“I am sure you would prove an excellent symposiarch,” courteously replied the host, “but we will tonight follow the usual custom and cast lots for that service.”

The lot fell to Masistius before whom the servants placed a large ornate mixing bowl upon a handsome golden salver. In accordance with his practice of moderation in all things, Masistius used three parts of water to two of wine, much to the disgust of Artabazus and a few others present.

“Masistius,” called Artabazus, “this may be the last wine we drink here on earth, so beware of mixing frog’s wine. Make it strong enough for us to forget in it the threatening dangers of tomorrow. Add some more of that which our host says comes from Lesbos!”

The symposiarch ignored the latter’s remarks. His large, well-built frame, as he performed his task, attracted the attention of all the banqueters.

“If he attains such superb physique with three parts of water and two of wine, we can do no better than to follow his example,” said one.

“It is said there is none braver among the men of the cavalry,” remarked another.

To all this conversation, Zopyrus was a silent listener. His eyes rested with fond approval upon the manly form of his friend Masistius. He watched closely the frank, open countenance and was well pleased with the jovial, but at the same time, dignified demeanor. How would it fare with Masistius on the morrow? Of himself he did not think. He was presently aware that Artabazus was addressing the banqueters generally.

“You Greeks actually do not seem to miss the presence of women at your banquets! Now to me, for my tastes are so refined, the presence of feminine beauty adds a charm for which no amount of flowers, birds or music can substitute.”

The Greek Asopodorus now spoke, and his voice in contrast to the raucous accents of the Persian, fell pleasingly upon the ears of the feasters. “We Greeks believe in a unit of love in which love of beauty, of wealth, sensual love, intellectual love and many others are but earthly modifications of the true and the good. Thus a love which satisfies the æsthetic can take as great delight in the manly strength of a youth’s body as in the graceful, softer lines of a woman’s form.”

“Ah,” thought Zopyrus, “Many of these Greeks think and feel as Asopodorus. Their adoration of loveliness in any form is their outstanding characteristic. They love the beauty of this earthly paradise in which they dwell, yet because they love power less, they are turning over their beautiful land to foreigners. If I had only been born a Greek!”

He glanced at Thersander. “I am half Greek, and may the gods smite me if I do not look more Greek than this fellow near me! If it were not for Masistius whom I love as a brother, I believe I should not tolerate seeing this fair land over-run by such as Artabazus and many another eastern despot.”

Although the wine was not strong enough to intoxicate if taken in moderation, the spirits of many of the guests were rising as the evening wore on, owing to excessive drinking. At length six girls, whose hair was entwined with daisies, appeared at the entrance to the court. Each held a lyre and sang as she moved lightly on tip-toe between the tables. They were modestly attired so as not to offend the taste of the most fastidious, for Attaginus was a conservative man and much respected in Thebes.

“So much for your love of the æsthetic, Attaginus,” laughed Mardonius, winking at the Theban. “In accordance with your theory why did you not have some handsome youths dance with the lyre?”

“Because,” replied Attaginus, “the male figure does not appear as well in a dance, but I could have put on a wrestling match that I think would well have pleased my guests.”

“The girls will prove far better entertainers,” said Artabazus, who had overheard the conversation, “but why are their charms so hidden? They might better be a group of priestesses than dancers amid the revelry and loud clamor of a banquet!”

The evening wore on in this fashion, the feasters trying to out-rival one another in attracting the attention of the six damsels. When the singing and dancing were at an end and the maidens had disappeared, the conversation turned to the more serious matters of the approaching battle. Mardonius spoke.

“The Athenians will regret their refusal to form an alliance with us against the Peleponnesians. Remember Thermopylæ, my friend and do not forget that Salamis was a naval battle. Athens’ powerful navy will avail her naught in the approaching conflict.”

“Your great leader speaks most encouragingly, my friend,” said Thersander addressing Zopyrus, “wherefore are you so downcast?”

Zopyrus paused a moment before replying, then said in a voice low enough to be audible only to his companion:

“Since you have now partaken with me at the same table, I desire to leave with you some memorial of my convictions: the rather in order that you may be yourself forewarned so as to take the best counsel for your own safety. Do you see these Persians here feasting, and did you observe the army which we left yonder encamped near the river? Yet a little while, and out of all these you will behold but a few surviving!”

