The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Golden Hope, by Robert H. Fuller

"For what was all his war in Asia after the death of Philippus, but tempests, extreme heats, wonderful deep rivers, marvellous high mountains, monstrous beasts for greatness to behold, wild savage fashions of life, change and alteration of governors upon every occasion, yea treasons and rebellions of some? At the beginning of his voyage, Greece did yet lay their heads together, for the remembrance of the wars that Philippus made upon them: the towns gathered together: Macedonia inclined to some change and alteration: divers people far and near lay in wait to see what their neighbours would do: the gold and silver of Persia flowing in the orators' purses, and governors of the people did raise up Peloponnese: Philippus' treasure and coffers were empty, and the debts were great. In despite of all these troubles, and in the middest of his poverty, a young man, but newly come to man's estate, durst in his mind think of the conquest of Asia, yea of the empire of the whole world, with thirty thousand footmen and five thousand horse, ... howbeit he was furnished with magnanimity, with temperance, with wisdom, and valour: being more holpen in this martial enterprise, with that he had learned of his tutor Aristotle, than with that which his father Philippus had left him.... In Alexander's actions they see, that his valiantness is gentle, his gentleness valiant: his liberality, husbandry, his choler soon down, his loves temperate, his pastimes not idle, and his travels gracious. What is he that hath mingled feasting with wars, and military expeditions with sports? Who hath intermingled in the middest of his besieging of towns: and in the middest of skirmishes and fights, sports, banquets, and wedding songs? Who was ever more enemy to those that did wrong, nor more gracious to the afflicted? Who was ever more cruel to those that fought, or more just unto suppliants?"

CHAPTER I

THREE FRIENDS MEET

Athens was rousing herself from sleep. The beams of the morning sun bathed the rugged sides of Mount Hymettus and lightened the dark foliage that clothed the nearer wooded slopes of Lycabettus. The low, flat-roofed houses of the city were still nothing more than blurred masses of gray in the shadow; but presently a ray touched the point of Athene's spear, and the flood of orange light flowed over the Acropolis. Its temples and statues were enveloped in a radiance which fused the rich, harmonious colors of column and cornice and melted the massive outlines into a resplendent whole, rising immortal from the gloom at its base.

Thin curls of smoke mounted here and there above the housetops, straight up toward the limitless turquoise vault of the sky. The vivifying freshness of the new-born day was in the air.

There was a clatter of hoofs in the Street of Pericles, and two young men, followed by three mounted servants, swung into view.

"By Zeus, Leonidas!" cried the foremost of the riders, drawing rein and pointing to the Acropolis, "that is worth riding all night to see!"

"You mean the sunrise?" the other asked, also coming to a halt. "Pshaw! You may see that any day without sitting up for it."

Leonidas shrugged his square shoulders. "It's not the lamps you love, Chares," he returned dryly. "But why are we idling here? Unless we make haste, Clearchus will be out of bed before we can surprise him."

"Come on, then!" Chares cried, urging his tired horse. "By Heracles! what's that?"

The three servants had ridden forward in advance of their masters. From the direction they had taken, the young men heard a confusion of angry voices, mingled with oaths. In another moment they saw that the street was blocked by a gorgeous litter borne on the shoulders of four sturdy slaves and surrounded by a dozen more, some of whom carried torches which burned pale in the morning light. The litter-bearers had refused to draw aside, and the guard was attempting to turn the horsemen back. Evidently some youth had been overtaken at his revelry by the dawn and was now being carried home by slaves who had followed his example at the wine-cup.

A bustling little man, with close-cropped hair and the sharp-nosed face of a fox, was shaking his sword in the faces of the riders.

"Back with you! Back!" he shouted. "Do you seek to halt the noble Phradates? Back, while you may!"

The curtains of the litter parted, and a young man's face, crimson with wrath and wine, appeared at the opening. He wore upon his head a wreath of wilted roses, which had slipped sidewise over one ear.

"Here is sport!" Chares cried, his eyes sparkling. "Let us ride through them! They need a lesson."

Leonidas made no answer, but shook his bridle rein free and plunged his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

"Way! Way!" Chares cried in a mighty voice, as they thundered down upon the obstinate group. "Follow us, my lads!" he shouted to the servants as he swept past.

The officious man with the sharp nose dropped his sword and scrambled up the steps of a house, but before the rest could follow his example the five horsemen were among them, and they were rolling under foot with their torches. Chares swerved his horse skilfully against the litter in such a manner that it was overturned. Its occupant pitched head foremost into the street, and the litter fell on top of him, burying him beneath a mass of curtains and silken cushions, among which he struggled like some gigantic insect caught in a web.

"You shall pay for this!" he gasped from the wreckage, shaking his fist after the little cavalcade. "I am Phradates!"

Chares laughed until the street echoed, and even Leonidas could not forbear a smile when he glanced back upon the havoc their passage had caused.

"Hola!" he shouted. "Let us in! Do you intend to keep your master's guests all day at his door? Open, then!"

After a slight delay there was a sound of falling bars, and the grating swung back, revealing a drowsy slave in the entrance.

"Is it you, my master? Enter; you are welcome," the man said, bowing before Chares.

"Then we will rouse him!" Chares cried, running across the outer court and into the house. Leonidas followed more deliberately, leaving the attendants to care for the horses.

Chares did not stop to return the greeting of the slave who opened the house door for him, but dashed through the corridor that led to the inner court, shouting at the top of his voice: "Clearchus! Wake up, sluggard, and feed the hungry, or the Gods will turn their faces from you! Dreamer, where art thou?"

Just as he emerged from the corridor to the spacious inner court, the young man came suddenly upon a fresh-faced slave girl, who was busied with some early duties about the broad cistern filled with lotus flowers.

"Aphrodite, as I live!" Chares cried, throwing his arms about her and kissing her on the lips with a smack. The girl fled, laughing and blushing, to the women's quarters, and at the same moment the master of the house, awakened by the uproar, appeared on the threshold of his chamber.

"Chares!" he cried, coming forward with outstretched hands. "Who else could it be, indeed!"

"Oh, Clearchus," Chares said, "what hardships and perils we have passed to reach thee!"

"And here is Leonidas," said the Athenian, freeing himself from the embrace of Chares as the second of his guests entered the court. "Both my brothers here! For this I owe a sacrifice of thanksgiving which I shall not fail to pay. But what fortunate chance brings you to Athens?"

"We were sitting quietly enough in Thebes, talking of you," Leonidas replied, "when this madcap declared that he would not live another day without seeing you and that he intended to make you give him breakfast. Piso, who was with us, fell into dispute with him, offering to wager twenty minæ that we could not ride here before midday. Chares maintained that he would wake you this morning or forfeit the stake, and here we are."

"All night, amid dangers and darkness, only to see you!" Chares replied gayly, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulder. "And now, have you anything to eat in the house? I am like a famished wolf."

"Come with me," Clearchus said, leading the way into a large room opening from the left of the court. The sunlight streamed in from the garden outside, over rich Persian carpets which covered the floor. The walls were frescoed with scenes from the Iliad of Homer, drawn with marvellous skill. Painted statuettes stood in niches of stone. Chairs and tables of ebony, cypress, and cedar were scattered through the room, and soft couches invited rest. Clearchus struck a bell, and a grave man of middle age appeared in the doorway.

The steward withdrew, and two younger slaves entered. They quickly divested Chares and Leonidas of their riding cloaks and swords and washed their hands in bowls of scented water, drying them upon linen towels. They were followed by other slaves bearing trays of cold fowl, bread, and wine.

"This seems like getting home," Chares exclaimed, throwing himself upon one of the couches and leaning back luxuriously upon the cushions of down which the slaves hastened to arrange behind him while he helped himself to food from the table. "By the Gods, Clearchus, unless you stop growing handsome, Phœbus will be jealous of you!"

The Athenian flushed like a girl. He was a clean-cut, clear-eyed young man, hardly more than twenty-one years old, with a face and figure that might have served as a model for Phidias himself. Although slender, his form was graceful, with the ease that comes only from well-trained muscles. Brown curls covered his head, and the glance of his dark eyes was steady and straightforward, with a singular earnestness. His expression was thoughtful and his mouth betrayed a sensitive delicacy.

His parents had died when he was still a lad. His father, Cleanor, bequeathed to him an immense fortune, amassed in the mines, which had been managed by his uncle, Ariston, until he became of age. His wealth made him envied by the fashionable young men of Athens, but he had few friends among them. He cared nothing for their drinking-bouts, cock-fights, and gaming, and he had no ambition in politics except to do his duty as a citizen of Athens. Deep in his heart he worshipped the city and her glorious achievements, especially those of the intellect, with fanatical devotion.

Chares, too, belonged to a family of wealth and influence, for his father, Jason, had been one of the foremost men in Thebes. In height he stood more than six feet, and the knotted muscles of his arms indicated enormous strength. He was buoyant, light-hearted, irresponsible, and pleasure-loving. His affection for the Athenian, whom he had known from boyhood, was the strongest impulse in him.

They had first met Leonidas at the Olympic Games, where he won the laurel crown in the chariot race, and they had there admitted him to their friendship. Different as they were from each other, there seemed little in common between either of them and the swarthy Lacedæmonian who lay eating silently while they chattered gossip of mutual acquaintances. Leonidas was rather below the middle stature, all bone and sinew, practised in arms, and inured to hardships from his childhood by the unbending discipline of Sparta. His dark hair grew low down on his forehead and his black eyes were set deep under overhanging brows. He neither shared nor wished to understand the delight which Clearchus felt in a perfect statue or a masterpiece of painting. He scorned the philosophers and poets. Upon the questionable pleasures to which Chares gave his days and nights, he looked with good-natured contempt. The narrow prejudices of his country were ingrained too deeply in his character to be disturbed by any change of surroundings. He valued more highly the consciousness that in his veins ran a few drops of the blood of the Lion of Thermopylæ than all the riches of the world.

