le, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a
crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a
skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools--these were parts of
the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now,
he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from
his shoulders.

"Unhand the lad!" he repeated.

For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental
pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.

"Hark you, Sir Athenian," rejoined the Spartan leader, "don't presume on
your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all to-morrow. Here's Dexippus's
slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and
don't you hinder."

He plucked at the boy's girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand,
seized the Spartan's arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody
flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his
fellows.

"Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedaemon! Fists! Fists!"

The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that
followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians
precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was
hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like
a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the
attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at
respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian
pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his
hands.

"Men of Athens, this way!"

His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up
stones and commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete,
centre of all this din, stood smiling, with his glorious head held high,
his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle. He held out his arms. Both
pose and face spoke as clearly as words,--"Prove me!"

"Sparta is insulted. Away with the braggart!" the Laconians were
clamouring. The Athenians answered in kind. Already a dark sailor was
drawing a dirk. Everything promised broken heads, and perhaps blood, when
Leonidas and his friend,--by laying about them with their staves,--won their
way to the front. The king dashed his staff upon the shoulder of a
strapping Laconian who was just hurling himself on Glaucon.

"Fools! Hold!" roa