homer. 
 And not a man in all the line but knew that phrase. 
 
 Aristodemos stood there in his rank by Sophanes, 
 with all Thermopylae surging in his veins, with all those 
 heroic souls, swept then out of life, rushing back into him 
 with their pervading strength. 
 
432 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "Here they come," he said quietly to Sophanes. 
 
 "No; not yet!" answered the other, looking down from 
 their elevation. 
 
 But Aristodemos's eyes had caught what seemed a 
 mere dust cloud on the plain. It was moving. 
 
 "Oh — I see!" cried Sophanes breathlessly. For 
 now the white bodies of the horses began to gleam out 
 from the mass, tumultuous with motion, now the flurry 
 and glitter of spears, now the tossing of thousands of 
 gay-capped heads. And still over all the flying mass 
 ever that cloud of yellow dust, closing, rolling, lifting 
 — "the voiceless herald of the army." Mardonios had 
 sent against the Greeks the whole body of his Persian 
 cavalry. 
 
 At a little distance they halted and formed their vast 
 battle line, their restless horses neighing and stamping. 
 Their commander, Masistios, was conspicuous even at 
 this distance in their front. 
 
 There was an intense waiting. 
 
 Then, " It's the Megarians !" went up the cry. "They're 
 upon the Megarians!" 
 
 One Persian squadron had separated and was hurling 
 itself upon the narrow Greek front that held the low 
 ground near the road. 
 
 "Oh, they will break through — they wiU seize the 
 pass!" groaned Aristodemos. For the Megarian line 
 was giving back like a bended bow. 
 
 "No — they hold! They hold!" 
 
 But Aristodemos, stamping the groimd with impatience, 
 knew that they could not hold. As the first Persian 
 squardron circled off another beat forward against the 
 
IN ARMS AT LAST 433 
 
 same narrow front. This time the Megarians, struggling, 
 fighting, shouting, began to give way on the road. 
 
 None came to their support. 
 
 As for Aristodemos, only his lifetime discipline kept 
 him standLag in his place, while the fortune of Hellas 
 ebbed below. 
 
 Then he heard the long, wailing cry of the Megarian 
 herald as he ran along the hill. 
 
 "O Allies, we can not hold! Help! Help the Meg- 
 arians!" And straight followed Pausanias's mounted 
 messenger, clattering in haste. The Greek commander- 
 in-chief was calling for volunteers from his own Spartans. 
 
 But the Spartans would not go. 
 
 Now the messenger was calling to the Athenians. 
 
 How clumsily the ancient army did its work! And all 
 these precious minutes the unequal battle was raging in 
 the road below. 
 
 But the Athenians responded with a quick, glad shout. 
 To Aristodemos's inexpressible joy, it was his own 
 company that made answer, the three hundred men under 
 Olympiodoros. 
 
 The face of the Athenian captain gleamed. "I must 
 have a company of bowmen!" he cried, and was off. 
 
 Down the hill ran the mighty fellows in their clattering 
 armour. They reached the Megarians just as the 
 Persian horse were wheeling off from their last charge. 
 A quick, disciplined movement, and the fresh Athenian 
 phalanxes were through and in front of their bleeding 
 allies. They were hardly in position when with trilling 
 thunder of hoofs a new Persian squadron was upon them. 
 
 The Athenians with levelled spears braced themselves 
 
434 THE SPARTAN 
 
 to receive them. Sensitive lonians they were, quick 
 of laughter and of tears, imaginative, tender; yet every 
 nut-brown face of them was set as granite, and not a 
 muscle shook. Aristodemos was sensible of a strange 
 power within — the deed instinct at the deed moment. 
 
 Then fell the torrent of javelins — then the wild 
 confusion, the hot breathed galloping horses and yelling 
 men. Aristodemos's spear drove deep into the horse ' 
 before him. He heard its wild human shriek, saw it 
 rear high and throw its rider back into the living deluge. 
 Then the battle rage was all about him. Then began the 
 steady labour of fighting, too intense to be remembered. 
 
 Finally the Persian squadron made off, and he stood 
 panting among the panting bloody men, the sweat 
 rolling down his armour while he gathered breath against 
 the new onslaught. 
 
 It came — passed again like some incredible agony — 
 and again came. 
 
 "Hellas! Hellas!" he groaned when at moments he 
 seemed overcome with the breathless weight of exertion. 
 
 So far there was no decisive advantage. 
 
 And now the Persian leader, Masistios himself, took 
 personal command of the attacking squadron, riding in 
 advance, his white Nisian horse leaping responsive to 
 his hand. He was a large man, a masterly horseman, 
 splendid with crimson and gold — a superb barbaric 
 warrior. 
 
 As he reached the Athenians an arrow struck his horse's 
 flank. The frightened animal plunged and threw its 
 rider. Masistios leaped to his feet; but the Athenians 
 were upon him. He was gigantic in strength, and made 
 
Ds AKMS AT LAST 435 
 
 a terrible fight for his life. He flashed and wounded 
 everywhere. Aristodemos almost pitied him, so superb 
 of skill, so desperately over-matched with numbers. 
 
 But presently the spear of Masistios stuck through a 
 lithe Athenian boy who lifted his arms before him with 
 a wild, struggling cry. 
 
 "Persian hound! Wilt thou gather Greek lives for 
 thine!" Aristodemos struck a staggering blow to the 
 Persian's breast. He felt the shock of metal on his 
 sword point, and Masistios turned unharmed upon him, 
 with a grim triumphant smile. The man was clad in 
 some rare armour beneath his tunic. 
 
 "At his eyes! At his eyes!" shouted Aristodemos. 
 But the others did not for the moment comprehend, 
 and seeing Aristodemos's sldll, gave him opportunity. 
 Qoser and closer he pressed to that giant form and its 
 play of lightning strokes. The others wondered that 
 he did not thrust. 
 
 Then suddenly he made a feint at the man's belly, 
 and as Masistios lowered his shield but a hair's breadth, 
 Aristodemos sheared over the rim straight through his 
 eye. It was a quick, thorough deed. Leonidas had not 
 taught him that master-stroke in vain. But dearly 
 had the Athenians to pay for it that day. 
 
 The Persians had drawn off without at first perceiving 
 the absence of their leader. But now the Athenians 
 could see the messengers furiously flying back and forth. 
 Presently the whole vast Persian line began to concentrate. 
 Then the mighty, compact mass of horsemen, many 
 ranks deep, drove forward, coming, all together, for 
 vengeance and for the body of their leader. 
 