In each of the three young men who met in the house of Clearchus were typified many of the characteristics of the states to which they belonged. Athens, Thebes, and Sparta in turn had held the supremacy in the little peninsula to which the civilized world was confined. Contrasted as they were, there was still a bond between them that had been welded by centuries of association.

"Tell me," Clearchus said, after their hunger had been somewhat appeased, "what is the news of Thebes? Are the Macedonians still perched in the Cadmea?"

"They are," Chares replied lazily. "We are still in the grasp of the barbarian; but our plotters are at work and they tell me that soon we shall break it."

"Don't get excited," the Theban responded. "It will give you indigestion. They have revolted already, thanks to the gold your city sent them, and the barbarians are eating their corn in the citadel just at present, waiting for something to turn up."

"Well," Chares replied, "that will give Leonidas a chance to clear the rust from his sword. You know he is in the market."

"That is true," the Spartan said in response to Clearchus' glance of inquiry. "No man can live on air. I follow my profession where there is work to be done."

There was nothing disgraceful in this avowal. If his own country was at peace, a Greek soldier might sell his sword to the highest bidder, as did Xenophon, without reproach.

"As to that, I don't know," the Theban answered, stretching himself with a yawn. "Perhaps the best thing that could happen to us would be to have the Macedonian conquer and rule. It would put an end to our own wars. If matters go on as they have been going, all three of us may be trying to cut each other's throats before the month is out."

"No," Clearchus exclaimed, "that cannot be, because you must promise me to stay here and drink at my wedding feast at the next new moon."

"What, Clearchus! you are going to be married?" Chares cried, springing from his couch. "Who is she?"

"Artemisia, daughter of Theorus," Clearchus answered. "She is the most beautiful—"

"Ho, Cleon, Cleon! Where are you?" Chares shouted at the top of his voice. "Cleon, I say!"

Cleon vanished with a smile, and Chares hastened to embrace his friend with a fervor that threatened to crack his ribs. Leonidas grasped him warmly by the hand, and both showered congratulations upon him.

"We pledge thee!" Chares cried, taking the wine that Cleon brought in a great beaker of carved silver and raising it to his lips, after spilling a portion of its contents in libation.

"Neither war, famine, nor pestilence shall take us from thee until thou art married," Chares cried, half in jest. "We swear it, Leonidas, by the head of Zeus!"

"We swear it!" the Spartan echoed, and each of them again pressed the young man's hand.

"I expected no less of you," Clearchus said, smiling into the faces of his companions. "It makes my heart glad to know that you will be with me. But after your long ride you must both be used up. I will leave you to get an hour or two of sleep before the Assembly which has been called for this afternoon to hear what Demosthenes has to say upon our policy toward Macedon. You will want to hear him, of course."

"Go, Clearchus," Chares said, laughing. "That is a long speech to tell us that you would like to be rid of us while you go to your Artemisia. Come back in time for the bath, that's all."

CHAPTER II

WARNING FROM THE GODS

A few miles west of Athens, in the suburb of Academe, dwelt Melissa, aunt and guardian of Artemisia. She was an invalid, bedridden for the greater part of the year, and she had chosen to live in the country that she might not be disturbed by the city noises. She had never married, and no departure from the routine of her well-ordered house was permitted. She loved her niece; but she was not sorry to have her marry, because, as she said, her own hold upon life was so uncertain, and besides, the match was a brilliant one.

Her household consisted of Philox, her steward, who had managed her affairs for a score of years, Tolmon, her gardener, and a dozen women slaves who, like their mistress, had passed the prime of life.

In Melissa's old-fashioned garden Artemisia, with two little slave girls to help her, was at work over a hedge of roses. She had not yet reached her nineteenth year. Her soft, light brown hair was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, showing the graceful curve of the nape of her neck and half revealing the little pink lobes of her ears. Her forehead was low and smooth and broad, with delicately arched brows, a shade darker than her hair. Her eyes were blue and the color in her cheeks was heightened by her exertions in bringing the straying rose stems into place. The folds of her pure white chiton left her warm arms bare to the shoulder and defined the youthful lines of her supple figure. As she stooped among the flowers, handling them with gentle touches, she seemed preoccupied, and her glance continually wandered from her task.

Agile as monkeys, the slave girls darted about her, pelting each other with blossoms and uttering peals of shrill laughter. Their short white tunics made their swarthy skins darker by contrast.

The garden was set in a tiny meadow beside the river Cephissus. It was shut in on both sides by groves of olive and fig trees, against whose dark foliage gleamed the marble front of the house to which it belonged. The sunlight swept the smooth emerald of the turf, touched the brilliant hues of the flowers, and flashed back from the rippling river beyond.

"Oh, mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly! Oh, please, may I catch him?" cried one of the little girls.

"Ouch, that awful thorn! Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.

"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected despair. "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."

"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried, taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward the house.

Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his friends. Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they pretended to busy themselves with their work.

"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young man said radiantly. "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"

"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully. "Why dost thou ask?"

"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing. "There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."

They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow, where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out over the garden and the river. They sat down side by side and Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist. Evidently, with the subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face. He saw that it was troubled.

She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too happy," she said at last in reply.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him. "Why should any of the Gods wish us harm? We have not failed in paying them honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."

Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his shoulder. He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her hair, awaiting an explanation.

"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly. "You are tired and nervous and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to trouble you. Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is not mine as well as thine."

"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl. Whatever may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me. I am thine—heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the hereafter—forever."

"Why dost thou speak so, my Soul?" Clearchus asked in alarm. "What has happened? Surely we shall be married at the new moon."

"I do not know, Clearchus—all that I know is that I love thee and shall love thee always. A warning from the Gods has been sent to me."

She lifted her face and clasped her hands in her lap. Her eyes were wet and her lips were tremulous as those of a helpless child who awaits a blow.

"I was in a strange house," she replied, looking straight before her as though she could see the things that she described. "It was a house of many rooms, some filled with lights and some so dark I could not tell what was in them. I heard the sound of voices, of laughter, and of weeping, but I could see nobody. Thou wert there, I knew, and I was seeking thee with my heart full of terror; for something told me I would not find thee. It was dreadful—dreadful, Clearchus!"

She paused and clung to him for a moment as though in fear of being torn from his side.

"I do not know how long I wandered through passages and chambers," she resumed, "but at last I reached a corridor that had rows of pillars on either side. At the end was a crimson curtain, beyond which men and women were talking. As I stood hesitating in the empty corridor, suddenly I heard thy voice among the rest. I could not mistake it, Clearchus. Joy filled my heart. Thou didst not know I was there nor what peril I was in. I felt that I had but to lift the curtain—thou wouldst see me and I would be saved. I ran forward, crying out to thee; but before I reached the curtain, rough men came from between the pillars and thrust me back, drowning my voice with shouting and laughter. I threw myself on my knees before them and prayed them not to stop me. They answered in words that I could not understand. My heart was breaking, Clearchus! The light beyond the crimson curtain grew dim, and outside I could hear a roaring like a great storm. The pillars were shaken and the walls crumbled, and I woke crying thy name."

The young man's face had grown unusually grave and thoughtful as he listened to the recital of the dream. No man or woman of his time who believed in anything ever thought of doubting that the visions of sleep were divine communications to mortals. Statesmen directed the course of nations and generals planned their campaigns in accordance with the interpretation of these revelations.

"What does it mean, Clearchus? You are wiser than I," Artemisia said anxiously. "If I am separated from thee, I shall die."

"Thus they seemed," she replied. "I could not understand their speech, and their clothes were not our fashion."

"I know not what it means, Artemisia," Clearchus said at last. "We are in the hands of the Gods. I shall ask the protection of Artemis and offer her a sacrifice. To-morrow we must be married. I do not dare to wait for the new moon, for I must be near you to protect you. Then, whatever may come, we will meet it together."

"Perhaps the dream was meant for me alone," Artemisia said tenderly. "I cannot bear to bring you into danger."

"Hush, Artemisia!" Clearchus said reprovingly. "I would rather a thousand times die with thee than live without thee."

"I care not what may happen so that thou art with me," she said; "then I can feel no fear."

"Artemisia," Clearchus said suddenly, "go not out again to-day. I shall tell Philox to guard thee well until to-morrow. Hast thou told Melissa of the dream?"

"No, for I wished to tell thee first and she is so easily frightened," Artemisia said.

One of the little slave girls ran up to them at this moment and stood before them, twisting her fingers together and waiting to be spoken to.

CHAPTER III

ARISTON LAYS A PLOT

Ariston, uncle of Clearchus and formerly guardian of his fortune, sat at his work-table before a mass of papyri closely written with memoranda and accounts. His house stood by itself in a quarter of the city that had once been fashionable but now was occupied chiefly by the poorer class of citizens. Its front was without windows and its stone walls were yellowed and stained with age. Its seclusion seemed to be emphasized by the bustle of life that surrounded it and in which it had no part.

The room in which Ariston sat was evidently used as an office, for rows of metal-bound boxes of various shapes and sizes were piled along its walls. A statuette of Hermes stood in one corner upon its pedestal, and its sightless eyes seemed bent upon the thin, gray face of the old man as he leaned with his elbows upon the top of the table, polished by long use. Lines of care and anxiety showed themselves at the corners of his mouth and about his restless eyes. The light of the swinging lamp that illuminated the small room, even in the daytime, made shadowy hollows at his temples and beneath his cheek-bones.

