Part 6 (2/2)

”The harpies eat you, then, if you get too bold! The herald is calling for the javelin-casting. Come,-it's time to make an end.”

But in the deep hush that spread again over the thousands Glaucon turned toward the only faces that he saw out of the innumerable host: Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides, Cimon. They beheld him raise his arm and lift his glorious head yet higher. Glaucon in turn saw Cimon sink into his seat. ”He wakes!” was the appeased mutter pa.s.sing from the son of Miltiades and running along every tier of Athenians. And silence deeper than ever held the stadium; for now, with Lycon victor twice, the literal turning of a finger in the next event might win or lose the parsley crown.

The Spartan came first. The heralds had set a small scarlet s.h.i.+eld at the lower end of the course. Lycon poised his light javelin thrice, and thrice the slim dart sped through the leathern thong on his fingers. But not for glory. Perchance this combat was too delicate an art for his ungainly hands. Twice the missile lodged in the rim of the s.h.i.+eld; once it sprang beyond upon the sand. Mrocles, who followed, surpa.s.sed him. Amyntas was hardly worse. Glaucon came last, and won his victory with a dexterous grace that made all but the hottest Laconian swell the ”_Io! paian!_” of applause. His second cast had been into the centre of the target. His third had splintered his second javelin as it hung quivering.

”Glaucon of Athens wins the javelin-casting. Mrocles of Mantinea is second. Amyntas of Thebes is poorest and drops from the games.” But who heard the herald now?

By this time all save the few Mantineans who vainly clung to their champion, and the Laconians themselves, had begun to pin their hopes on the beautiful son of Conon. There was a steely glint in the Spartan athlete's eye that made the president of the games beckon to the master-herald.

”Lycon is dangerous. See that he does not do Glaucon a mischief, or transgress the rules.”

”I can, till they come to the wrestling.”

”In that the G.o.d must aid the Athenian. But now let us have the foot-race.”

In the little respite following the trainers entered and rubbed down the three remaining contestants with oil until their bodies shone again like tinted ivory. Then the heralds conducted the trio to the southern end farthest from the tents. The two junior presidents left their pulpit and took post at either end of a line marked on the sand. Each held the end of a taut rope. The contestants drew lots from an urn for the place nearest the lower turning goal,-no trifling advantage. A favouring G.o.d gave Mrocles the first; Lycon was second; Glaucon only third. As the three crouched before the rope with hands dug into the sand, waiting the fateful signal, Glaucon was conscious that a strange blond man of n.o.ble mien and Oriental dress was sitting close by the starting line and watching him intently.

It was one of those moments of strain, when even trifles can turn the overwrought attention. Glaucon knew that the stranger was looking from him to Lycon, from Lycon back to himself, measuring each with shrewd eye. Then the gaze settled on the Athenian. The Oriental called to him:-

”Swift, G.o.dlike runner, swift;”-they were so close they could catch the Eastern accent-”the Most High give you His wings!”

Glaucon saw Lycon turn on the shouter with a scowl that was answered by a composed smile. To the highly strung imagination of the Athenian the wish became an omen of good. For some unknown cause the incident of the Oriental lad he rescued and the mysterious gift of the bracelet flashed back to him. Why should a stranger of the East cast him fair wishes? Would the riddle ever be revealed?

A trumpet blast. The Oriental, his wish, all else save the tawny track, flashed from Glaucon's mind. The rope fell. The three shot away as one.

Over the sand they flew, moving by quick leaps, their s.h.i.+ning arms flas.h.i.+ng to and fro in fair rhythm. Twice around the stadium led the race, so no one strained at first. For a while the three clung together, until near the lower goal the Mantinean heedlessly risked a dash. His foot slipped on the sands. He recovered; but like arrows his rivals pa.s.sed him.

At the goal the inevitable happened. Lycon, with the shorter turn, swung quickest. He went up the homeward track ahead, the Athenian an elbow's length behind. The stadium seemed dissolving in a tumult. Men rose; threw garments in the air; stretched out their arms; besought the G.o.ds; screamed to the runners.

”Speed, son of Conon, speed!”

”Glory to Castor; Sparta is prevailing!”

”Strive, Mantinean,-still a chance!”

”Win the turn, dear Athenian, the turn, and leave that Cyclops behind!”

But at the upper turn Lycon still held advantage, and down the other track went the twain, even as Odysseus ran behind Ajax, ”who trod in Ajax'

footsteps ere ever the dust had settled, while on his head fell the breath of him behind.” Again at the lower goal the Mantinean was panting wearily in the rear. Again Lycon led, again rose the tempest of voices. Six hundred feet away the presidents were stretching the line, where victory and the plaudits of h.e.l.las waited Lycon of Lacedaemon.

Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. They saw Glaucon's shoulders bend lower and his neck strain back, while the sunlight sprang all over his red-gold hair. The stadium leaped to their feet, as the Athenian landed by a bound at his rival's side. Quick as the bound the great arm of the Spartan flew out with its knotted fist. A deadly stroke, and shunned by a hair's-breadth; but it was shunned. The senior president called angrily to the herald; but none heard his words in the rending din.

The twain shot up the track elbow to elbow, and into the rope. It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust. All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence.

”Glaucon of Athens wins the foot-race. Lycon of Sparta is second. Mrocles of Mantinea drops from the contest. Glaucon and Lycon, each winning twice, shall wrestle for the final victory.”

And now the stadium grew exceeding still. Men lifted their hands to their favourite G.o.ds, and made reckless, if silent, vows,-geese, pigs, tripods, even oxen,-if only the deity would strengthen their favourite's arm. For the first time attention was centred on the tall ”time pointer,” by the judges' stand, and how the short shadow cast by the staff told of the end of the morning. The last wagers were recorded on the tablets by nervous styluses. The readiest tongues ceased to chatter. Thousands of wistful eyes turned from the elegant form of the Athenian to the burly form of the Spartan. Every outward chance, so many an anxious heart told itself, favoured the oft-victorious giant; but then,-and here came reason for a true h.e.l.lene,-”the G.o.ds could not suffer so fair a man to meet defeat.”

The noonday sun beat down fiercely. The tense stillness was now and then broken by the bawling of a swarthy hawker thrusting himself amid the spectators with cups and a jar of sour wine. There was a long rest. The trainers came forward again and dusted the two remaining champions with sand that they might grip fairly. Pytheas looked keenly in his pupil's face.

<script>