436 THE SPARTAN 
 
 The three hundred Athenians sent up a great cry to 
 the whole Greek army for help, standing, the while, 
 their ground as the black tempest cloud swept up 
 upon them. 
 
 It was no longer human. Men and horses were merged 
 in elemental tumult. On it came, a hurricane of scream- 
 ing men and crashing armour, a vast uproar. The very 
 ground beneath their feet began to shake with its myriad 
 pounding hoofs. Ahead of this tempest came its bitter 
 rain of arrows. 
 
 Who can tell what keeps men firm in the face of such 
 an impending crash? 
 
 "After all, it is only death!" thought Aristodemos 
 standing above Masistios's body. It was this they were 
 coming for. Then the struggle itself seized mind, soul 
 and body. 
 
 The awful impact pushed the Athenians bodily back. 
 Aristodemos found this labour infinitely heavier than the 
 most desperate fighting he had ever known — to be 
 crushed back among the mass of men, to stumble over the 
 fallen yet to keep blows steady and shield everywhere. 
 Aristodemos, moreover, was dragging with hands or feet 
 the heavy body of the Persian general. 
 
 The battle was losing! What stupidity kept the allies 
 still delaying? 
 
 The battle was losing ! Even submerged as he was he 
 was conscious of it. 
 
 The battle was losing! 
 
 Now they had wrenched Masistios's body away! 
 He heard the barbarian scream of delight. He sprang 
 among the Persians after it, shouting, " Follow ! Follow !" 
 
Ds ARMS AT lAST 437 
 
 He found himself surrounded, parrying blows from all 
 sides. The Athenians had ebbed entirely away. 
 
 Then he became sensible of a mighty surging tide 
 behind, a pressure that bore him forward like a breaker. 
 
 Then he knew! It was the whole Greek army behind 
 Tiim driving irresistibly. Now how swift the battle 
 moved! How easily the Greeks won back the body of 
 Masistios and left it secure behind as they charged vic- 
 torious down the slopes! 
 
 At last the Persian cavalry clattered away and away 
 over the hills to their camp, wailing the loss of their leader 
 and leaving the field strewn with their dead. 
 
 Aristodemos felt stupified with joy. That he should 
 have fought ia the front of victory ! That he, the accursed 
 wanderer, should have dealt great blows for Hellas ! 
 
 "Hey, wake up!" cried the jubilant Sophanes, shaking 
 him. "Thou art a very fiend of a fighter! Didst not 
 hear me call thee to drop that Persian carrion and run 
 back with us? K aU Greece hadn't pushed in at that 
 instant thou wert a dead Greek now!" 
 
 "No," said Aristodemos quietly, "there was a chance." 
 
 "By the gods, you took it! And who taught you 
 that sword play? I never " 
 
 Here a shout from the excited Greeks brought them 
 both to their feet. The body of Masistios was being 
 carted down the line. Men were leaving the ranks to 
 wonder at his barbaric beauty and splendid dress. 
 
 "But who killed him? Who killed him?" they asked. 
 
 "One of Olympiodoros's men," the cartman answered. 
 "But he hath not come forward for honours yet." 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOmi 
 
 The Saving of Greece 
 
 VICTORY! The Greek camp was all "Victory!" 
 The men sang "Victory!" drank "Victory!" 
 They were jubilant, tearful, tender toward their 
 gods. Prudence was not in them. Had they not scat- 
 tered the Persian locust to the winds.? "Ohe!" they 
 cried. "The campaign is as good as ended!" 
 
 "You Greeks are always children!" once said a half 
 envious Egj'ptian to the Greek historian. 
 
 Even the generals seemed utterly jubilant, and made 
 their further plans with naive coirfidence. On the 
 morrow they would circle westward around the southern 
 borders of the plain, concealing their march among the 
 foothills. Then they would cross the Asopos River about 
 two miles west of the Persian camp, and surprise it from 
 the rear. This move would cut off the Persians from 
 their northward Theban Road. 
 
 Thus lightly did the Greeks leave their hills where their 
 superior position had been half their victory, unmindful 
 
 438 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 439 
 
 how easily the swift Persian cavalry could deal with their 
 heavy armed soldiers on the level ground. 
 
 In the red morning light they set out for the Boeotian 
 plain — columns of bright-faced men well rested after 
 battle, with spear a-quiver and burnished shields taking 
 the sun. 
 
 To Aristodemos all life seemed as new as this blessed 
 morning, all effort possible after the night of rest. The 
 fragrant air — how fresh it met his nostrils ! And the 
 sunny hills, the bright, rolling plain, never to be soiled 
 henceforth by Persian feet! The poet in him was upper- 
 most and singing. 
 
 By noon they reached the spring Gargaphia, not far 
 from the burned faithful city of Plataea. Here, to Aris- 
 todemos's great satisfaction, the battle line began im- 
 mediately to form. In a moment they would be marching 
 over the low ridge which was now their concealment. 
 Then they would ford the narrow river and wheel east- 
 ward upon the unready Persian camp. 
 
 "What now, in Hermes's name!" exlaimed Sophanes 
 impatiently. For the columns had halted. Loud talking 
 was heard ahead. 
 
 "It's the Tegeans!" he said, as his keen ear caught the 
 talk. " I knew they wanted the left flank !" 
 
 This was the second post of honour in the battle line, 
 after the Spartan right. 
 
 "Faugh," grumbled on Sophanes, "see the captain 
 point as he argues Tegean merits ! Now hath Pausanias 
 the precious opportunity of hearing the whole Tegean 
 ancestry! Aye, back to Troy— back to Troy it is, I 
 warrant!" 
 
440 THE SPAKTAN 
 
 "No," groaned another Athenian, "he's only as far 
 back as Eehemos, son of Asopos, son of Phegeus yet! 
 Wait a day or two, Sophanes! No hurry about the 
 battle!" 
 
 "Hush — listen!" cried Aristodemos eagerly. "It's 
 Aristides now!" 
 
 "I thought," came the tolerant, amused voice of the 
 Athenian statesman, "that we came out for battle with 
 the Barbarian, not for oratory." 
 
 The Athenian soldiers listened with a sudden ardent 
 quiet as he began to mention great Athenian deeds of 
 old. One's own ancestors are a different matter. 
 
 "But," broke off Aristides, "what profit to talk of 
 ancestors? We ourselves be ancestors enough. We 
 fought Marathon!" 
 