Thersander replied. “Surely you are bound to reveal this to Mardonius and to his confidential advisers!”

But the Persian rejoined. “My friend, man can not avert that which God has decreed to come. No one will believe the revelation, sure though it be. Many of us Persians know this well, and are here serving only under the bond of necessity. And truly this is the most hateful of all human suffering—to be full of knowledge and at the same time to have no power over any result.”

Zopyrus was himself amazed at his own frank outburst. Many times had he longed thus to express himself, and so he had revealed to Thersander what he dared not to his friend Masistius. The east was kindling into a glorious day as the banqueters took leave of their host, Attaginus.

CHAPTER VIII.
Masistius’ Message to Zopyrus.

Platæa lay on the northern slope of beautiful Mt. Cithæron at the foot of which wound the picturesque river Asopus. On this day in midsummer, four hundred and seventy-nine B. C., three hundred thousand Persians and fifty thousand Greek allies were encamped on the north bank of the river while the confederate Greek army which numbered one hundred and ten thousand, waited for the Persian attack on the slopes of Cithæron. Because of unfavorable advice from soothsayers, both sides hesitated to commence the assault.

After several days of suspense, Mardonius summoned his soothsayer to his tent, the same tent occupied by Xerxes before his return to Asia. The general sat before a table gazing steadfastly at a parchment which was spread before him. The soothsayer bowed and approached Mardonius.

“Did you send for me, my lord?” he asked.

Mardonius lifted a face that was strangely pale and haggard. “Aye, Hegesistratus, I would know the latest signs.”

“It grieves me that the signs are all unfavorable, especially in the case of an initiative on the Persian side,” replied the soothsayer.

Mardonius frowned. “Can you not tell us what it were best to do? If you can not I shall find a man who can.”

“My lord,” replied Hegesistratus, “I have examined closely the entrails of every sacrificial animal, and the signs are the same. Would you know the truth? I am here to tell you, no matter what that truth may be.”

Mardonius leaned forward clutching the table until the knuckles of his hands were white. “Tell me, Hegesistratus, am I in imminent danger?”

The seer turned his face slowly away and made no reply.

“Speak, dog, or your head will be forfeit!” cried the wrathful general.

“Then if you must needs know,” responded the reluctant prophet, “you are in grave danger.”

“Is there no hope?” asked Mardonius turning very pale.

“All men pass through certain periods of danger and such a one is now imminent for you, my lord, but the time of no man’s death is absolutely fated and mayhap this crisis will pass!”

“Depart and send Masistius to me at once,” said the leader in great agitation.

A few moment later the tent folds parted, admitting the gigantic form of the cavalryman. The sight of the heroic figure seemed to cheer Mardonius, for in place of his customary tones of peremptory command, he spoke informally, even affectionately to the brave Persian.

“Masistius I have decided to delay no longer, for provisions are low. It is my wish that you lead the Persian cavalry in an offensive. We number three times the enemy, therefore why delay longer?”

“All that a true soldier wants to know is that he understands his orders. Your slightest wish is a command, Mardonius. I shall go at once.”

“You are a brave man, Masistius. Ask what you will after this encounter, and it shall be granted you. I will show Hegesistratus what little faith I put in his soothsaying!”

A few hours after this Masistius approached Zopyrus, calling him away from a group of soldiers with whom he was conversing.

“Zopyrus, I go shortly to charge the enemy and if the gods will that I do not return, read this and obey its instructions.” So saying he thrust into his friend’s hand a bit of parchment. A few seconds fraught with emotion and Masistius strode off to obey his superior’s orders.

When the Athenians observed the approach of the Persian cavalry they descended to the plain below. Zopyrus stood, a tense figure, behind the barracks. His bosom swelled with pride as he watched the manly form of Masistius mounted on a black charger, likewise of huge proportions.

“Now if I but knew the secret power of the maiden’s prayer!” thought he.

Riding rapidly at the head of the Greek cavalry was the Athenian Olympiodorus, a white steed bearing him to the scene of conflict. He was not a man of large frame, but his attitude of calm self-reliance and his military bearing gave promise to Masistius that here was an opponent worthy of the utmost exertion of belligerent mettle. On came the two principal antagonists, the distance between them steadily decreasing. At last they met with a clash of weapons.