Little was known of the personal concerns of the old man in Athens. Although he mingled with the other citizens without apparent reserve, he never discussed his own affairs. The general impression was that he was a good Athenian who had been faithful to the trust reposed in him, and who had won a modest competence of his own for the support of his age. This idea was encouraged by the parsimonious habits of his life and by the trifling but cautious ventures that he sometimes made in the commercial activity of the city. His most conspicuous characteristic, in the minds of his acquaintances, was his mania for gathering information concerning not only Athens and Greece, but distant lands and strange peoples as well. This was looked upon as a harmless and even useful occupation, and it accounted for his evident fondness at times for the company of strangers, who, no doubt, contributed to the satisfaction of his curiosity.

Great would have been the astonishment if some orator had announced to the Athenian Assembly that the humble old man was really one of the richest citizens of Athens, as well as the best informed concerning the plans and hopes of the rulers of the world and of the probable current of coming events. Laughter would have greeted the assertion that much of the merchandise which found its way to the Piræus belonged to him and that the profits realized from the sale of silks and spices, corn and ivory, went into his coffers. Yet these statements would have been true a year before. In Athens the rich were required to contribute to the public charges in proportion to their wealth, and the saving that Ariston was able to effect by making his investments abroad and concealing them through various stratagems from the knowledge of his neighbors was sufficient, in his opinion, to compensate him for the trouble and the risks that such a course involved. He would rather have suffered his fingers to be hacked off one by one than part with the heavy, shining bars of gold that his prudence and foresight had amassed.

If the history of each separate coin and bar could have been told, it would have revealed secrets which their master had forced himself to forget. Some of them were the price of flesh and blood; some had been gained by violence upon the seas or among the trackless wastes of the desert; some had been won at the expense of honor and truth; for in his earlier years Ariston had been both bold and unscrupulous in his cunning, and his craving for riches had always been insatiable. As his years and his wealth increased he became more circumspect and conservative. He even sought to expiate some of his earlier faults by furtive sacrifices to the Gods, and especially to Hermes, whose image he cherished.

But the Gods had turned their faces from him, and his repentance, if repentance it could be called, had been unavailing. Misfortune had come upon him, and calamity seemed always to be lying in wait for him. If his vessels put to sea, they were sunk in storms or captured by pirates. His factories and warehouses were burned; his caravans were lost; his debtors defaulted; and if he purchased a cargo of corn, its price at the Piræus was certain to be less than the price he had paid for it in the Hellespont. One after another the precious bars which had cost him so much to obtain were sent to save doubtful ventures and losing investments, until at last all were gone. Sitting in his dingy room, on the day of the arrival of Chares and Leonidas at the house of Clearchus, he was at last in a worldly sense what his neighbors thought him to be; and the marble face of Hermes, with its painted eyes, smiled malignly at him from its corner.

But there was still hope left to him. Although the widespread web of his enterprises had been rent and torn by misfortune, there yet remained enough to build upon securely if he had but a few more of the yellow bars to tide over his present distress. Without them he might keep afloat for a few months longer; but the end would be utter ruin. At least he still owned the great dyeing establishment in Tyre, which had never failed to yield him a handsome revenue. He recalled how he had taken it from Cepheus for one-fourth its real value. It was no concern of his that Cepheus had stolen it from young Phradates. What did the details of the transaction matter now, since they were known only to himself and to Cepheus, who would not be likely to reveal them, and to Mena the Egyptian, the young man's steward? Mena had stolen so much himself from the spendthrift that he would never dare to tell what he knew. And yet the fellow had it in his power to rob Ariston of the last remnant of his fortune.

A discreet knock interrupted Ariston's reflections. He brushed his parchments and papyri hastily into an open box that stood beside his chair and closed the lid. "Enter!" he commanded.

Cold sweat broke out on Ariston's forehead, but he gave no outward sign of his consternation. "Bring him hither," he directed.

The Egyptian, who had been watching the sluggish goldfish floating in the weed-grown cistern of the court, entered the room with an air of importance. He turned his alert face, with its sharp, inquiring features, upon Ariston.

"Greeting!" he said, extending his hand. "It is long since we have seen thee in Tyre."

"Yes," Ariston replied, leading him to a seat opposite his own, "I am getting too old for travel."

"You have indeed grown older since I saw you last," Mena said, looking at him attentively. "I hope it is not because Fortune has been unkind."

Ariston winced, and the change in his expression was not lost upon the shrewd Egyptian.

"Phradates is with you, then?" the old man asked with an alarm that he was unable to conceal.

The steward paused before he answered, gazing at Ariston with eyes half closed and a faint smile upon his lips.

"Phradates is here," he said at last. "I know of what you are thinking. We have been friends too long to have secrets from each other. You need have no fear. Cepheus is dead and I have too many causes to despise Phradates to take his part."

"I could strangle him!" he cried, clenching his hands as though he felt his master's throat beneath his fingers.

"Because the time has not yet come!" Mena replied fiercely. "For every insult that he has given me and for every blow that he has made me feel, he shall suffer tenfold! His fortune is dwindling, and in the end it will be mine. Then let him ask Mena for aid!"

"I have not watched you in vain," Mena replied, "and it is to you that I now come for assistance."

"To you," Mena repeated. "Be not alarmed, for what I have to propose will be for our mutual benefit. Phradates has been throwing money right and left since we set out from Tyre. Great sums he spent in Crete and still greater in Corinth. Since his arrival here he has been fleeced without mercy. You will understand that I have tried to protect him, but merely to save him from injury. He might have lost his life only this morning had I not been there to guard him from an attack by two desperate characters with a crowd of slaves, who set upon us while we were returning from the dice. Luckily, I succeeded in beating them off, but the noble Phradates was thrown from his chair and his noble nose was battered. Soon he will be in want of more money. Of the property that remains to him, he has quarries on Lebanon, which employ a thousand slaves, silk mills in Old Tyre, where as many more are kept busy, and a score of ships in the trade with Carthage. He believes the value of the quarries and the mills to be only half what it really is and reports have been made to him that two-thirds of the vessels of his fleet have been lost. All this he will pledge for anything that it will bring when he learns that his money is gone. It is for us to get possession of that pledge. I have a few talents, but not enough. I will take care that the loan is never repaid and our success is certain. What do you say?"

Ariston looked at the statue of Hermes. It was a fancy of his that he could draw either a favorable or an adverse augury from the expression on the face of the God as it showed in the wavering light of the lamp. He could detect no change in the mocking smile that seemed to hover about the marble lips. It left him with no conclusion.

"What you have told me," he said to Mena, "makes it necessary for me to tell you something in return. I am a ruined man."

"It is true," Ariston replied. "Of all that I had, nothing remains to me intact except the dye-house in Tyre and a small fleet of corn ships that has but now arrived from the Euxine. The worst is that I have debts that must be met if I am to save other ventures."

"I had it," the old man said, "but it was turned over to him more than a year ago. Since then all my losses have befallen."

The two men exchanged glances, reading each other's thoughts in their eyes. Neither cared to put into words what was in his mind.

"Leave it to me," Ariston said at last. "I think it can be managed. Clearchus knows nothing of my affairs, and if I can once more get control of the property all will be well. I think we may safely assume that he will not marry. For the rest, we must wait and see. Let us talk of this pledge that Phradates is to make for our security."

He produced his tablets and a stylus and the conspirators were soon buried in a mass of calculations. When Mena took his leave, every detail had been arranged.

Hardly had Mena disappeared in the direction of the Agora when a man of unusual stature, with brawny arms and a heavy black beard, turned into the street in which Ariston lived and stood staring doubtfully about him. There was a hint of the sea in his sunburned face and rough garments.

"If you are looking for the Piræus, my friend, you will not find it here," said a fruit dealer who chanced to meet him.

"What do you know of the Piræus, grasshopper?" returned the stranger, halting and looking at the merchant with contempt. "I am searching for the house of Ariston, son of Xenas. Do you know where in this accursed street it is?"

"Tut, tut; fair words, my friend," the merchant replied, carefully keeping his distance. "What do you want with Ariston?"

"I'll warrant it is nothing good," the fruit dealer said, "but you will find his house at the end of the street, near the wall."

Without stopping to thank him, the stranger strode on in the direction that he had indicated. The merchant stood for a moment gazing after him, wondering whence he came and what he wanted; but finding no answer to these questions in his own mind, he shook his head like a man who is assured of the existence of something that should not be and continued on his way to his shop in the Agora to relate his suspicions.

Ariston himself came to the door in response to the stranger's knock. He was admitted at once and without a word. Ariston led him in silence to his own room and seated him in the chair that Mena had occupied half an hour before. Instead of summoning a slave, the old man went himself to fetch a flask of wine and a trencher of bread and cheese.

"Can it be done?" he asked in an eager voice, leaning forward in his favorite attitude with his elbows on the table while the other ate and drank.

"Not easy to carry off a woman who has only slaves to guard her?" Ariston exclaimed. "Are your men cowards, then, Syphax?"

"No, my men and I are not cowards, old Skinflint," Syphax said, "but you may as well understand now that we do not intend to risk our lives for nothing."

He delivered this speech with the blustering air of a bully, gazing boldly into the old man's face. Ariston, naturally of small stature, looked more than ever shrunken and withered in contrast with his companion; but at the sound of the other's threatening tone, his face hardened and there came a cold gleam into his eyes.

"I am glad you are not afraid, Syphax," he said in a voice so soft that it sounded almost caressing. "Have you forgotten Medon? Your eyes saw his death. He was a brave man, too, your old chief. I think I can hear him yet as he called upon the Gods in his torture. They could not help him. Poor Medon!"

The face of Syphax paled under its tan at the recollection that Ariston had conjured up and an involuntary shudder ran through him. His bold eyes wavered before the persistent stare of the little old man, whom he could have crushed in one of his hands.

"What are you willing to pay?" he asked hoarsely, pushing away his food half finished.