 Here the Athenians, and Spartans too, began to shout, 
 "Marathon!" 
 
 "Nevertheless/' Aristides went on quietly, "this is no 
 time to contend for a post. Put us where ye will, O Spar- 
 tans. Wherever we stand, ye shall find us steadfast." 
 
 "Athenians — Athenians!" came the instant Spartan 
 shout. 
 
 Truly, "children," always "children," as the Egyptian 
 said. 
 
 And now up the Asopos ridge in battle order marched 
 the united armies. 
 
 They were too late! 
 
 With fine strategic insight the enemy had divined their 
 move and had forestalled them. There, just across the 
 little stream, was the freshly fortified camp of the full 
 Persian army, alert and ready. 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 441 
 
 This was a shock to sober theGreeks. Yet they marched 
 in silence down to the river and pitched their own 
 camp on the bank opposite the great Persian force. 
 
 And now began the long disaster of waiting days. 
 Day after day the armies sat glowering at each other on 
 the two sides of the little stream. Day after day they 
 made their anxious sacrifices, but neither Greek nor Per- 
 sian was able to get the sanction of his gods for an attack. 
 
 Aristodemos chafed and fretted. The impasse was 
 dangerous. And they had seemed so near the finish! 
 As far as the eye could reach he could see the gorgeous 
 tents of the enemy. Their battle line would be easily 
 four times as deep as the Greek, by so much did the Per- 
 sians outnumber them. What event could possibly break 
 the locked horns of these two armies? 
 
 "Cheer up, thou bloodthirsty son of Ares!" said 
 Sophanes, as . they sat one evening at their supper; 
 "thou canst not kill a Masistios every day!" 
 
 "Masistios! What's Masistios! Oh, this delay! This 
 delay! Dost thou not see the outcome?" 
 
 "Not I. That's Olympiodoros's business. Nay, eat 
 thy cheese in peace. We profit the most by delay. Look 
 yonder." 
 
 He pointed to a dusty company of new arrivals. The 
 Greek army was indeed filling hourly from the Corinthian 
 Gulf, from Peloponnese, from Attica, by ones, dozens, 
 fifties. But Aristodemos was not greatly reassured. 
 Sophanes snapped his fingers. What did the "Blood- 
 thirsty" want, anyway? 
 
 That night — the ninth of their waiting — Persian 
 Mardonios sent a cavalry troop around and ambushed 
 
442 THE SPABTAN 
 
 a Greek provision train as it came through a Kithairon 
 pass, "slaughtering beast and man," as the plain old 
 historian says, "until they were satisfied with killing." 
 Then they drove the rest into their camp. The Greeks 
 had allowed more than two miles of space between them 
 and their hills. 
 
 This revealed in a flash the masterly advantage of the 
 Persian position — aye, and showed it to the Persians 
 themselves. For next morning they began an intermittent 
 fightiTig with the Greeks. It was not actual battle — no 
 such satisfaction as that. It was only a terrible harass- 
 ment by the cavalry bowmen, little companies at a time 
 crossing the river in sudden sallies, shooting their whizzing 
 flights of death among the Greeks, then fleeing bird-swift 
 away. Thus they occupied the attention of the Greek 
 army. 
 
 Meanwhile — with what appalling ease! — th^ seized 
 all the passes of Kithairon in the rear of the Greeks, 
 and cut off their supplies of provisions. 
 
 The men grew silent in the Athenian camp, with set 
 jaws and anxious eyes. Aristodemos saw on their faces 
 a look that gave him a new fear for Greece. Thermopylse 
 had been her first stand. This would be her last. And 
 the Greeks knew it. 
 
 The armies had now been a fortnight on this futfle 
 field. One evening Aristodemos was detailed to sentry 
 duty. He took his watch wearily. When one has not 
 eaten a full meal for three days one does not see the bright 
 coloius. He could not put from his mind his Phokian 
 journey after Thermopylae — those charred villages, 
 deserted highways, that ghastly lift of black hair, the 
 
THE SAMNG OF GREECE 443 
 
 dead girl on the hiUside. Like that all Greece would be 
 soon — soon ! 
 
 Night deepened as he paced his beat on the soft grass, 
 exchanging from time to time the low salutation as he met 
 his neighbour sentry. 
 
 Suddenly he heard a plash in the river, then a swift 
 thud of hoofs. Nearer, nearer I A night attack? A 
 single horseman could not be coming thus! Now horse 
 and man loomed in the darkness before him. 
 
 "I have a message!" The man sjjoke good Greek. 
 "Important! I must see the generals in haste!" 
 
 Aristodemos called the guard. Men were sent for 
 Aristides and Pausanias. In a few moments both generals 
 were there. The three men stood awhile in low, anxious 
 talk. Then the rider galloped off to the dim river. 
 
 Aristides caught sight of Aristodemos's remembered, 
 eager face. 
 
 "The Persians will give battle to-morrow," he vouch- 
 safed. 
 
 "Then all the gods be thanked!" flashed back Aris- 
 todemos fervently. 
 
 When his watch was done he ran toward his tent laugh- 
 ing aloud. But already the news had spread from tent 
 to tent. 
 
 "The Persians have no food. They must give battle 
 whether the gods will or no! They hoped to surprise us, 
 but Alexander of Macedon came over and told us." 
 
 Aristodemos rushed into his tent just as Sophanes was 
 coming out and caught the astonished fellow in his arms. 
 
 " Oho !" cried Sophanes. " So thou hast heard the news. 
 Is battle thy banquet wine?" 
 
444 THE SPARTAN 
 
 "No — no!" answered Aristodemos, laughing again 
 at the fierce character which Sophanes gave him, "but 
 we could not endure longer. It was a very courage- 
 letting. Didst thou not see it? Hellas was nearer lost 
 than she hath ever been! But now, Zeus save us, the 
 fight is on! The fight is on!" 
 
 Sophanes laughed in reply; yet even with his careless 
 laughter came a flash of that divine faith which at this 
 time every true Greek seemed to have. 
 
 "Lost! Hellas can not be lost!" And he made off 
 about his business. 
 
 Sophanes's word, "Hellas can not be lost," stuck by 
 Aristodemos, whose courage thereby took on a quality 
 of joy that henceforth never left him. In the dark hours 
 that followed the fighters at his side saw in his face a 
 steady shining beneath its sweat and blood and effort 
 — a kind of high absorption and repose. 
 