The Greek was successful in parrying the stroke of the Persian. With exceptional agility he dodged now this way, now that, bringing to naught the superior strength of his antagonist. At length Olympiodorus began losing ground. His muscles were tiring under the continued strain of warding off his opponent’s thrust. Just when it would seem that Masistius could make the final stab, another horseman rode up to the assistance of Olympiodorus. In this unequal conflict Masistius felt himself a loser. He wondered why his friends did not come to his aid, but was vaguely conscious that they were busily engaged in battle. Still he labored on parrying each thrust till he relaxed in complete exhaustion and a second later fell as the sword of Olympidiorus’ helper pierced his vitals. So perished Masistius, one of the bravest of Mardonius’ soldiers.

From his position behind the bulwarks, Zopyrus witnessed the death of his dearest friend. He stood for a moment as one in a stupor. His consciousness seemed gradually to weaken, flicker and die out, then a new spirit appeared to take hold of him and slowly gain predominance. After struggling for months with indecision which was gradually destroying his willpower, the right course for him to take became unquestionably apparent. He realized that since the defeat at Salamis, Masistius had been the only bond that held him to the Persian despot whose many acts of atrocity he had viewed with growing aversion. The influence of his Greek mother had at last gained undeniable supremacy. She had taught him while it is manly to love one’s country, it is God-like to love the world.

It was a new Zopyrus who turned and with resolute steps sought the seclusion of his tent. With deferential fingers he touched the note which his departed friend had given him and perused it with eyes moist with unshed tears. It ran as follows:

“To Zopyrus greetings—When you read this, my dear friend, you will know that I am no longer among the living. My one regret is that I can not carry out in the body that which I planned. Would it be asking too much of you, my friend and comrade, to undertake that which death makes impossible of accomplishment? Do you remember the eve of the Theban’s banquet when you confessed to me that you loved a Greek maiden, whom you returned unharmed to her people? I did not then tell you that a somewhat similar experience has been mine. But to make this clear to you, I must go back to that moment upon the Acropolis in Athens when Xerxes gave to you the girl whom Artabazus had seized. If you were not too busy with your own affairs you will remember that after granting this maid to you, Xerxes then told Artabazus to take the other girl. I happened to be standing beside Artabazus at the time, and never shall I forget the agonized expression upon the Greek maid’s face as she felt herself seized by the Persian. I understand and speak Greek but poorly, yet I knew what she said. Observing that I did not enter into the course jests of the other soldiers, she pled with me to save her from Artabazus, a thing I would willingly have attempted had it been at all possible.

“The memory of her naturally fair face distorted in the agony of fear, haunted me and I resolved to attempt a rescue. I knew she was confined in a tent to the rear of that of Artabazus where a number of Persian women were kept under guard of a eunuch. I passed by the tent often that evening under pretext of official duty beyond. At last I was rewarded by the sight of a piece of parchment slipped under a fold of the tent. I placed my foot upon it while I looked about to be assured no one had witnessed the passing of the note which read:

“‘I am a prisoner in the harem of Artabazus. Can you save me? Artabazus has promised not to harm me till after the encounter between Greeks and Persians. This promise was wrung from him principally through the efforts of a jealous Persian woman who threatened my life. He and she made a compromise, the result of which was that I should be forced to surrender myself to him immediately after the next conflict regardless of which side came through victorious. If you can rescue me before the close of another battle, I will owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay—Ladice.’

“As you are aware, Zopyrus, this occurred at Phalerum, and since then Persians and Greeks have not met in conflict until now. I have had other occasions during the ten months of our sojourn in Thessaly to secretly communicate with Ladice, and in each of her messages she has assured me of the strict manner in which his favorite mistress forces Artabazus to abide by his word. During this time I felt my heart undergoing a change from pity to love for this Greek girl who was so dependent upon my mercy, and upon one occasion I grew bold enough to write in words my adoration and hopes for the future. Her answer the next day contained the happy news that my love was returned, and I planned on a rescue during the next conflict, stating that I believed our communications had better cease in order to decrease the possibility of further danger. She told me that she believed Pædime, the jealous paramour of Artabazus, had suspected the exchange of our notes, but realizing it to be to her advantage to allow Ladice to escape, she had maintained a discreet silence.

