heir bald summits up before the runner's ken, far ahead upon the
way approached a cloud of dust. The Athenian paused in his run, dashed
into the barren field, and flung himself flat between the furrows. He
heard the hoof-beats of the wiry steppe horses, the clatter of targets and
scabbards, the shrill shouts of the raiders. He lifted his head enough to
see the red streamers on their lance tips flutter past. He let the noise
die away before he dared to take the road once more. The time he lost was
redeemed by a burst of speed. His head was growing very hot, but it was
not time to think of that.

Already the hills were spreading their shadows, and Plataea was many stadia
away. Knowledge of how much remained made him reckless. He ran on without
his former caution. The plain was again changing to undulating foothills.
He had passed Erythrae now,--another village burned and deserted. He mounted
a slope, was descending to mount another, when lo! over the hill before
came eight riders at full speed. What must be done, must be done quickly.
To plunge into the fallow field again were madness, the horsemen had
surely seen him, and their sure-footed beasts could run over the furrows
like rabbits. Glaucon stood stock still and stretched forth both hands, to
show the horsemen he did not resist them.

"O Athena Polias," uprose the prayer from his heart, "if thou lovest not
me, forget not thy love for Hellas, for Athens, for Hermione my wife."

The riders were on him instantly, their crooked swords flew out. They
surrounded their captive, uttering outlandish cries and chatterings,
ogling, muttering, pointing with their swords and lances as if debating
among themselves whether to let the stranger go or hew him in pieces.
Glaucon stood motionless, looking from one to another and asking for
wisdom in his soul. Seven were Tartars, low-browed, yellow-skinned, flat
of nose, with the grins of apes. He might expect the worst from these. But
the eighth showed a long blond beard under his leather helm, and Glaucon
rejoiced; the chief of the band was a Persian and more amenable.

The Tartars continued gesturing and debating, flourishing their steel
points right at the prisoner's breast. He regarded them calmly, so calmly
that the Persian gave vent to his admiration.

"Down with your lance-head, Rukhs. By Mithra, I think this Hellene is
brave as he is beautiful! See how he stands. We must have him to the
Prince."

"Excellency," spoke Glaucon