"You would do it for nothing, if I asked you, Syphax," the old man replied, still in the same soft voice, "but I have no wish to be hard with you. This is a matter in which I have a deep interest and I am willing to pay well for it. When you have taken her safely on board, you will sail to Halicarnassus, where you will search out Iphicrates, son of Conon, and give him this letter. If he finds you have done your work well, he will pay you a talent in silver. But if the girl has been harmed in any way, not a drachma will you get and worse will befall you than befell Medon."

"The work is worth five times as much," Syphax grumbled with downcast eyes, "but I suppose I have no choice."

"None, my dear Syphax, and I am a poor man," said Ariston. "Let us regard the matter as settled. Now, how do you intend to proceed?"

"The house stands thus," he said, indicating its position on the table with a huge finger. "On this side is the grove where I and a dozen of my men will lie hidden with the litter. One of my fellows will scale the roof and let himself down inside. He will open the door to us and the thing will be over in a moment."

"My ship will be lying off-shore with a boat in waiting. We will carry her in the litter to this spot, about two stadia beyond the Piræus, which we shall have to pass. We shall make the attack soon after the middle watch of the night when the moon will be low."

"You should have been a general, Syphax," the old man said. "You have a better head for strategy than most of those the Athenians employ. Go to your work and forget nothing. I must attend the Assembly, where Demosthenes is to stir up the citizens against Alexander, son of Philip. They say the boy is dead."

"The story is that he was killed by the Illyrians, and Demosthenes has a man who saw him die," Ariston replied indifferently. "I think the man is lying and that Demosthenes knows it. But these affairs have nothing to do with you. Be off to your business."

When the adventurer had gone, Ariston returned to his room and prepared to write. From his expression of content, it was evident that he was satisfied with what had been done.

"To Iphicrates, son of Conon," his letter ran. "I am sending to you Syphax, a freebooter from Rhodes, who will deliver to you a young woman. You will take her into your house and guard her with care until you hear from me again. Syphax will present to you an order for a talent of silver. Defer the payment until you have the girl, and then do with him as you will. As a pirate and a robber, he has richly merited death. May the Gods protect you."

As Ariston was carefully sealing this letter, a gaunt, sour-visaged woman entered the room. She was his wife and the one person on earth in whom he had confidence. Like most secretive men with whom duplicity is a daily study, he sometimes felt the need of telling the truth, if only to note the effect of his schemes upon another's mind. But even to his wife, whose covetousness was equal to his own, he never revealed all that was in his brain. Her lonely life was spent in a constant endeavor to piece out from what he imparted to her the full extent of his plans. She admired his intellect, but deep in her heart she feared him, and, womanlike, she was tormented by the suspicion that somewhere she had a rival to whom he told what he concealed from her. The consciousness of her own deficiency of charms made her manner all the more harsh and forbidding. As soon as she entered the room she noted that he was in an easy mood, and she made haste to take advantage of it.

"All that concerns you concerns me," she replied. "Am I to do the work of a slave here like a mole in the dark? Who are these women you were talking of with that evil-looking man?"

"Yes, I was, if you must know it," Xanthe said defiantly. "Do you think I am to know nothing? If you had consulted more freely with me before, we would not now be the paupers that we are, and many times I have told you this, but you will not listen to me because I am a woman."

There was something in this remonstrance that made an impression upon Ariston's mind, smarting as he was over the loss of his fortune. It might have been better, after all, if he had told her more.

"We were talking of only one woman," he said, with an impulse of frankness. "She is Artemisia."

"Artemisia!" Xanthe exclaimed. "Don't try to deceive me. Why should you wish Artemisia to be carried off? Is not Clearchus to make her his wife?"

"Sit down and let us talk rationally," Ariston said. "Suppose they marry and have children. His property would be lost to us forever."

"That is true," Xanthe assented. "I had not thought of that, and we need it so much more than he. If he should die, would it belong to us?"

"It would," her husband answered, "and now you know why I wish to prevent the marriage."

"I am going to the Assembly," he said. "If we have war with Macedon, the price of corn will advance. Look to the house and let none enter while I am away."

It was not until after he had gone that Xanthe began to wonder how she and Ariston were to profit by preventing the marriage, since their nephew would still be alive and in the possession of his property. It could not be that Ariston intended to have him slain. She shuddered at the thought, for she was fond of Clearchus, and he had always been kind to her. Besides, such a crime could not be committed without almost certain detection. Ariston must have formed some other scheme for bringing about his object. She reproached herself for not having questioned him on this point while he was in a frame of mind to answer. The opportunity might not occur again and she could only guess at what was to come. The half-confidence that he had given her left her more watchful and suspicious than ever.

Syphax meantime had found his way back to the Agora and was about to enter a wine-shop when he felt some one pluck him by the elbow. Glancing back, his eyes met those of Mena.

Syphax shook his head and made as if to move away, but Mena was not to be denied. An hour later they were still together, sitting side by side in a corner of the wine-shop, and it was fortunate for Ariston that the Egyptian was his ally instead of his enemy, for all that Syphax could tell, he knew.

CHAPTER IV

THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES

In the Theatre of Dionysus the citizens of Athens were gathering for the purpose of deciding whether to break their treaty with Macedon and by one stroke revenge upon Alexander the wrongs and humiliations that his father had made them suffer. Ariston walked through the spacious Agora, surrounded by colonnades and embellished by the statues of heroes and the Gods. The shopkeepers and merchants were closing their places of business and joining in the human tide that was setting all in the same direction.

Everywhere Ariston heard repeated the assertion that Alexander was dead. The news was announced in tones of joy, and invariably it was accompanied by an expression of desire for war while the enemy was still unprepared. There seemed to be only one opinion among the people. It was manifested in the clamor of gay and careless confusion that betrayed the nervous tension of the throng.

Ariston's face became more thoughtful as he proceeded. He had no doubt of what the Assembly would do if unchecked, and he foresaw the downfall of his plans. A declaration of war with Macedon would be fatal. Whatever the issue of such a conflict might be, it would certainly delay Alexander's invasion of Persia and keep Clearchus at home. He must be rid of Clearchus at all hazards, and without violence.

Moreover, he knew that the report of Alexander's death was false. It was impossible that any person in Athens should have been able to obtain information later than that which had been brought to him. He felt assured that the young king was fighting his way out of Illyria, with every prospect of escape, and that the report of his death had been started by Demosthenes as a stratagem to dispose the minds of the people to war. By preventing the success of this plan, he reflected, he would not only be serving his own ends, but also performing a public service. Such a coincidence had happened rarely enough in his career.

But he knew it would be useless to attempt any contradiction of the report at that moment. He was too thoroughly acquainted with the characteristics of his countrymen to think of it. They wished to believe and they would not allow that wish to be thwarted. He must watch and wait.

Pushing through the chattering crowd, he entered the Theatre. Before him, in a great semicircle, hewn partly out of the solid rock of the southeastern pitch of the Acropolis, he saw row on row and tier above tier of his fellow-citizens,—the brilliant, unstable, cowardly, heroic, passionate, generous, cruel democracy of Athens. Above them towered the crag which they had crowned with triumphs of art and architecture beyond the power of the world to equal, guarded by the wonderful Athene, whose creator they had sent to die in prison. On the left the great temple of Olympian Zeus raised its massive fluted columns. In the Theatre where they sat their fathers had hissed or applauded the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy. The babel of talk and of light-hearted laughter, the shifting of many-hued garments under the intense blue arch of the sky, reminded Ariston of the fickle sunlit waves of the Ægean.

The cloud that for years had overshadowed Athens had been removed. Philip, the tenacious, subtle, resourceful monarch of barbarous Macedon, had fallen under the dagger of Pausanias, who had doubtless been inspired by the Gods to punish him for his crimes against the Athenians. Little by little, with a purpose that never swerved, he had made himself master of their fairest possessions. Time and again they had sought to shake him off with brief outbursts of restless fury; but he held what he had won, and in the lull that followed the storm he had never failed to creep nearer to their citadel. His advance seemed to them as inevitable as fate.

Now he was gone, resigning his power and his ambitions to his son, Alexander, a boy of twenty years, whom all Athens knew as a foolish and rash youth. After laying claim to the honors that his father had forced the states of Hellas to bestow upon him, he had marched into the unknown wilderness of the north with his army and there had perished. His fate had been told only in rumors at first, but had not Demosthenes talked with a fugitive from the Macedonian camp, who had seen him fall beneath a stone? Every Athenian felt that the time had come to place the name of his city once more at the head of the civilized world. Already the Thebans, aided by their subsidies, had risen against the barbarian garrison and had shut the Macedonians in the Cadmea. The reverses of the past had been forgotten and the lively imaginations of the Athenians had carried them halfway to the goal of their hopes.

Ariston gazed about him at the shifting throng as though in search of some one. The priests of Ceres, Athene, and Zeus stood talking in groups with the officials of the city, or had already taken their places in the cushioned marble arm-chairs, with curved backs, that formed the first row of seats. Presently the old man caught sight of Clearchus, and his friends, Chares and Leonidas. With them sat a young man of singular appearance whom Ariston did not recognize. He wore a splendid mantle of purple, embroidered with gold, a profusion of rings flashed upon his fingers, and the odor of costly perfumes hung about him like a cloud. It seemed as though he sought in his costume to make up for the deficiencies of nature, for in figure he was short and stout, with legs and arms of disproportionate slenderness, and his narrow eyes were set beneath a square forehead from the top of which the hair had been shaved.

"Greeting, uncle," Clearchus said cordially, as the old man forced his way toward them.

Ariston sat down on the broad marble step in the space that Clearchus made for him. He found himself between his nephew and the stranger.

"This is Aristotle of Stagira, but more recently of Pella," Clearchus said. "He can talk to you by the hour, if he chooses, about Alexander, whom you so much admire."

"I do not know," lisped Aristotle. "It is his habit always to expose himself in battle."

"Only the Gods can answer that," Aristotle replied. "It is safe to say that what human ambition can accomplish, he will do. He was my pupil, and there are those who maintain that he knows more than his master!"

