ules of the wrestling,--two casts out of three
gave victory. In lower tone he addressed the scowling Spartan:--

"Lycon, I warn you: earn the crown only fairly, if you would earn it. Had
that blow in the foot-race struck home, I would have refused you victory,
though you finished all alone."

A surly nod was the sole answer.

The heralds led the twain a little way from the judges' stand, and set
them ten paces asunder and in sight of all the thousands. The heralds
stood, crossing their myrtle wands between. The president rose on his
pulpit, and called through the absolute hush:--

"Prepared, Spartan?"

"Yes."

"Prepared, Athenian?"

"Yes."

"Then Poseidon shed glory on the best!"

His uplifted wand fell. A clear shrill trumpet pealed. The heralds bounded
back in a twinkling. In that twinkling the combatants leaped into each
other's arms. A short grapple; again a sand cloud; and both were rising
from the ground. They had fallen together. Heated by conflict, they were
locked again ere the heralds could proclaim a tie. Cimon saw the great
arms of the Spartan twine around the Athenian's chest in fair grapple, but
even as Lycon strove with all his bull-like might to lift and throw,
Glaucon's slim hand glided down beneath his opponent's thigh. Twice the
Spartan put forth all his powers. Those nearest watched the veins of the
athletes swell and heard their hard muscles crack. The stadium was in
succession hushed and tumultuous. Then, at the third trial, even as Lycon
seemed to have won his end, the Athenian smote out with one foot. The
sands were slippery. The huge Laconian lunged forward, and as he lunged,
his opponent by a masterly effort tore himself loose. The Spartan fell
heavily,--vanquished by a trick, though fairly used.

The stadium thundered its applause. More vows, prayers, exhortations.
Glaucon stood and received all the homage in silence. A little flush was
on his forehead. His arms and shoulders were very red. Lycon rose slowly.
All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain
himself.

"Now, fox of Athens," rang his shout, "I will kill you!"

Pytheas, beholding his fury, tore out a handful of hair in his mingled
hope and dread. No man knew better than the trainer that no trick would
conquer Lycon this second time; and Glaucon the Fair might be nearer the
fields of Asphodel than the pleasant hills by Athens. More than one man
had died in the last ordeal of the pentathlon.

T