“This then is the situation that I leave and that I trust my friend Zopyrus to take up where fate has forced me to leave it. May the good-will of Ahura-Mazdâo follow you in all your efforts throughout life—Masistius.”

The changed Zopyrus sat a moment buried in deepest thought. Without he heard the noises which accompany preparation for battle. He hurried forth into the open.

“What are Mardonius’ orders?” he asked of the first soldier he saw.

“Look for yourself,” cried the fellow excitedly, “and you will know what his orders must be.”

Zopyrus turned his gaze to the slopes of Cithæron and saw that the Greeks who had held back reservedly were now, emboldened by the death of a prominent opponent, pouring down the verdant hillside. The well-aimed arrows of the Persians, however, kept them at bay.

Zopyrus spied several of the Persian leaders in heated argument. As he approached, the Theban, Timegenidas, was speaking.

“You know well, Mardonius, that their water supply from the Asopus river is completely cut off. Where are they able to get water?”

“I have just been informed,” replied the leader, “that they are getting water from a fountain called Gargaphia, yonder,” and he pointed to the east. “Will you, Zopyrus, investigate this fountain? Take another man with you this very night and see if it will be possible to fill the fountain with dirt and stones. If we can do this we may well be sanguine of success.”

The commander turned to Artabazus. “Does the plan meet with your approval, Artabazus?” he asked.

“Entirely, Mardonius. I am weary of warfare and only too glad to try any plan that may bring the quickest results.”

To Zopyrus only did this remark have any special significance. He knew that Artabazus was thinking of the fair captive whom he was to possess as soon as the battle was over.

“There,” cried Zopyrus, “the Greeks are retreating. Our arrows have held them in check. At this time tomorrow there will be a surprise in store!”

It was true. The Greeks were fleeing from the open plain to the shady recesses of the mountain, there to rally for a renewed defense on the morrow.

* * * * * * * *

On the silken covers of a couch in a remote corner of the tent which was occupied by the women of the harem of Artabazus, lay the grief-stricken form of the Greek captive, Ladice. She had been informed of the death of Masistius, and with that realization had come also the awful knowledge that soon she would be the property of the Persian Artabazus, whose lewdness was the common talk of the camp. Her brows were delicately arched and her long lashes swept her cheeks meeting the flush of color brought to her face as a result of hours of feverish weeping. Her hair, brown with a gleam of copper, hung over her partially bare shoulders.

Hovering above her with contemptuous gaze, was the Persian girl, Phædime, the reigning queen of Artabazus’ harem until the close of the battle of Platæa. Her full lips were twisted into a sneer, and there was a venomous light in the almond-shaped eyes of jet. Her blue-black hair was parted above a low white brow and hung in long, thick, glossy braids over her shoulders.

“So your lover is dead!” she said tauntingly. “You can not regret that fact more than I, for I had hoped to see him take you away from Artabazus, but Artabazus is mine, do you hear? Do you think I can bear to see you in his arms? I have promised not to kill you, but I will try to assist you to escape if you can do so without these others knowing what I have done.” She indicated the other women in the tent.

“It is impossible,” sobbed Ladice. “The eyes of that hideous eunuch are forever upon me and there are armed guards without.”

Phædime bent over the prostrate form in a more menacing attitude.

“I believe you do not want to go,” she said between closed teeth, “but I will make it so unpleasant for you here that you will be glad to go even if suicide offers the only hope for escape. Mark my words well, for I make no idle threats!” With which words she left the unhappy Greek prisoner.

CHAPTER IX.
The Rescue of Ladice.

Now in the fitful lurid glow of a hundred campfires, now in the gloomy shadows of tents or trees, Zopyrus crept stealthily toward the tent of Artabazus. It was approaching midnight, and with the exception of the occupants of Mardonius’ tent, the Persians slept, many of them for the last time before their eternal rest. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since Zopyrus had quitted the tent of Mardonius, leaving the Persian and Theban leaders in a heated discussion pertaining to the morrow’s battle. He felt assured that affairs of war would detain Artabazus for at least a half hour and possibly longer. The tent of Artabazus, though at no great distance from that of Mardonius, was difficult of access, and Zopyrus realized that his work must be accomplished not only swiftly, but silently as well.