Although the philosopher spoke with a smile, there was a trace of irony in his tone that did not escape the alert Athenian.

"You hear that?" he cried, turning to Clearchus. "Here is a boy who begins by conquering his instructor. Where will he end?"

"They say he has ended already, up there among the savages," Chares said lazily.

"I'll lay you a box of Assyrian ointment that Alexander is still alive," Aristotle said.

"There goes Callicles. Hi, there, old Twenty Per Cent!" cried a youth who was sitting in front of them.

A young man with oiled and curled ringlets, wearing a long silken robe, and carrying a cane inlaid with mother-of-pearl, pushed toward them, followed by a slave laden with cushions for him to sit upon.

"He happened to go to the Lyceum the other day, and he overheard Theodorus, the atheist, say that if it was praiseworthy to ransom a friend from the enemy, it would also be commendable to rescue a sweetheart from bondage. What does he do but buy Tryphonia her freedom from old Mnemon. He vows that he will marry her."

"He is Ctesippus, son of Chabrias," Clearchus replied. "He has spent twenty thousand talents of gold since his father died—he and Phocus together. He thinks he knows more about war than his father knew. He drives poor Phocion almost distracted with his advice whenever there is a campaign; and Phocion endures it because he is his father's son."

Throughout the Theatre rose the hum of gossip and malicious small talk. Chares listened with indolent contempt. Leonidas studied the faces of the men who had won distinction in war, such as Diopethes, Menestheus, and Leosthenes, whom Clearchus pointed out to him. Aristotle continued to lisp to Ariston concerning Macedon. The attention of the crowd was diverted by the arrival of the Lexiarchs with their scarlet cords. Stretching them across the narrow streets, they had been driving the stragglers into the Assembly like sheep. The laggard whose garments showed a trace of the dye with which the cords were covered was forced to pay a fine.

"Look; there's Phaon with the red stripe on his back!" Chares cried, standing up to get a better view.

A roar of laughter greeted the victim as he entered and his name was repeated from all sides.

"Were you asleep, Phaon? Did your wife keep you at home? You should drink less wine in the morning!" shouted his acquaintances.

Another unfortunate came to divert attention from Phaon, and still others, until all the citizens were accounted for. The tumult was succeeded by a hush as the white-robed priests solemnly advanced into the open space in the middle of the semicircle, carrying a bleating lamb. After an invocation to Athene, they cut the animal's throat before the altar and sprinkled its blood in every direction upon the pavement. The oldest of the priests then stood forth, raised his hands, and looking upward, cried the accustomed formula:—

"May the Gods pursue to destruction, with all his race, that man who shall act, speak, or plot anything against this State!"

The priests then slowly withdrew, and a herald mounted the bema to announce, on behalf of the Proedri, the occasion of the Assembly. He declared the question to be whether the treaty with Macedon should be maintained or set aside, and he added that the Senate of the Areopagus had referred the matter to the decision of the people without expressing its opinion.

He was followed by a second herald, representing the Epistate, who, with a loud voice, called upon any citizen above the age of fifty years to speak his mind, others to follow in accordance with their ages. As he ceased and descended, all eyes were turned toward a portion of the Theatre where sat a gray-haired man, with shoulders slightly stooped, a sloping forehead, and a retreating chin, partly hidden by a close-cropped beard.

The man to whom Athens turned in this crisis of her affairs sat unmoved and apparently oblivious to the demand of the crowd. Accustomed as they were to the oratorical combats of the Theatre, the citizens understood that Demosthenes had determined to reserve to himself the advantage of speaking last. They turned, therefore, to his chief opponent and called upon Æschines.

With an affectation of carelessness, Æschines ascended the bema and plunged at once into his argument, like a man who speaks what first occurs to his mind. The burden of his contention was that Athens was bound by her oath to observe her treaty with Macedon. To break it, he declared, would be to sink to the depth of dishonor and to make the name of the city a byword throughout the world. As he elaborated point after point in his reasoning, all tending to confirm and enforce his conclusions, it was plain that he was making an impression in spite of the fact that all who heard him knew that he had been in Philip's pay. He painted in dark colors the cost and danger of the war that would follow the violation of the treaty and closed with a florid appeal for constancy and forbearance, which he called the first of virtues.

He was succeeded by the dandy, Demades, whose robes of embroidered linen trailed upon the ground, but who sustained the argument against war with sledge-hammer blows of rhetoric. Glaucippus, Eubulus, Aristophon, and other orators, less famous, sat nodding their heads among their pupils and admirers, who clustered about them criticising or commending each period that fell from the lips of the speakers.

Watching the effect of the speeches, the partisans of Demosthenes, fearful that it might be disastrous to permit his opponents to hold the attention of the people any longer, renewed their shouts for him. The Assembly joined them. It had heard enough of the peace party, and it was eager to know how Demosthenes would answer.

There had been hardly any cessation of the talk and laughter. Many persons even moved about through the audience, chatting with their friends, and the Scythians, whose duty it was to maintain order, did not venture to interfere with them. Everywhere there was talk of the advantages of peace. The fever for war had cooled before the logic of oratory. Ariston, keenly attentive to all that was passing, was among those who left his place and wandered about the amphitheatre, pausing here and there to exchange a few words with an acquaintance. Behind him, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, there spread through the crowd the news that the story of Alexander's death was a falsehood contrived by the friends of Macedon to entrap the republic into war.

Before the old man had returned to his seat, the contradiction had reached Demosthenes, elaborated into every semblance of truth. He saw that it was believed and that he had been robbed of the main theme of his speech; for he could not prove that Alexander was dead. In response to the cries of the multitude, he rose, and there was no pretence in the reluctance with which he walked with head bent toward the benia, considering what he should say. As he ascended, the shouting died away, and for the first time there was absolute stillness in the Theatre.

"Athenians!" he began, in a voice of moderate pitch, but of a resonant tone that carried it to all parts of the circle, "by all means we should agree with those who so strenuously advise an exact adherence to our oaths and treaties—if they really believe what they say. For nothing is more in accord with the character of democracy than the maintenance of justice and honesty. But let not the men who urge us to be honest, embarrass us and our deliberations by harangues which their own actions contradict."

Ariston glanced about him with alarm, which was intensified as the orator, with consummate skill, built up the argument that, having bound himself by the treaty to maintain the liberties of Greece, Alexander had violated his oath by reinstating the tyrants of Messene and by disregarding other specific clauses. Artfully exaggerating the Macedonian aggressiveness, recalling by flattering allusions the great days of Athens, raising the hope of victory if war should be declared, Demosthenes presented the situation to the Assembly in such a light as to make it seem that Athens not only had a right to take up arms against Macedon, but that it was her plain duty to begin the attack. This impression grew out of his words without apparent effort to convey it. There was nothing in his speech to indicate that he was a special pleader presenting only one side of the case. He seemed the personification of candor and fairness. As his voice and gestures became more animated, and the flood of his marvellous eloquence swept over them, it appeared to his fellow-citizens that the men who had given expression to the desire for peace must be charlatans or worse, who had been bribed by Macedonian gold, as in fact many of them had been, to betray them into the hands of the enemy. In words that none but he knew how to choose, he raised the spectre that had been laid by the death of Philip and made it more threatening than it had ever been before.

Under the magic spell of his voice old thoughts and feelings stirred and woke in the hearts of the Athenians. For an hour they became once more the men of Platæa and Salamis and of the hundred bloody fields upon which they had measured their strength with that of their ancient foes from the Peloponnesus. Their former greatness of soul flamed up like a flash from a dying fire.

While Demosthenes spoke, not a word was uttered in the group around Clearchus. The young man sat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, tingling with a desire to sacrifice life itself, if need there were, to revenge the wrongs of Athens and crush the insolent Macedonian. Leonidas listened with hands clenched and with every nerve at tension, like a hound of pure race straining at his leash toward the quarry. Aristotle was gravely attentive, and even Chares, though he could not be aroused from his lazy pose, followed the oration with evident enjoyment.

When Demosthenes ended and came down from the bema, the Assembly drew a long breath, and instantly each man fell to discussing with his neighbor what was best to be decided. Suddenly they realized with astonishment that Demosthenes had failed to propose any decree and that they had nothing before them upon which they might vote.

"What has become of his witness of whom we have heard so much?" a leather-dealer asked.

These questions and a hundred others were discussed on every side with a violence that swept away all semblance of dignity or restraint. The factions quarrelled like children, and more than once came to blows in their eagerness, making it necessary for the Scythians of the public guard to separate them. At last the herald of the Epistate demanded in due form whether the Assembly desired any decree to be proposed. Far less than the required number of six thousand hands were raised in the affirmative, and the gathering was dissolved, eddying out of the enclosure in turbulent disorder.

"With a phalanx of ten thousand brave men I could take your Acropolis," Leonidas remarked, measuring the height above his head.

CHAPTER V

THE BANQUET

On their way from the Theatre, Clearchus informed his friends of his decision to be married on the morrow.

"Very well," Clearchus said, "but you will have to make the arrangements for me, as I have other things to do."

"Aristotle will take charge of the food and wine," said the Theban, eagerly, "if he is willing to assume such a responsibility; and I will provide the entertainment and send out the invitations. What do you say?"

"It is settled, then," Chares declared. "Come, Leonidas, I shall need your help. Let us get to work."

It was hardly sunset when the guests who had been bidden by Chares began to assemble at the house of Clearchus. A crimson awning had been drawn over the peristylium and the soft light of scores of lamps shone upward against it. Shrubs and flowering plants partly hid the marble columns. Medean carpets had been spread upon the floor. The tables, each with its soft couch, had been arranged in two parallel lines, joined at one end by those set for the host and the most honored of the guests. At the farther end of the space thus enclosed a fountain flung up a stream that sparkled with variegated colors.