 The rest of the night the Athenian camp was in eager, 
 hushed confusion. Men were hastily rubbing shields, 
 whetting swords already keen, overhauling and putting 
 on armour. Then, softly in the dark, the troops marched 
 and countermarched, taking their positions. 
 
 Dawn and the astonished Persians found them ready 
 in battle array. 
 
 Nevertheless, the Persians at once began. Their 
 full cavalry force came pounding to the river brink and 
 let fly their deadly mass of arrows. The Greeks quailed 
 under the death rain, though they held steady, and quickly 
 began to fill the places of the fallen. But, before they 
 could recover, the cavalry had dashed across the fords 
 and was charging upon them. 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 445 
 
 Then did the close-knit brazen phalanx of the Greeks 
 seem like some slow, confused monster at the mercy of 
 its clever-moving foe. The swift Persian squadrons 
 broke over their shielded fronts before the long-spear 
 defence was ready; then wheeled and galloped away, 
 screaming back with scornful laughter — "Women! Ah, 
 women ! " 
 
 And this taunt went home deeper than the Persian 
 arrows to the suffering, bleeding Greeks. They wept 
 aloud as they fought. It was the supreme disgrace of 
 this disastrous day. 
 
 That afternoon the Persians forced the Athenian army 
 back from its position on the river, and even drove the 
 Spartans back from the Gargaphian Spring, which they 
 choked up and ruined, completely cutting the Greeks 
 off from water. 
 
 It was a tired, thirsty lot of men that fell asleep that 
 night in the new Greek bivouac. And the Persians 
 renewed the attack before dawn. Through this long day 
 the Greeks fought with parched throats and dizzy heads, 
 every hour of dust and exertion adding to their misery. 
 
 And now Aristodemos as he fought began to thank 
 the gods for his Spartan training. He saw Athenians 
 falling all about him, unwounded, but done to death 
 with long thirst and strength-spending. But he fought 
 on with the best, feeling that he must fight so, endlessly, 
 as though he were made of brass. 
 
 Yet with all his endurance, Aristodemos was not fight- 
 ing to advantage. He missed the Spartan ways, the sure, 
 united action of the phalanx, the instinctive response 
 to the commands — aye, and the commands themselves 
 
446 THE SPARTAN 
 
 to which through the long years he had been drilled. 
 Under the unaccustomed conditions he was not fighting to 
 good purpose, and he knew it, all the wearing day. 
 
 At last he saw the sunlight slanting low and felt the 
 cool breath across the hot mass of the fight. Then, with 
 a last derisive yell, the Persians galloped off. Once 
 more blessed night had fallen. It had fallen upon a 
 beaten army, an army without food or water, and well 
 nigh surrounded. But Aristodemos was too tired to 
 sense this fact. He dropped down where he stood and 
 passed instantly into fathomless slumber. 
 
 It was after midnight when he became aware of general, 
 hurried movements all about him. He staggered sleepily 
 to his feet. What was it? They were striking tents, 
 packing wagons, putting on armour. All was anxious 
 hurry. 
 
 "What are we doing?" he asked, stopping a hurrying 
 form. 
 
 "Going to a hill south of here, called 'The Island,' 
 close to Kithairon and the Megara Pass. They say it 
 is a place surrounded with streams. Great gods, but we 
 need the water!" 
 
 It was a move of extremity. The Greeks were prepar- 
 ing to withdraw under cover of the night and while 
 they yet could. They had learned their lesson. They 
 could fight only on the hills. 
 
 He found Sophanes trying vainly in the darkness to 
 fasten on his armour. 
 
 "My cursed fingers slip so!" he complained. 
 
 Aristodemos thrust him down to the ground. "Lie 
 there," he commanded. "I'll fasten thy greaves — 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 447 
 
 Great Zeus, I thought so!" he exclaimed as he knelt by 
 him. "A wound here in thy leg — losing blood. That's 
 what makes thy slippery fingers." 
 
 "Oh, that," said the great fellow sheepishly. "That's 
 nothing. Only one of their sickle cuts." But he stretched 
 out with a sigh as Aristodemos tore a strip from his 
 own tunic and bound up the mighty iron-knotted calf. 
 
 "Why, Demos, thou'rt fresh even now!" said Sophanes 
 enviously. 
 
 "Yes. But thou didst carry thy anchor. Dost know, 
 Sophanes, I believe that that anchor-fighting is going to 
 make thee famous!" 
 
 "Oh, I don't believe so," said Sophanes. But he 
 smiled with pleasure in the dark. 
 
 The comradeship with Sophanes was a constant re- 
 freshment to Aristodemos. He went on with his own 
 preparations, absently answering Sophanes's jests, and 
 feeling a wonderful sense of being in the world again. 
 
 Yet all this while he was coming to an inevitable decis- 
 ion. He must get back among his Spartans. Only in 
 his own place in the Spartan phalanx to which he had been 
 trained for fourteen years could he do his best work. 
 To-day would see the final issue. By to-day's fortune 
 Hellas would stand or fall. To-day he dare give nothing 
 but his best. 
 
 Together with this conviction Aristodemos had a 
 sudden fervent desire to fight in the place where Leonidas 
 had set him, and in the peculiar fashion which Leonidas 
 had taught. Leonidas the living had once led him back 
 to Sparta; Leonidas the dead was calling him thither 
 again. 
 
448 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He did not hesitate, these days, in his decisions. He 
 said nothing to Sophanes, but quietly shut his hehn over 
 his face, took shield and spear, and walked away. 
 
 He had scarce passed within the Spartan lines when he 
 was aware of a different atmosphere. Among the Athe- 
 nians he had seen hunger, sviffering, discouragement. 
 Nevertheless every Athenian had been ardent to do the 
 next duty, and they were even now burying their dead 
 without complaint. These Spartans had not been nearly 
 so hard hit; yet Aristodemos found them quarrelsome 
 and full of complaints. He heard angry voices and 
 passed knots of men who talked excitedly. 
 
 He passed quickly among the half -packed tents to his 
 old place in the Pitanate Division. Here too the men 
 were fuming. 
 
 "This going to The Island," said one, "is aU a blunder. 
 It wiU bring the whole Persian force upon us at once with 
 a crash. Ye'U see it will!" 
 
 "Yes, at last, thanks be to the gods!" said Aristodemos 
 fervently and almost unawares. 
 
 "Thou'lt not say that when the fight is on!" growled 
 the man, turning at him. "It's the Lnmortals we Spar- 
 tans have to deal with. TVe don't know their fighting 
 ways. How can we meet such fighters, ten to one in 
 open field.'" 
 