A guard walking back and forth before the entrance to the women’s tent was the only living soul visible; his measured tread the only sound audible. Zopyrus stood like an inanimate object beside a low bush near the tent. He watched the guard for some time, studying the opportune moment to spring. Now the fellow’s march brought him so close to the hidden figure that the latter had but to reach forth his hand—A muffled cry of bewilderment, a brief struggle, a suppressed groan of agony, and Zopyrus leaped over the prostrate form and entered the tent of the women.

The eunuch, a creature of repulsive form and malignant countenance, stood just within the entrance. The noise of the struggle, brief and silent though it was, had reached his ears. With the stealth and agility of a panther he approached and leaped upon his prey as the latter entered. With dagger raised aloft he would have dealt a fatal blow had not Phædime with the strength of an Amazon, held his arm as it was about to descend.

“Wait, Amorges,” she cried, “do not harm this man till we learn his mission!” Turning to Zopyrus she said, “Speak stranger, what would you in the harem of Artabazus?”

Zopyrus glanced quickly about him at the silken hangings richly broidered; at the heavy woven tapestries which adorned the sides of the tent; at panels composed of the variegated plumage of birds, and gloriously flashing jewels; the beautifully gowned women who surveyed him with unabashed curiosity, their shining black eyes flashing their appreciation of the unusual over the tops of fans of ostrich feathers. He turned again to Phædime.

“I seek one Ladice by name, a Greek girl brought here against her will.”

“Just a moment, I will bring her.” To the eunuch she whispered aside, “I will fetch a gag. Do not touch him yet.”

She returned shortly with Ladice whose appearance of unutterable wretchedness wrung Zopyrus’ heart.

“This officer says he has come to take you away, Ladice,” said Phædime giving a sidelong glance at the girl to observe her reception of the news.

The Greek maiden took a step forward, gazing earnestly into Zopyrus’ face. “It is not he, no it is not he! But tell me he is not dead!”

Zopyrus spoke gently, “I must confirm the ill news, fair maiden. Masistius died heroically on the field of battle and I am to succeed him in an attempt to rescue you.”

Amorges and Phædime exchanged glances, the former intimating by a nod that it was time to produce the gag, but Phædime still hesitated, for the girl, Ladice, flung herself with a sob at Zopyrus’ feet.

“It can’t be true,” she cried, “I loved him and he promised to return, oh tell me it isn’t true!”

Zopyrus gazed with compassion into the tear-stained face as he replied: “It is indeed true, but tell me, do you really wish to escape from the clutches of Artabazus?”

The girl glanced furtively about her in horror as if she expected to see the odious form conjured before her at the mention of his name.

“Yes, I will do anything to escape from him and if——” but her words were cut short by a muffled cry of terror.

Phædime had seized the eunuch and forced the gag into his mouth. “Come, help me bind him!” she called loudly to Zopyrus.

It was the work of a few moments, and when they were finished, poor Amorges lay in one corner of the tent, prone and helpless.

“You may depend upon me to help you in this project,” Phædime said to Zopyrus. “It is necessary to lay bare to you the secrets of a woman’s heart. I love Artabazus, and in his affections I have held first place till this Greek girl,” (here she cast a scornful glance at Ladice), “was brought here, and after this battle was fought she would have been his. You see it is to my interest to get her away and to that end I will lend you my assistance. Perhaps we had better kill the eunuch to be assured of our safety. What say you?”

Amorges’ eyes fairly started out of their sockets as the two approached. Seeing that the threat had proved effectual, Phædime spurned the defenceless body with her foot and asked: “Will you intimate to Artabazus upon his return that violence was done you by the soldier who rescued Ladice, and that I tried to help you?”

The wretched fellow indicated affirmation as well as his bonds permitted and Phædime turned to Zopyrus and Ladice.

“Now go and may success crown your efforts.”

“Before we go,” said Zopyrus to Ladice, “you must don this garb to facilitate our escape.”

He held out to her a bundle of dark clothing. The girl withdrew to an adjoining chamber and soon appeared in the uniform of a Persian foot-soldier.

“Your disguise is excellent,” exclaimed Zopyrus delightedly, “now let us hasten,” and with a brief expression of gratitude to Phædime for her share in the escape, he and Ladice took a hasty departure.

