nks of the
bowmen. Battle he would give, but it must be cautious battle now, and he
did not love the silence which reigned among the motionless lines of the
Spartans.

It was bright day at last. The two armies--the whole strength of the
Barbarian, the Spartans with only their Tegean allies--stood facing, as
athletes measuring strength before the grapple. The Spartan line was
thinner than Mardonius's: no cavalry, few bowmen, but shield was set
beside shield, and everywhere tossed the black and scarlet plumes of the
helmets. Men who remembered Thermopylae gripped their spear-stocks tighter.
No long postponing now. On this narrow field, this bit of pebble and
greensward, the gods would cast the last dice for the destiny of Hellas.
All knew that.

The stolidity of the Spartans was maddening. They stood like bronze
statues. In clear view at the front was a tall man in scarlet chlamys, and
two more in white,--Pausanias and his seers examining the entrails of
doves, seeking a fair omen for the battle. Mardonius drew the turban lower
over his eyes.

"An end to this truce. Begin your arrows."

A cloud of bolts answered him. The Persian archers emptied their quivers.
They could see men falling among the foe, but still Pausanias stood beside
the seers, still he gave no signal to advance. The omens doubtless were
unfavourable. His men never shifted a foot as the storm of death flew over
them. Their rigidity was more terrifying than any battle-shout. What were
these men whose iron discipline bound so fast that they could be pelted to
death, and no eyelash seem to quiver? The archers renewed their volley.
They shot against a rock. The Barbarians joined in one rending yell,--their
answer was silence.

Deliberately, arrows dropping around him as tree-blossoms in the gale,
Pausanias raised his hand. The omens were good. The gods permitted battle.
Deliberately, while men fell dying, he walked to his post on the right
wing. Deliberately, while heaven seemed shaking with the Barbarians'
clamour, his hand went up again. Through a lull in the tumult pealed a
trumpet. _Then the Spartans marched._

Slowly their lines of bristling spear-points and nodding crests moved on
like the sea-waves. Shrill above the booming Tartar drums, the blaring
Persian war-horns pierced the screams of their pipers. And the Barbarians
heard that which had never met their ears before,--the chanting of their
foes as the long line crept nearer.

"Ah!--la--la--