 "Their fighting ways are simple, for all their high 
 .sounding' name," said Aristodemos, eager to hearten 
 the group, and remembering the grapple with the Immor- 
 tals at Thermopylae. "They are no match for Spartan 
 skill." 
 
 "By Zeus, but who art thou?" demanded the grumbler. 
 
THE SA\TNG OF GREECE 449 
 
 "I am Aristodemos, son of Lykos," said Aristodemos 
 readily. 
 
 "Son of Gylippos, rather! I thought I knew thy 
 damned voice!" 
 
 Aristodemos lifted his helm, and his steady face 
 looked out in the flickering torchlight. 
 
 "Yes — ha, ha!" sneered the man. "'Aristodemos 
 the Coward'! Why, I thought thou'dst hung thyself 
 long ago! Of course thou art not afraid of the Immor- 
 tals! Death'd be a blessing to thee!" 
 
 "Death woidd be no, blessing to me," said Aristodemos. 
 
 " Is not my life " Then in his sudden, deep voice of 
 
 anger, — " Thou Spartan brute ! Canst never see beyond 
 the rooting of thine own snout? What is my death, or 
 thine, or any thousand deaths, to the death of HeUas? 
 All Hellas hangs in the balance. If thou never thought'st 
 of HeUas before, by all the gods thou shouldst think of 
 Hellas now!" 
 
 Without reply the man sprang at his throat. Aris- 
 todemos flimg him off, but the man came up at him again. 
 Then an elder struck between them with his lance-butt. 
 
 "Stop, thou fool!" he roared. "The Coward is right. 
 This is no time to kill one of our fighting men. Is he not 
 one more against the Persian? And 'twas Leonidas 
 taught him the sword." 
 
 "The man is accursed!" cried the other angrily. 
 
 " ApKjUo hath lifted my curse," said Aristodemos. And 
 they knew that in such a matter he would not dare to lie. 
 
 Panting with disgust and anger, he strode away to a 
 less crowded part of the camp. There he paced up and 
 down, trying to compose himself. The brawl was so 
 
450 THE SPABTAN 
 
 base and unbelievable in this noble hour. He heard no 
 step behind him; but quietly a hand was thrust into hia. 
 He looked and saw in the twilight a most gracious, godlike 
 youth. 
 
 "Kallikrates!" he said, recalling him as a boy from 
 Spartan days. 
 
 "Yes. I was glad to hear thee speak that good word. 
 It was good on the eve of battle!" 
 
 Aristodemos bent and kissed the lad on the mouth 
 because his Doric speech was like that of Leonidas, and 
 also because to see him was to love him. For Kallikrates 
 had grown to be the most beautiful youth of aU HeUas. 
 There were men in Sparta who would have given a fortxme 
 for his handclasp and his praise. 
 
 Aristodemos kept the hand in his, and they walked 
 together. 
 
 "Dost think it will be a great battle to-morrow?" 
 asked the youth. 
 
 "Yes, dear lad." 
 
 And later, as they paced in silenoe, Kallikrates asked: 
 "Thou art disquiet for the morrow, Aristodemos?" 
 
 "I am not disquiet," said Aristodemos, tuminguponhim 
 a lighted face of faith. "I was even thinkiTig how 
 Greece will act when she is free of the Persian." 
 
 "Hark!" 
 
 It was the hushed signal for the march. Aristodemos 
 hurried to his old place in the ranks. Then he noted that 
 the young Kallikrates was stationed very near him. It 
 was still dark, and favourable for the retreat. But morn- 
 ing was at hand and they must march at once. They 
 were ready. 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 451 
 
 A herald arrived from the Athenians asking for final 
 orders from the Spartan general, Pausanias. 
 
 Then, through the darkness, Aristodemos heard a 
 strife of voices. He could not believe his ears. Amom- 
 pharetos, his own commander, was refusing to move. 
 
 "No," he was saying, "I will not flee from the Bar- 
 barians! I will not disgrace Sparta!" 
 
 "But we must move from here at once!" urged Pau- 
 sanias. "Our men can not fight longer without water." 
 
 "Let 'em fight with valour!" 
 
 The strife momently grew higher. The Pitanate Div- 
 ision under Amompharetos was an important one. 
 Pausanias did not dare to leave it behind. Yet he dared 
 not wait. Meanwhile the Athenian herald stood by with 
 respectful contempt, awaiting orders. The strife grew 
 absurd. 
 
 The burly Amompharetos lifted up a great stone in 
 both hands. 
 
 "There!" he cried, casting it at the feet of his general. 
 "With this pebble I give my vote not to flee from the 
 strangers!" 
 
 "Thou madman! Thou fool!" cried Pausanias. 
 
 "And what commands to the Athenians?" put in the 
 waiting herald. 
 
 Pausanias clasped his head in his hands. Leon, the 
 captain of another division, began to persuade and threat- 
 en Amompharetos. Military authority and obedience, 
 as we understand them, were unknown in an ancient army. 
 
 The faint gray of morning was in the air. If the Persians 
 should discover their movement, the Greeks were lost. 
 Finally great streaks of dawn began to show across the 
 
452 THE SPARTAN 
 
 rolling country. Pausanias, in despair, gave over the 
 stupid contest. With a flash of his sword he turned to 
 his army. 
 
 " March !" he commanded. And the Spartan army and 
 the Tegeans with them shouldered their spears and 
 marched off. But the Pitanate Division remained stand- 
 ing in its place. 
 
 Aristodemos, with breaking heart, saw them go, rank 
 after rank, across the brightening plain to the battle 
 place, while he stood silent with his division in that 
 wrong and helpless station by the river — a place that 
 could become nothing but a shambles. Spartan stupidity 
 had caught him again ! Here and at the very last moment 
 he was being cheated of his chance! His dry lips parted. 
 Should he leave the ranks? But that would be instant 
 death. 
 
 A loud cry sounded from across the Asopos. The 
 Persians were rushing to battle. They had seen the 
 vacant camp and knew that the Greeks were gone. 
 
 Amompharetos turned his stupid head. He had hoped 
 to keep the whole Spartan army with him. Nbw his 
 small division stood full in the Persian way. It would 
 be annihilated. Grudgingly he lifted his sword. But 
 before he could speak the word his men were bounding 
 forward at a quickstep the way the Spartan army had 
 gone. The Persians had already leaped through the 
 river. Far and near went up their diverse battle cries 
 as nation after nation joined in the pursuit of the Pitanate. 
 They poured up the near bank and over, yelling wild 
 derision.. They did not doubt that the whole Greek 
 army was in full flight. The Pitanate quickened to a hard 
 
THE SAMIN^G OF GREECE 453 
 
 run. The Persian cavalry was overtaking them by 
 leaps and bounds. 
 