Only the glowing embers of camp-fires remained. The flickering deceptive shadows that had annoyed Zopyrus in his approach to the harem-tent had disappeared, and in their stead the encampment lay around the fugitives in the tranquil light of a full moon, the white tents gleaming like snow-covered hillocks. Already the Persian felt that this omen presaged success. They threaded the narrow alleys which separated the tents in silence so as not to betray their presence, and arrived without mishap at an intersection of alleys, about thirty yards from the tent of Mardonius.

“Let us turn to the left here,” whispered Zopyrus, “and thus avoid passing Mardonius’ tent.”

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when the sound of footsteps and low talking broke the silence.

“What is your hurry? Why will you not abide the night with Mardonius till we decide whether or not it is advisable to attempt to cut off the Greek reinforcements?” questioned the voice of Asopodorus.

Then to the horror of the fugitives, the voice of Artabazus made answer.

“Tomorrow will be time enough for that. I am weary of consultations of war, and who knows if I be living tomorrow at this time! I have a fair Greek captive who will this night help me to forget the dangers of the morrow, and to her I now go despite my promises to await the close of battle.”

It was now too late to turn without arousing the suspicion of the approaching Artabazus. Zopyrus could feel the trembling hand of the girl upon his arm.

“Have courage,” he whispered, “and say not a word.”

Artabazus’ features expressed surprise at meeting anyone at this time of the night.

“Well if it isn’t Zopyrus! Have you turned somnambulist?” he asked jocosely, but with a hint of mistrust in his voice.

“You forget, Artabazus, the task I am this night to perform at the fountain of Gargaphia. By the time I reach its vicinity the moon will be low.”

“To be sure I remember now, but whom have you with you?” questioned the officer curiously.

“Mardonius bade me take a man with me, and this youth wished to go,” replied Zopyrus with an air of indifference.

Artabazus looked disapprovingly at the slight figure of the foot-soldier.

“He doesn’t look very capable,” he remarked.

“Nevertheless he is courageous, and though young, I decided to try him out.”

“What is your name?” asked Artabazus of the silent figure.

The question took Zopyrus completely by surprise, but with joy he observed that Ladice maintained discreet silence.

“His name is Ladisius,” answered Zopyrus, “and now if you will permit, we must be on our way, for a great deal depends upon this mission.”

As soon as Artabazus was out of hearing, Zopyrus said to his companion. “That was indeed a narrow escape and now we must hasten with all possible speed, for Artabazus will begin pursuit as soon as he learns of your escape.”

“Halt! Give the password,” demanded the sentry at the edge of the encampment.

Zopyrus easily made known his identity to the sentinel who was apprised of his mission to Gargaphia. Once beyond the confines of the camp the two breathed more freely. The soft breeze which fanned their cheeks was laden with the vernal odors of field and forest. The meadows through which they sped, were dotted with field lilies and asphodel, myriads of them, their white blossoms gleaming from the grass like the stars from the heavens till it seemed to the fugitives that in their flight earth and sky had changed places and that they trod the milky-way.

“How far is it to the fountain of Gargaphia?” asked Ladice after they had gone for some time in silence.

Zopyrus paused a moment, scanning his companion’s face to ascertain whether or not she had put her question seriously. Assured that she was in earnest, he continued his pace, talking the while.

“You are not with a Persian soldier as you suppose, my little friend. Zopyrus, the Persian, ceased to exist when he witnessed the death of his comrade, Masistius. My father was a Persian, satrap of Sardis, my mother a Greek whose parents were Athenians. My environment forced me to don uniform and follow the Persian king, but the natural heritage from my mother, and her early tutelage, caused my soul to cry out continually against the actions of my body. For months I was a prey of weakness and indecision. My every act was accomplished after agonizing periods of vacillation. My will-power was being destroyed and though cognizant of the fact, I seemed powerless to retrieve the volition I once possessed. With the death of Masistius all bonds of honor with the Persians seemed severed, and I pledged myself to save Athens if it were not already too late. If I seem a traitor in your eyes, judge me not too harshly. Gold is not my motive, for I shall be poorer for this choice I have made; safety is no object, for I intend to make atonement by wielding the sword in the Greek cause. Have I convinced you, fair maid, that my incentives are pure, and that I do well to allow this determination to supercede my former hesitancy?”