All had been prepared under the direction of Aristotle in such a manner as to gratify the senses without jarring upon the most sensitive taste. The masses of color and the contrasts of light and shade were grouped with subtle skill to create a pleasing impression. Slaves walked noiselessly across the hall, appearing and vanishing in the wall of foliage, bearing dishes of gold and of silver and flagons filled with rare wines. Softly, as from a distance, sounded the music of flutes and citharse.

Clearchus and his guests, crowned with wreaths of myrtle, reclined upon the couches. Their talk ran chiefly upon the events of the day and the contest of oratory in the Assembly.

"You Athenians ought to pass a law banishing all your speakers," Chares drawled. "Then there might be some chance that you would adopt a policy and stick to it. As it is, the infernal skill of these men makes you believe first one thing and then another, until you end by not knowing what to think."

"That's it, exactly," Chares said. "And that man, Demosthenes, will bring you to grief yet, some day."

"All your states have had their turn of power," Aristotle said, "and none has been able to keep it. There is another day coming and it will be the day of the Macedonian. He dreams of making you all one."

"Did you hear what old Phocion said when he came out of the Theatre?" asked a young man with a shrill voice who sat on the right.

"Demosthenes wanted to know what he thought of his oration," the narrator said. "You know Demosthenes likes to hear himself praised and he would almost give his right hand for a compliment from Phocion, the 'pruner of his periods,' as he calls him. 'It was only indifferent,' the old fellow told him, 'but good enough to cost you your life.' You should have seen how pale Demosthenes grew; but Phocion put his hand on his shoulder and said, 'Never mind; for this once, I think I can save thee.'"

The young men who had assembled to honor the occasion listened eagerly to every word that fell from the lips of the man whose keen deductions and daring speculations had begun to open new pathways in every branch of human wisdom. The rivalry between the philosophers in Athens was even more keen than that between the orators, and each had his school of partisans and defenders.

"Honesty is truth," said Porphyry, a young follower of Xenocrates, who had succeeded Plato in the Academy. "But what is truth? Have you Peripatetics discovered it yet?"

"We are seeking, at least," Aristotle replied dryly, feeling that an attempt was being made to entrap him.

"Yes, and Protagoras maintains that we are the measure of all things and that everything is true or false, as we will," the Stagirite rejoined. "They are unfortunate, for if there were no truth, there would be no world. As for the Sceptics, they have not the courage of their doctrines; for which of them, being in Libya and conceiving himself to be in Athens, would think of trying to walk into the Odeum? And when they fall sick, do they not summon a physician instead of trusting to some person who is ignorant of healing to cure them? Those who search for truth with their eyes and hands only shall never find it, for there are truths which are none the less true because we cannot see nor feel them, and these are the greatest of all."

"We might know the truth at last if we could find out what animates nature," Clearchus said. "Why do flowers grow and bloom? Why do birds fly and fishes swim?"

"The marble statues of the Parthenon would have remained blocks of stone forever had not Phidias cut them out," Aristotle responded. "It was Empedocles who taught us that earth, air, fire, and water must form the limits of our knowledge; but who believes him now?"

"Do you hold, then, with Anaxagoras of Clazomene, that all things are directed by a divine mind?" Porphyry asked.

This question was followed by a sudden hush while Aristotle considered his answer. All present had heard whispers that the Stagirite in his teaching was introducing new Gods and denying the power of the old divinities. This was the crime for which Socrates had been put to death and Pericles himself had found it difficult to save Aspasia from the same fate when a similar charge was preferred against her. Aristotle felt his danger, for he knew that the jealous and powerful priesthood would be glad to catch him tripping, as indeed it did in later years.

"It was Hermotimus, I think, who first proposed that doctrine," he said slowly, "and I have noticed that Anaxagoras employs it only when no other explanation of what he sees is left him."

There was a murmur of applause at this reply, which suggested the necessity for supposing the existence of an overruling intelligence without committing the philosopher to such a belief. The young Academician seemed crestfallen, but by common consent the topic was abandoned as too dangerous and the conversation became more general.

Clearchus could not wholly conceal the anxiety that filled his mind. He started at every unexpected sound and turned his face toward the entrance, where he had posted a slave with orders to bring him word instantly should any message for him arrive. His mood did not escape his friends, who, without knowing the reason for it, urged wine upon him in the hope of raising his spirits and for the same reason themselves drank more freely than usual.

Chares had promised something new in the way of amusement, but he refused to tell what it was to be. Consequently there was a flutter of expectation when the attendants removed the last course, washing the hands of the guests for the seventh time, and leaving only wine and sweetmeats before them.

First came a Scythian with a trained bear, which performed a series of familiar tricks. Aristotle watched the animal with the most minute attention, directing notice to several of its characteristics and explaining their meaning. The music then struck into a louder and livelier air and six young girls, in floating garments of brilliant hue, performed a graceful dance of intricate figure. There was no novelty in this and Chares became the target for good-natured reproaches, which he received smilingly. The dancing girls gave place to a swarthy Indian juggler, whose feats of magic delighted the spectators and evoked cries of wonder and admiration.

As the juggler retired gravely, it was noticed that Aristotle, unused to so much wine, had dropped quietly off to sleep. By command of Clearchus, two stalwart slaves carried him away to bed, while his companions at the board drank his health.

"All this is very well, Chares," Porphyry complained, "but I thought you were going to show us something new."

"Pour a libation to Aphrodite!" the Theban replied, sprinkling a few drops from his goblet and draining what remained.

From behind a mass of blossoms came a young woman and stood before the sparkling fountain with her chin slightly raised and a smile upon her lips. She wore a chiton of shimmering, transparent fabric from the looms of Amorgos. The coils of her tawny hair were held in place by jewelled pins which were her only adornment. There was a confident expression of sensuous content on her face and a slight smile parted her lips as she saw the involuntary admiration that she inspired.

Through the golden cobweb that covered without hiding it, her firm flesh glowed warmly. The curves of her shoulders and breast and the rounded fulness of her lithe limbs were as perfect as a statue. As Clearchus gazed upon her with the delight in pure beauty which was so strong in him, he was beset by an elusive sense of familiarity for which he tried in vain to find some explanation. He was certain that he had never seen the girl before. Had there been nothing else to assure him of this, he knew that he never would have forgotten her eyes. Like the eyes of a predatory animal, they shot back the light in reflected gleams of fleeting topaz.

Crouched at her side lay a leopard, his body pressed flat against the rich carpet in which her white feet were buried. He wore a golden collar with a slender chain, the end of which she held between her fingers. The beast glanced restlessly from side to side in his strange surroundings, twitching his tail with nervous uneasiness.

In the light that bathed her from head to foot, the young woman posed for a moment to allow the spectators to feel the full effect of her beauty.

"Thais! Thais!" cried several of the guests, in accents of intense astonishment.

"Is it really Thais?" Clearchus asked, turning to Chares. "How did you ever persuade her to come?"

The Theban smiled, but made no reply. Thais had only recently begun to attract attention, but her fame had already eclipsed that of other popular favorites in Athens. Sculptors and painters had declared her the most beautiful woman in all Hellas. Poets had made verses in her honor, likening her to Hebe and Aphrodite. Her house was thronged daily with the youth of fashion. She had become the latest sensation in a city greedy for all that was new.

Little was known of her beyond the fact that she had been reared and educated in all the accomplishments of her profession by old Eunomus, one of the most skilful of all the Athenian dealers in flesh and blood. Where he had found her he refused to tell. Everybody had heard that Alcmæon had purchased her freedom a short time before his death, paying Eunomus half her weight in gold, and that he had made comfortable provision for her when his last illness seized him and he knew that he must die. The only regret that he had expressed was that he must leave her behind him.

Left in an independent position, Thais had shown herself capricious. None of the young men who hung about her could boast of any successes. A few had ruined themselves in their efforts to gain her favor, and one had even drunk hemlock and crept to her door to die. Clearchus, although he had never before seen her, had heard enough of her to feel astonished at her presence. He could not understand how Chares had been able to induce her to come, like a mere dancing girl, for their amusement, unless he had offered her an enormous sum of money. Knowing the reckless character of his friend, the thought alarmed him.

"You have ruined yourself!" he whispered to the Theban. "What did you promise the woman?"

"I invited her," Chares replied; "and she accepted. I suppose it was a woman's whim. I did not ask her."

Slaves ran forward with a number of sword blades set in blocks of wood in such a manner as to enable them to stand upright. These they arranged symmetrically upon the carpet at equal distances from each other, so as to form a lozenge pattern with its point toward Thais. Dropping the end of the chain by which she held the leopard, as the music changed to a rhythmic cadence, the young woman began to tread in and out between the swords. Her movements were so light and graceful that she seemed hardly to touch the carpet, threading her way from side to side to the quickening measure. The leopard crept closer to the line of steel and watched her with glowing eyes. Faster and faster grew the measure, and faster grew her motions, until she was whirling among the blades, which flickered like blue flames as her shadow intercepted the light. A misstep would have sent her down to her death upon one of the points which she seemed to regard no more than if they had been so many flowers. The company watched her with a suspense that was breathless. Suddenly the music ceased, and she stood before them unharmed at the upper point of the lozenge. There was a glow on her cheeks and her bosom panted from her exertions. The guests broke into cries of admiration, casting their wreaths of myrtle at her feet; but she had eyes only for Chares, who lay looking at her with a lazy smile. She frowned and bit her lip.

Before he could make any reply there came a frantic knocking at the door outside the house. Clearchus started forward with an exclamation of alarm. The man whom he had placed on guard ran in, terror stricken, followed by Tolman, one of the slaves from Melissa's house in Academe.

"I know not," Clearchus replied; "we were forewarned; but it would be better for them had they never been born."