 But now, a little way up the slope ahead of them, 
 they saw the Spartans and Tegeans drawn up and await- 
 ing them. They could hear the clamorous encourage- 
 ment of their comrades. Then, with a final rush and a 
 shout, the Pitanate swept into its place, and under the 
 first discharge of Persian arrows completed the hasty 
 battle line. The Persian archer-cavalry was not a 
 hundred steps behind. 
 
 At that interval the enemy halted. The Spartans 
 saw them lift their heavy bows. Their arrows soared 
 up high in air, then, curving over, struck down like 
 voiceless lightning upon the unsheltered Greeks. 
 
 "Steady in your places!" cried the captains. And 
 the silent Spartans and the Tegean three thousand 
 beside them, lifted their shields to mitigate the falling 
 death and stood firm. But Pausanias hurriedly sent his 
 mounted herald to the Athenians for aid. Not even 
 Spartans coidd stand such a storm. And now, just over 
 the little temple-crowned hill opposite them, they could 
 see all the Persians and Median infantry coming on. 
 
 The Helots set up the Spartan battle altar. The 
 priest slew the victim, bent close, and peering, shook 
 his head. The omens were unfavourable. The Spartans 
 were not permitted to attack. 
 
 Now the Medes and Persians spread out their huge, 
 bright battle line. Aristodemos saw that the Immortals 
 themselves were in the forefront, and thought that they 
 would surely charge at once. But they, too, halted and 
 he could see them with a great clatter drive deep into the 
 
454 THE SPARTAN 
 
 ground the stakes of their heavy bull-covered shields 
 as tall as themselves, and lock them into a solid palisade. 
 Then a swift cloud darkened for a moment the air above. 
 The Greeks heard a terrible wide humming. Then came 
 a pattering all about, the sharp impinging of the thou- 
 sands of arrows, followed by a wild confusion of death - 
 cries. 
 
 Such archery as this the Greeks had never known. 
 The large, powerful bows were drawn at close range and 
 with consummate sMU. The arrows were like veiy 
 spears for sharpness and weight. Some of the bowmen 
 shot high and struck the Greeks from above. Others 
 shot straight across. 
 
 This was no time for pause. Nothing but an instant 
 phalanx-charge could quench that arrow-storm. Yet 
 — Merciful Zeus! — Fausanias was delaying to sacrifice 
 again ! He did not dare to move without his gods. 
 
 But oh, the falling men ! The death-strokes everywhere ! 
 Flesh and blood could not endure this! The Spartans 
 were dropping like logs or staggering wildly, drawing 
 out the arrows from their flesh to stand pale and reeling 
 in the ranks. And still unceasing fell the rain of death; 
 and there was no protection, and no action! 
 
 Fear began to grow. 
 
 Then amid the noise and confusion Aristodemos heard 
 just behind him a wild, sweet cry of anguish, and turning 
 he saw the beautiful youth, KaUikrates, fall with one of 
 the heavy Persian shafts buried deep in his side. The 
 soldiers caught him with ready, outstretched arms. But 
 his lovely body stretched and stififened with pain, and 
 they dared not draw out the buried arrow. It was a 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 455 
 
 death stroke. The men glanced the fatal intelligence 
 into each other's stricken faces. 
 
 They bore him away with infinite tenderness. How 
 bitterly the poor lad wept, "Oh, Paian! Paian!" But 
 the cry was not for himself. "No deed done — no deed 
 for Hella3 ! And I was so strong — I was so ready to 
 
 — do great deeds! No deed! No deed! No deed!" 
 His lessening voice died away across the field. 
 
 The effect in the ranks was immediate. They had 
 endured inactive as long as men could endure. And now 
 this death of Kallikrates had stricken the heart of 
 every man. Aristodemos saw a horror come over the 
 soldier faces, the wild, uneasy look that precedes the 
 Panic-god. And he knew that they must break. 
 
 Toward the enemy they stiU could break. But break 
 they must. Aristodemos saw that in a moment more 
 they would break the other way and nm like maddened 
 sheep. Yet he knew that they would charge the enemy 
 only at Pausanias's command. 
 
 But Pausanias was still awaiting his omens ! 
 
 Appalling dilemma! The Spartans were helpless. 
 
 But the Tegeans? 
 
 Aristodemos looked over toward them. Their horror- 
 shaken ranks were already shifting. The Tegeans! 
 Yes the Tegeans might be tempted to a sudden charge. 
 They were not so routine bound. And once the break 
 were started, nothing coidd prevent a Spartan charge. 
 
 — A single man might do it at this crisis-edge! Yes 
 
 — Yes ! A single man ! 
 
 Then Aristodemos flung away all discipline. His 
 single battle-shout suddenly shattered the noise. He 
 
456 THE SPARTAN 
 
 leaped like a meteor from the Spartan line to the Tegean 
 front. The Tegeans thought they saw a god! The god 
 light surely was in his face. 
 
 "Alala!" 
 ' With lifted sword and bright, streaming hair he rushed 
 toward the foe. The whole Tegean phalanx plunged 
 forward with him. He seemed to lift it bodily from 
 its place. The backward glance of his lighted face swept 
 courage into them. "Alala! Alala!" His voice rang 
 to them like the note of a clarion. 
 
 At this moment Pausanias promptly got his omens 
 right. For the Spartans, even as Aristodemos hoped, 
 had broken restraint and were leaping toward the foe 
 in battle joy, their line near-even with the Tegeans. 
 
 Aristodemos reached the Persian shield-wall, behind 
 him the thunder-roar of the Tegean phalanx. Against 
 the tough wattled wall they crashed, splintered it back 
 and broke in among those terrible, splendid fighters, wild 
 faces, flashing daggers — the hot, heaving cauldron of 
 battle. The crash of their impact was instantly followed, 
 farther up the line, by Sparta's resistless plunge into the 
 heart of the Persian Immortals. 
 
 Now the fight was everywhere, man to man. Aris- 
 todemos seemed struggling in some hot, engulfing surge, 
 raging still forward and drawing his Tegeans after him, 
 slaying with unwearied strength, and with a kind of 
 suspended joy — a prophecy of victory. 
 