He was satisfied with her ready nod of assent. At last they reached the entrance to Oak Heads pass, by which means they would be enabled to cross Mt. Cithæron. Their progress was greatly impeded by the dense tangle of underbrush. The branches of trees met overhead, forming a canopy of foliage so thick that the moon’s beams could not penetrate. For hours the crackling of twigs underfoot, and an occasional hoot from some night-owl were the only sounds that disturbed the tranquility of the night.

Suddenly Ladice stopped and asked abruptly: “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” replied her companion, “I heard a slight sound, but I think it is a prowling beast on some nocturnal journey. Stay close and keep your hand upon your dagger for you may have to use it.”

Scarcely had he ceased to speak before a command in Greek was given to halt and give the password. Before Ladice could realize what had happened, she heard the sounds of struggle. Her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could faintly discern the gleam of weapons, but she dared not strike for she could not distinguish between the antagonists. She soon realized that they were not fighting near her, and a sudden fear seized her; they might miss their footing and slip over the edge of the declivity! She decided to raise her voice in warning, when the unmistakable sound of breaking twigs and loosened stones rolling down the precipice, convinced her that her worst fears were an actuality. Stunned with horror she stood for some time unable to decide what to do. At last dreading that Artabazus might by now be well on his way in pursuit of her, she pressed on in an agony of fear. The foliage was now a little thinner and she could see the first faint glow of dawn in the sky. Her physical progress was more rapid, but mentally she was stupified by the horror of her rescuer’s fate, and she did not hear the sounds of approaching footsteps till they were immediately behind her.

Her first expression was one of relief that her pursuer was not Artabazus, but she observed with chagrin that he wore a Greek uniform. Raising her eyes half fearfully to his face she uttered an exclamation of joy. It was Zopyrus!

“I am glad I did not have to kill the fellow to get this uniform, for I am a Greek. His neck was broken in the fall and as for me—” he pointed to his right arm which hung useless by his side, “I’m afraid I shall not be of much service to Greece!”

Ladice opened her knapsack and tore from her dress a strip with which she dexterously bandaged the broken member. This done, she discarded the Persian uniform for the torn dress and together they descended the southern slope of Mt. Cithæron as the roseate hues of morning gradually melted away into bright daylight.

CHAPTER X.
A Venture At the Eve of Battle.

Artabazus’ steps were directed to the tent of the women. With heavy tread he strode in the panoply of war. At the corner of the tent his foot came in rough contact with a soft object and to his amazement he discovered it to be the body of his guard. A hasty examination assured him that the body was lifeless. Filled with forebodings, he hastily parted the flaps and gazed within the tent. His eyes first fell upon the prostrate form of his eunuch, then with a swift glance he surveyed the women, and he knew what had taken place during his absence.

White with fury he cried, “Where is the Greek girl?”

His appearance in his wrathful state was so forbidding that not one of the women ventured to make reply. Upon receiving no response, Artabazus turned to Phædime, whereupon his favorite, with an assumption of her usual self assurance, made bold to answer.

“A Persian officer killed the guard, bound Amorges here, and bore Ladice away with him. Is it not so?” Phædime turned to her fair companions to confirm her words, confident in her position as favorite.

All readily affirmed the escape as stated by Phædime with the exception of a small oval-faced beauty with shining black hair and ruddy lips, that would not refuse to smile at her master even in his state of demoniac anger.

“What say you, Parysatis?” questioned the officer, noting her refusal to corroborate Phædime’s words.

“If my master would know the truth,” smiled Parysatis, “Phædime herself allowed the Greek girl to be taken away.”

An ominous silence of horror pervaded the tent for a moment while all eyes were turned to Artabazus, who in livid rage seized the hapless Phædime.

“You are hurting me,” she cried in abject terror. “Can you not know that what I did was because of love for you? Oh, my Artabazus, if you but commanded it, I would crawl from here to the Hellespont, where I long to cross with you back to the land where we meet no Greeks either in warfare or in love.”

The Persian commander laughed wildly, a laugh that froze the blood in the veins of his hearers. “You will never cross the Hellespont nor even leave this tent alive!”

