down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads--could
faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose?
Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet--so
swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus--lift so heavily?

As a flash it came over him what he had endured,--the slow agony on the
_Bozra_, the bursting of the bands, the fight for life, the scene with
Themistocles, the sleepless night on the trireme. Now he was running as
the wild hare runs before the baying chase. Could it be that all this race
was vain?

"For Hellas! For Hermione!"

Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him
misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and
hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain
shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat
motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.

"Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I
cannot fail."

It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars
of gold above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon
his forehead. Before his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some
kind destiny set a stout pole upright in the field,--perhaps for vines to
clamber,--he clutched it, and stood until his sight cleared and the pain a
little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the roadway.
He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast
comfort,--if there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none
before dawn. But he had still weary stadia before him, and running was out
of the question. Ever and anon he would stop his hobbling, take air, and
stare at the vague tracery of the hills,--Cithaeron to southward, Helicon to
west, and northward the wide dark Theban plain. He gave up counting how
many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic words, "For
Hellas! For Hermione!" and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even
the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last--he
guessed it was nearly midnight--he caught once more the flashings of a
shallow river and the dim outlines of shrubbery beside the bank--again the
Asopus. He must take care or he would wander straight into Mardonius's
camp. Therefore he stopped awhile, drank the cool water, and let the
stream purl around his burning foot. Then he