 It seemed as if the gods who had taken away his oppor- 
 tunities at Thermopylae were restoring them now ten- 
 fold. Where a quick deed was to be done, there was he. 
 Again and again in some close struggle of failing men 
 
THE SAVING OF GREECE 457 
 
 it was Aristodemos, bright eyed and strong, who with 
 those wonderful sword strokes swept the Greeks through 
 their crisis. Tegeans and Spartans ahke began to look 
 for his flying Athenian crest, at first so white and then so 
 terribly red. "He put strength out of himself into us!" 
 said the adoring Tegean soldiers afterward. 
 
 How he praised now that unsparing sword-practice 
 of Leonidas! Not a man of Sparta could wield such a 
 blade or deal such death as Aristodemos dealt that day. 
 
 It was a heart breaking, doubtful battle. The Persians 
 fought with mad valour. They were truly of wonderful 
 strength and bravery, though they were destitute of 
 heavy armour. They would mass themselves by dozens 
 and mightily fling themselves at points among the brazen 
 shields, striving, furiously so, to force a breach in the 
 Greek line for their comrades to push through. They 
 would make sudden rushes to break up with their hands 
 in desperation that bitter Greek advantage of long spears. 
 
 But, for all their courage, they gave way at last; They 
 went to pieces aU at once, as melts the whole river-dam 
 when once the rift has let the waters through. They 
 fled back past the little hiU-temple of Demeter, and on 
 over hiU and plain toward their camp beyond the Asopos. 
 
 The Spartans pursued them, killing them in the hollows, 
 killing them on the heights. It was a rout complete. 
 
 Only the Persian cavalry kept free. They hovered 
 and darted about on the outskirts of battle, harassing 
 the Greek pursuers with many a sharp-set shaft. It 
 was one of these arrows that struck Aristodemos as he 
 was giving chase with the others toward the Persian 
 camp. It struck through his corselet, piercing his side 
 
458 THE SPARTAN 
 
 much as Kallikrates had been wounded, but not so deep. 
 Aristodemos paused in his running and drew it out. 
 The plentiful blood spilled after it over his thigh and knee. 
 But he ran on again, scarce conscious of weakness and 
 wholly unconscious of pain. The wondrous actuality 
 of Greek Freedom was buoying him. He was trying to 
 believe it. He was singing within. His whole being 
 was an uplift of joy and praise. 
 
 He reached the Persian camp just in time to see the 
 Persian renmant get within and bang to the heavy 
 wooden gates in the faces of the Spartans and Tegeans. 
 
 The Spartans were not skilled in the assault of fortified 
 places, and they made but little progress until the Athe- 
 nians arrived. These presently came up, a joyous, noisy 
 rout, fresh from conquering their own separate battle 
 with the Medized Greeks nearer Plataea. 
 
 Aristodemos set to work exultantly with the rest at 
 breaching the high, wooden, waU. But suddenly, whether 
 from loss of blood or perhaps because he saw his life's 
 desire accomplished, he reeled and fell. 
 
 Teleklos, a Spartan captain, paused to support him. 
 But Aristodemos motioned him on, smiling absently. 
 — "Just as he used to smile," said Teleklos afterward, 
 "when he had finished a song, or when the evening games 
 were done and he had overleaped me in the Dromos." 
 
 Sophanes broke away from the Athenian company 
 which was working at the breach and ran to him. 
 
 "Why, Demos, old fellow," he said rallyingly, "it's not 
 so bad as that. Thou, wouldst not die now — not now!" 
 
 But Aristodemos could no lon^'er see him. He was 
 seeing elsewhere. 
 
THE SA^TXG OF GREECE 459 
 
 He lifted his golden head, all battle stained. His 
 eyes widened with a look of surprise and unutterable love. 
 
 "Hellas," he spoke; not a caU, but a low greeting, as 
 if he had recognized a goddess very near. 
 
 Sophanes laid him back tenderly upon the ground, 
 and so doing, felt a sigh brush his cheek, with which the 
 swift soul took flight. 
 
 He hurried back to the breach. The wall was broken 
 through. The gates were down. Already terrible 
 shrieks were heard within. The slaying did not cease 
 until the last stranger was ridded from the land. 
 
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 
 
 Epilogue 
 
 THE next day two men were walking together upon 
 the battle-field, one with the joy of emancipated 
 Greece radiant upon his face, the other with bent 
 head, as if in a kind of shame. About them were the great 
 mounds of spoil, glittering with rich shields, jewelled 
 swords and spears whose butts were gold and silver 
 pomegranates. The torn and bloody turf on which they 
 walked was already sacred ground. 
 
 "Yet why, Pindar, dost thou grieve?" said the elder 
 man. "Thou art a true lover of Greece. All the world 
 knows thy love." 
 
 " I am a Theban," answered the other. " And Thebes's 
 shame is my shame." 
 
 For Thebes in the great hour of Greece had sided with 
 the Persian and fought against her own flesh and blood. 
 
 "Yes," said Aristides, "Thebes gave thee birth, but 
 Athens gave thee song. Hast any dream how Athens 
 loves thee?" 
 
 460 
 
EPILOGUE 461 
 
 Pindar laid his hand gratefully on Aristides's shoulder. 
 
 "Thou giv'st me heart," he said. "Yes, I will go with 
 thee and look on the dead." 
 
 The Plataean dead! 
 
 Greece was presently to institute the great festival, 
 "Freedom," with games and sacrifices in their honour. 
 They were accounted as gods. 
 
 The two men passed along the row of Athenian dead, soon 
 to be buried in one mound. Then they came to the older 
 Spartans, and finally to that wonderful line of younger 
 Spartan warriors — those trained bodies, newly perfect, 
 yet already harvested for the grave. 
 
 Perhaps it was because the lithe yoimg bodies of the 
 Greeks were browned all over to rich bronze that they 
 looked so beautiful in death; not deathlike, but statue- 
 like, with the added mystery of Thanatos's touch upon 
 them. They lay there upon the ground in wonderful, 
 appealing silence, each upon his battle cloak and in armor, 
 though Kallikrates, because of his beauty, was left naked. 
 
 It was no sad duty, this, to a Greek — to gaze on the 
 heroic dead. 
 
 "They lie so straight and strong," said Pindar. "Ah, 
 happy fellows !" 
 
 Aristides stopped. 
 
 "Saviour Zeus!" he exclaimed, "here is that young, 
 beautiful stranger who came to me at Eleusis. I thought 
 he was an Athenian. But he lies here among the Spartans." 
 