There was a flash of gleaming steel, a hissing sound, and the headless trunk of the Persian beauty sank before its murderer.

* * * * * * * *

During the time that Zopyrus and Ladice made good their escape from the Persian encampment and were beginning to pursue their precarious way across Mt. Cithæron, the Greek encampment lay in the stillness of sleep. Above the tents rose the gentle, picturesque slope of the mountain, where beyond the space which had been cleared, the forest stretched in black silence.

In one of the tents well toward the forest edge of the encampment, three young men sat around a small table upon which a candle sent forth its flickering light. Presently one of them arose with an impatient gesture and strode back and forth with restless energy.

“What ails you, Cimon?” questioned one of the two who were seated. He was a thin wiry fellow, whose face showed the tan of continued exposure to the elements. His nose was aquiline, his lips thin and his eye penetrating, but withal, kindly.

“Nothing new, Icetes, but before tomorrow’s battle I should like to know if Ladice is confined in the harem of one of the Persian leaders as I have heard.”

“Wait till the battle is over, and if Zeus grants us the victory, demand the return of the girl. The harems of the Persians will be ours then, and to such a brave soldier as you have proved yourself to be, Pausanias will gladly give first choice of the spoils,” said Icetes, rising from his chair and placing a friendly hand upon the other’s shoulder.

Cimon smiled wanly. “Perhaps you are right, my friend,” he acquiesced “but you can not know how I suffer! Has Eros never found you vulnerable here?” Cimon placed both hands upon his heart and smiled with a questioning glance at Icetes.

“If Eros has ever found him so, it was not for the love of a maiden who possesses a heart of stone as does this Ladice whom you adore,” remarked the third youth who up till the present moment had remained a silent observing listener.

“Be still, Ephialtes,” said Icetes gruffly. “Cimon suffers enough without your reproaches.”

“Let him suffer,” said the youth indifferently. “If he wants her badly enough let him go to the Persian encampment and get her! He does not know nor do you, Icetes, what the result of tomorrow’s struggle will be. What if the enemy comes out victorious and the Persian leader carries the fair Ladice across the Hellespont? No doubt she has already yielded to his kisses and is beginning to enjoy the luxurious ease of an oriental harem. Women are—”

With an oath Cimon rushed at Ephialtes, but Icetes interposed himself.

“My friends,” he pled in a hoarse whisper, “your altercation will be heard by Pausanias himself. Let us sit down quietly again and maybe we can arrive at a definite conclusion.”

Icetes and Ephialtes seated themselves, but Cimon began to put on his armor piece by piece till he stood before them fully armed. They watched him wonderingly but ventured no inquiry. Then he strode toward the entrance and turning to face them, said, “I am going to find Ladice and bring her back.”

Ephialtes smiled in a contemptuous manner, but Icetes was on his feet in an instant.

“By Zeus,” he cried, “you shall not attempt such a rash undertaking. You, the son of the brave Miltiades, are needed for the morrow’s battle. Your counsel and advice are indispensable. Next to Pausanias we need you, just you, to show these barbarians that they can no longer abide within our borders. Think of it, my brave Cimon, Mardonius killed and the other leaders routed at Platæa! Make it the last battle of the last war with them! Don’t leave us at this critical period to satisfy a personal longing. Your father did that, Cimon, but not till he had fought Marathon!”

The words of Icetes had an enervating effect upon Cimon. He drooped perceptibly and then slowly he began to disarm. When the last piece of armor had been cast aside, he dropped into his chair again, and folding his arms upon the table, buried his face in them. His broad shoulders heaved, and in the silence that followed, an occasional groan was heard. Even Ephialtes’ supercilious air left him in the presence of this real grief of a fellow-man.

Cimon’s agony was too much for the kind-hearted Icetes. Rising and bending above the bowed form of the son of Miltiades, Icetes said in earnest tones. “Let me go this night and search for Ladice. I am acquainted with her father, Mamercus, who as you know perished at Salamis, probably unknown to his daughter who will now be alone if she returns to Athens.”

Cimon made a sign of remonstrance before he was able to speak. “No, my friend,” he said, when he had found voice, “I can not think of endangering the life of another in the performance of a task which concerns me so personally. I will give up what you consider a foolish enterprise, but I fear I have lost the zest for the morrow’s battle.”