"Fetch me a jar of water," Chares cried, pushing aside the guests, who had left their places and were crowding around Clearchus to learn the news. When a slave brought a jar of cold water, the Theban plunged his head into it to clear his brain and shook off the drops from his yellow hair. "Now my armor!" he said.

Leonidas was already occupied in putting on the light accoutrement of a horseman, and, although he said nothing, there was a look of expectant joy on his harsh face.

Thais, who had drawn to one side, stood for a moment, and then seeing that she had been forgotten, slipped away unnoticed. Some of the guests hastened to their homes to arm themselves and follow the three friends, while others remained behind to discuss the event. Clearchus said a hasty farewell, and in a few moments from the arrival of the slave the three young men, followed by Cleon, were racing down to the city gate.

Into the open country they dashed, Clearchus leading the way, while the others spurred madly in their effort to keep pace with him. The sun had not yet risen when they wheeled into the gateway and drew rein at Melissa's villa. The place seemed deserted, for the terrified servants had closed and barred the doors, fearing a renewal of the attack. It was several minutes before they were able to gain an entrance.

The frightened women pressed around Clearchus, wailing and beating their breasts and trying all at once to tell him the story of what had happened. The young man waved them aside and ran to the room where Philox lay. The faithful old steward had received a dagger thrust in the breast and was unconscious. Clearchus then sought Melissa; but in the extremity of her fright she had locked herself in her apartments and refused to open the door.

Finding that nothing was to be learned in that quarter, Clearchus sternly commanded the women to be silent and answer his questions. Trembling, they obeyed, and he managed to make them tell how the marauders had scaled the walls of the house with a ladder and how Philox had fallen while trying to prevent them from admitting their confederates. They had pillaged the house of everything that they could carry. Artemisia had fainted when they laid their hands upon her to take her away, but they had placed her in a litter which they seemed to have ready for the purpose. As nearly as the women were able to judge, they had gone southward, and as soon as they were out of sight, Tolman had ridden to the city to give the alarm.

Clearchus felt two small cold hands clasp his own, and glancing down he saw Proxena, one of Artemisia's little slave girls, with her tear-stained face upturned to his.

The young Athenian could not speak, but he lifted the child quickly and kissed her. In another moment they were off in the pursuit.

CHAPTER VI

SYPHAX EARNS HIS REWARD

Clearchus led the way through brake and thicket and across tilled fields, bearing off slightly to the southwest so as to avoid the Long Walls that joined the city to the Piræus, where he knew the robbers would not dare to venture. They crossed the winding Cephissus by the Sacred Way, skirting the hills that overlook the harbor. It seemed hours to the young man before they emerged upon the brow of a slope that fell away to the rocky beach.

Directly below them was a small inlet from which a boat filled with men was putting out toward a weather-beaten galley that lay a short distance offshore.

"There she is!" Chares cried, pointing to a blotch of white in the bow of the boat.

"We are too late!" Clearchus groaned, as he measured with his eye the widening gap between the boat and the shore. Despair and helpless rage surged up in his heart as they dashed recklessly down the slope.

The distance was too great for his words to be distinguished, although his voice evidently reached the boat. Artemisia heard it and stretched her arms toward him. She struggled to rise, but the sailors held her in her seat. The steersman turned his bearded face toward the shore and shouted out a rough command. The boat continued on toward the galley, whose sails were already spread for flight.

A second boat lay in the inlet with its nose in the sand, while its crew hurriedly stowed away the litter. As Clearchus looked, they completed this task and prepared to push off.

The three young men leaped from their horses, but the boat was now launched. One of the mariners waded into the water, pushing at her stern to give her headway, while the others got out their oars.

"You come too late, idlers!" the seamen cried mockingly as their pursuers leaped down over the rocks to the narrow strip of sand that fringed the inlet. "You should rise earlier in the morning."

The man who had been pushing at the stern of the boat was up to his waist in water. "Pull me in, lads, she has way enough!" he said; but as he gathered himself to spring, Leonidas plunged in after him and clutched him by the ankle. Paying no more attention to his struggles than he would have given to those of some fish that he had taken, the Spartan dragged the spluttering wretch back to the beach. The crew of the boat hesitated for a moment as though doubtful whether to attempt a rescue, but Leonidas settled their doubts by thrusting his sword into the man's throat.

A cry of rage and a volley of threats came from the boat as the sailors witnessed the fate of their comrade. In giving vent to their indignation, they lost valuable seconds of time. So narrow was the inlet that the boat was still within easy javelin cast of the shore. Clearchus ran along the beach abreast of it, promising a fabulous reward to the men who should bring back the captive.

"Seek the girl in the slave markets," was all the reply that he could get, "and see that you come not too late a second time!"

"I promise that you shall not be punished!" the Athenian cried in despair. "At least lend us your boat, or take us with you to the galley."

"If you want our boat, come out and get it!" one of the sailors cried in derision.

The words were still on his lips when a great stone fell into the water close beside the prow, dashing the spray into the faces of the crew. Clearchus looked up in astonishment and saw Chares standing on the crest of the ledge of rock that rose behind the strip of sand. The Theban held another huge and jagged missile poised above his head. With a mighty effort he hurled it at the boat. Uttering cries of terror the sailors attempted to sheer out of the way, but in their confusion, their splashing oars neutralized each other. The great stone, which a man of ordinary strength could not have moved, turned ponderously in the air and struck the gunwale amidships with a crash that tore out the planks in splinters. In an instant the boat filled and went down, leaving the crew struggling among the floating fragments of the litter.

Several of the men, who seemed unable to swim, disappeared beneath the surface. Others struck out for the beach, only to meet death on the swords of Chares and Clearchus on one side, and of Leonidas, who had run around to the opposite shore of the bay to intercept those who sought to escape in that direction.

One man only, a fellow of powerful frame, seeing the fate that awaited him on land, swam boldly for the open sea, preferring to take his chance of being picked up there rather than face death upon the sand.

Without hesitation, he plunged into the sea, holding his sword in his left hand and swimming with his right.

The chase was short, for although the Theban carried a weapon, the sailor was encumbered by his garments.

"Wait, my friend, I have something to say to thee," Chares said, pricking the man with his sword point.

Like a wild beast, the sailor turned in desperation as though to make a struggle for his life. He looked with bloodshot eyes into the Theban's smiling face.

"You have only one chance of seeing to-morrow's sun," Chares said coolly. "Swim before me to the shore and make up your mind on the way to tell all that you know of what has happened."

"That depends," Chares replied, "but I promise you that I will not spare it unless you obey without question."

"There is no help for it," the man muttered, and he swam sullenly back to the beach, where Leonidas quickly secured his arms behind him.

"There is still a chance of capturing the galley," the Spartan said to Clearchus. "Ride quickly to the Piræus and hire a vessel to put out after her. We will bring this fellow in."

Clearchus dashed away toward the harbor, but, as it happened, there was no vessel that could take up the chase with any chance of success. The galley was running before a fresh southwest wind, and although still visible, she was already distant. Of the ships in port, some were newly arrived and were heavily laden, while others were discharging their cargoes. Clearchus offered any price to the captain who should overtake the fugitive and bring Artemisia back, but the offer was made in vain. The best that he could do was to charter six of the swiftest ships that were available to take up the pursuit as soon as they could be made ready.

While he was concluding these arrangements, Chares and Leonidas arrived with the prisoner. The man said that the galley had just returned from a piratical cruise on the coast of Lucania and was under the command of Syphax. He had joined the crew at Locri, he said, and knew nothing about the abduction excepting that they were all to be well paid for it. He was unable to tell what port the galley expected to make after leaving Attica.

Although he was examined later under torture, the man could reveal no more. He was thrown into prison to be used as a witness against his companions should they be caught. The last of the vessels that Clearchus sent on the chase was out of the harbor before nightfall, and the young man, feeling that he had done all that he could do, rode back to the city overwhelmed by his loss. Chares and Leonidas sought in vain to comfort him. His self-reproach at having left Artemisia unguarded after the warning of the dream was too poignant. He shut himself up to avoid the acquaintances who flocked about him to offer their sympathy and to learn the details of his sorrow. They questioned the slaves when they found the doors closed against them and then ran to tell what they had learned in the baths, the barber shops, and the gaming houses, greedy of gossip. Ariston, after making certain that his part in the plot had not been discovered, came to visit his nephew and was admitted.

"We have no defence against the will of the Gods when it falls heavily upon us save one," he said.

"Patience!" Clearchus exclaimed, striding back and forth with clenched fists. "Yes, I will have patience! I will have patience to seek Artemisia to the ends of the world until I have found her! And I will have patience until every man who is concerned in this attack upon us has paid for it with his life. I will be patient!"

Ariston blanched at this outburst, but immediately recovered himself. "Alas! What can you do alone?" he asked mournfully.

"He will not be alone, for Chares and I will be with him," Leonidas said quietly. "We have sworn it."

"I will not advise against it," Ariston said with a sigh. "But it may be that the galleys you have sent out will bring the robbers back. You must not forget that you have duties to the State. The times are troubled and your fortune is great."

"My own affairs must come first at present," Clearchus said bluntly. "As for my fortune, of what use is it to me without Artemisia? I must ask you to take charge of it once more for me. I shall give you full power, and if I come not back I desire that it shall be devoted to the public good as you may see fit."

"I am an old man," Ariston said, with mock hesitation, "but I cannot refuse the trust under the circumstances if you require it of me. Yet, why dost thou leave Athens?"

"How can I remain here?" Clearchus exclaimed. "My suffering is too great. But I knew you would not refuse me," he added in a calmer voice, clasping his uncle by the hand.

"Doubtless they have carried her to some one of the Eastern cities," Ariston said reflectively. "That is where this Syphax would most naturally go, as it seems his hope is to get money. I will write to such friends as I have there to be on the watch."

