e 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. Moerocles
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 gods, 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 Hellene,--"the gods 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.

" 'Well begun is half done,' my lad; but the hottest battle is still
before," said he, trying to cover his own consuming dread.

"Faint heart never won a city," smiled Glaucon, as if never more at ease;
and Pytheas drew back happier, seeing the calm light in the athlete's
eyes.

"Ay," he muttered to his fellow-trainer, "all is well. The boy has
wakened."

But now the heralds marched the champions again to the judges. The
president proclaimed the r