 Pindar looked and with a glad cry fell on his knees 
 beside the quiet body. 
 
 "My friend! My friend!" he cried. "Art thou even 
 here? Oh, this is as thou wouldst wish!" 
 
462 THE SPARTAN 
 
 He laid his hand upon the cold forehead, put back the 
 golden hair and lost himself in contemplation of the fair 
 young face. 
 
 " How he smiles ! Even more beautiful than I thought. 
 Oh, now thou art Lykos's very self!" 
 
 Then, looking up, "Aristides, I would to the gods 
 thou couldst tell me something of this young man!" 
 
 "He told me his name," said Aristides. " — What 
 was it? He said it somewhat proudly, too." Then, as 
 the word came back "Aristodemos," he said, "that was 
 it! Son of " 
 
 "Gylippos?" suggested Pindar keenly. 
 
 "No — no. It was a name I knew in Athens, but the 
 man died long ago. 'Lykos' — thou saidst the name just 
 now thyself!" 
 
 "Aye; and have said it long years, long years!" said 
 Pindar, turning with new love to the dead youth. 
 
 "But," went on Aristides suddenly, "this then must 
 be the man — that Aristodemos who hath been so much 
 argued since the battle. They say he fought most glor- 
 iously of all, deed overtopping deed. Yet the Spartans 
 will not give him any honour. They say he is that man 
 who came back from Thermopylae — the only one of the 
 'Three Hundred '." 
 
 Pindar leaped to his feet in astonishment. 
 
 "And," added Aristides, " they caU him 'The Coward', 
 'Aristodemos the Coward.' And they say he tried to 
 die because his life was of no worth. Yet to me he did 
 not look like a coward." 
 
 "Coward? Coward?" Pindar sounded the word. 
 "Elysium is made of such cowards! Ah, now I see! 
 
EPILPGUE 463 
 
 And was it for this thou didst keep silence at Delphi, 
 — for honour of thy dear father's name ! — I have heard of 
 that story," Pindar added hotly, " but I did not know — 
 The Spartans wanted thee to die like a fool, and the 
 fool was not in thee! And so thou art he! Ah, but they 
 could not keep thee back. Thou hast died now like thy 
 father's son." 
 
 And Pindar knelt again beside the dead, gazing on him 
 in pity and love. Then he rose, plucked a laurel branch, 
 and weaving a crown, crowned the golden head. To 
 Pindar his own praise was a serious and sacred thing. 
 He knew it to be immortal and never gave it without a 
 sort of prayer and a sense of prophetic responsibility. 
 It was his oflBce to honour where honour was due and 
 to sow rebuke on evil-doing. 
 
 At length he said: 
 
 "Sparta will not honour thee. But she needs must 
 let thee lie with her heroes. Do not grieve, true soul. 
 Pindar hath crowned thee, and Pindar's crowns do not 
 die." 
 
 So saying he left him there, smiling still among the dead. 
 
464 
 
Herodotos's Account of Aristodemos 
 
 HERODOTOS, after describing the struggle at the 
 Pass of Thermopylae and the heroism of Leonidas and his 
 Three Hundred Spartans, says : 
 
 "Of these three hundred there were two named Eurytos and 
 Aristodemos, both of whom, if they had agreed together, might 
 have come safe home to Sparta. For they had both been dis- 
 missed from the camp by Leonidas and were lying at Alpenoi 
 suffering extremely with disease of the eyes. Or, if they had not 
 desired to retiun home, they might both have been slain together 
 with the rest. 
 
 "But they could not agree what to do. Eurytos, when he 
 was told that the Persians had got around (by the secret path 
 over the mountain) called for his arms, put them on, and made 
 his Helot lead him (blind as he was) to the fighting. The slave 
 led him in and then fled, while his master plunged into the thick 
 of the fight and perished. Aristodemos was left behind, fainting. 
 
 "Now if Aristodemos had been ill alone and so had returned 
 home to Sparta, or if the men had both come back together, 
 I do not think the Spartans would have been angered. But 
 inasmuch as one of them died on the field, which the other, 
 who was in precisely the same condition, refused to do, the 
 Spartans were naturally greatly incensed at Aristodemos. 
 
 "Thus is the safe return of Aristodemos' to Sparta related 
 and explained. 
 
 "There are some, however, who say that he had been dis- 
 patched on some business from the camp, and that he could, 
 if he had desired, have come up in time for the fighting, but that 
 he lingered on the road and saved his life. They add that his 
 companion reached the battle and was slain. 
 
 "Aristodemos on his return home to Lacedsemon was branded 
 with disgrace and infamy. No Spartan would speak with him, 
 
 465 
 
466 THE SPARTAN 
 
 No one would give him light for his fire. And they continually 
 ' reproached him, calling him always, 'Aristodemosthe Coward,* 
 "Afterwards, however, in the Battle at Plataea, he amply 
 repaired all the guilt that was charged against him." 
 
 (Book VII, 229-232). 
 
 Later, having described the events following Ther- 
 mopylae and Salamis, and especially the freeing of 
 Greece in the conclusive battle at Plataea, Herodotos 
 says: 
 
 "Of the Hellenes, while both the Tegeans and the Athenians 
 proved themselves good men, yet the Lacedsemonians surpassed 
 them in valour. Though I have no other proof of it but this 
 (for all the Hellenes were victorious over their several opponents) 
 that it was they who fought against the strongest part of the 
 enemy's force and overcame it. 
 
 "And the man who in my opinion proved himself by far the 
 bravest of the Spartans was that same Aristodemos who, alone 
 out of the Three Hundred, came back safe from Thermopylee 
 and suffered such reproach and dishonour. 
 
 "After him the best were Poseidonios and Philokyon and 
 Amompharetos the Spartan. 
 
 "But when it was debated which of them had on that day 
 proved himself the most valorous, the Spartans present gave 
 it as their opinion that Aristodemos had evidently wished to 
 be slain in consequence of the charge that lay upon him, and 
 that in an emotion of frenzy he had left his place in the phalanx 
 and performed extraordinary exploits. 
 
 "This, however, the Spartans may have said from some ill 
 will. 
 
 "All those whose names I have mentioned among the men 
 who were killed in this battle were especially honoured, except- 
 ing Aristodemos. To him, for the reason mentioned, no respect 
 was paid. 'Because,' they said, 'he willingly sought death'." 
 
 (Book IX, 71). 
 
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