Clearchus groaned. "It will be too late, I fear, before thy letters can reach them," he said. "I know not what to do nor where to turn."

"Here is Aristotle; let us consult him," Chares said as the philosopher entered.

Aristotle listened attentively while Clearchus and his friends related all the circumstances of Artemisia's abduction. He asked many questions regarding the particulars of the dream of warning that had preceded the attack.

"Some things we know and others we can guess," he said at last. "Only the Gods know all. The world is wide. I pity thee, Clearchus, my friend, with all my heart, and I wish that I might aid thee. It is clear that the warning came from Artemis. I advise thee to seek counsel from Phœbus, her brother. Thou art not an unworthy disciple of his, for thy heart is pure and thy hands are clean. Thou lovest the poets and music. Go to him with faith and perhaps he will aid thee."

Hope appeared upon the face of the young Athenian. "I will go," he said. "The great God himself loved Daphne and lost her. He may take compassion on me. Chares shall remain here and set all things in order so that we may act quickly if a sign should be given. Will you come with me, Leonidas, to Delphi?"

"I will," said the Spartan, "and let us go at once; for I can see that thy heart is sick."

CHAPTER VII

THE RESPONSE OF THE ORACLE

Clearchus and Leonidas rode out of Attica across the olive-bearing plains, and up the rugged spurs and ridges which flank the mountain of Cithæron, upon whose rocky slopes Antiope wailed as an infant, and the rash Pentheus was torn to pieces by women to the end that the power of Dionysius might be established. They halted for a brief space at the fortress of Phyle, the key that had opened to Thrasybulus his native land and enabled him to give it freedom. Leonidas admired the great walls built of square blocks of stone laid one upon another without mortar and fitted so exactly that the joints would scarcely be seen.

Teleon, captain of the guard which was stationed at this gateway, was a friend of Clearchus. He gave them bread and wine, while the young Athenian told him of his misfortune. After expressing his sympathy, Teleon inquired eagerly for the news of Athens.

"Will the Assembly send troops to the aid of Phœnix and Prothytes, who have raised the revolt in Thebes?" he asked. "You know they now hold the city, and my spies tell me that they are preparing for any attack that may be made upon them."

Clearchus gave him an account of the indecisive meeting of the Assembly on the preceding day.

"All Athens believes the boy king is dead," he said, referring to Alexander. "What is your opinion, Teleon?"

"That, too, is the belief in Thebes," the captain replied. "I know not; but if it proves to be so, Thebes is free."

"If not, there will be fighting," Teleon predicted, "and may Zeus inspire the Macedonian to attack us here!"

From the slope beyond Phyle the young man saw the Bœotian plain spread out before them, and beyond, in the purple distance, the rocky ramparts of Phocis. There, glowing rose-colored in the evening light, shone the snow-clad crest of Parnassus. Clearchus' heart swelled as he looked upon the goal in which his hope was centred.

They plunged down the mountain slope into the shadows, which deepened under the plane trees as they advanced, until the winding track was almost hidden before them. The moon rose as they emerged upon the plain that had so often drunk the life-blood of Hellas. At Thespiæ their horses could go no further, and they halted for the night.

Although the road from Thebes was better, they had purposely avoided the city, fearing that the disturbances there might delay them. They found Thespiæ full of rumors of the Theban uprising. Some said that the Macedonians in the Cadmea had been put to the sword; others that the peace party had gained the upper hand and was awaiting the arrival of Alexander. Leonidas, who listened eagerly to all that was said, was surprised to find that the report of the young king's death was discredited in the town. There were even men who insisted that he was on his way through Thessaly at the head of his army, ready to strike.

The Spartan sighed and looked wistfully over his shoulder in the direction of Thebes as they took horse at sunrise. At evening, begrimed with dust, they toiled up the last ascent that led to Delphi, the terraced city among the sacred cliffs—the Navel of the World.

As Clearchus gazed upward at the twin columns of the Phædriades rising side by side a thousand feet above the temple in the cool gray twilight, the fever of anxiety in his blood left him and his pulses beat more slowly. The strong masonry of the outer wall, which enclosed and seemed to hold from slipping down the mountain side the buildings clustered about the lofty terrace, on which the temple stood close under the towering cliffs, shut in the shrine that for centuries all Hellas had looked upon as hallowed. Awe came upon him in the presence of the great Mystery. There were scoffers in Athens who laughed at all religion. There were philosophers in the world who taught that the existence of the Gods was a foolish dream. Why had Phœbus permitted the Phocians to seize his treasure and to profane his altar, they asked, if he really existed?

Clearchus put the same question to himself as he looked down upon the Cirrhæan fields that had been consecrated to the God and condemned to lie waste forever in his honor. The Phocians had desecrated them by cultivation. When condemned by the Amphictyons at the instance of their enemies, the Thebans, they had seized the shrine and the treasure-houses. Though they had prospered for a time, in the end Philomelus and Onomarchus had been slain and the Phocians broken and scattered. The sacrilege had been punished, but Philip had been brought into Hellas as the champion of the God and the chief instrument of his wrath. Thebes had been placed beneath his feet.

What was to be the end? Was the fate of the city that had driven the Phocians to their crime to be worse than that of their victims? Clearchus, as he thought of these things, was chilled with an indefinable dread of the Invisible Presence whose home was among the silent and Titanic crags that made the utmost triumphs of human art and skill laid at their feet seem as transitory as the work of children fashioned in sand. He felt that here the mighty purpose of the Unseen was being worked out, deliberate and irresistible, before which the races of men were as nothing.

They did not enter the city that night, but turned aside to the house of Eresthenes, who had been a guest-friend of Clearchus' father. The old man was overjoyed to see them. After the evening meal he sought the priests of the temple and brought back word that the oracle might be consulted next day if the sacrifice proved propitious.

Clearchus slept soundly. In the morning he purified himself, according to the rule, in the clear, cold waters of the Castalian Font hung about with votive offerings in marble and bronze placed there by grateful pilgrims to the shrine. Eresthenes gave him fresh garments, with the garland of olive and the fillet of wool which suppliants were required to put on.

Guided by the old man, the two friends ascended the wide marble staircase that led to the great stone platform at the southeast corner of the lower terrace, where ceremonial processions were accustomed to form before entering the sacred enclosure. Passing through the gate, they advanced between treasure-houses upon which the most famous sculptors of the world had lavished their skill. Among these and the dwellings of the priests and the chief men of the place were set scores of columns and statues, the offerings of centuries from kings and princes. Across the lower terrace the way led them to the next higher, with a sharp turn to the right at the great stone sphinx which guarded the passage through the second wall. They continued up the slope to the final platform, on which the temple stood resplendent with color.

Entering between the great columns, Eresthenes and Leonidas left Clearchus to the care of the priests—grave men of advanced age who were under the direction of Agias. They led the Athenian to the apartment of the chief priest, a venerable minister whose age had passed one hundred years. He sat in his marble arm-chair, propped by cushions. His white beard flowed over his breast, and his thin hands lay crossed in his lap. He raised his dim eyes and fixed them upon the face of his visitor.

"What wilt thou, Thrasybulus, who comest back to me from beyond the tomb?" he asked in a quavering voice.

The attendant priests glanced at each other in surprise, but none of them dared to reply.

"Thrasybulus has been dead these fifty years, Father," Agias said. "This is Clearchus, an Athenian, who comes as a suppliant to the oracle."

"He is like Thrasybulus!" the old man muttered, bowing his head. "It seems but yesterday that he stood before me." He paused for a moment and then continued with an effort: "Art thou pure of heart? Art thou free from the sins of the flesh?"

"Then pass into the presence of the God who knoweth all and who doth not forget!" said the patriarch, closing his eyes wearily.

Clearchus bowed and was about to turn away, when the old man roused himself once more.

"Come hither, boy, and let me look at thee!" he said. "My sight is growing dim."

Clearchus knelt at his feet, and the aged priest placed his hand on his head, stroking his hair and peering into his face.

"So like Thrasybulus! It was only yesterday!" he said to himself. "The storm comes and the world is changing. Thou shalt see thrones made empty and nations perish; but the God will remain until a greater cometh. Clearchus art thou called? It may be so; but to me thou art Thrasybulus. Go thy ways. The God will be kind to thee."

Although the other priests were evidently struck by this unusual scene, they made no comment, but led Clearchus into the dim interior of the temple. On every hand, between the columns and against the walls, gleamed statues and vessels of precious metals, exquisite in design and workmanship, that the Phocians had not dared to remove from the house itself of the God. Before them stood a group of young women in snowy robes with fillets in their hair. They were chanting a hymn of slow and solemn measure.

They ceased their chant as the priests entered with Clearchus, and two of them advanced, leading between them one of the three priestesses of the temple. The Pythia was a woman of middle age, slender of figure, with large gray eyes that seemed to look at Clearchus without seeing him. Her thin cheeks still retained the fresh color of youth, and her lips, of a deep red, moved gently as though she were whispering to herself.

Looking about him with eyes grown accustomed to the semidarkness, Clearchus saw a slightly raised platform of white marble toward the rear of the temple. Three shallow steps led to a broad slab, in the middle of which was a cleft. Through this orifice curled a pale, fleeting vapor, which rose like transparent smoke for the height of a man above the platform before it vanished. It came from the stone in puffs and spirals which swayed, now this way, now that, with a peculiarly irregular and capricious impulse like the balancing of a coiled serpent.

Over the cleft was set a low tripod, the legs of which were formed of intertwined snakes wrought in gold so cunningly that every scale seemed reproduced in the bright metal. The jewelled eyes of the reptiles twinkled through the vapor which alternately hid and revealed them.

Slowly and solemnly the priestesses led the Pythia to the foot of the platform, where they gave her hands to two of the most venerable of the priests, whose office it was to conduct her to the tripod. Her lips formed themselves into a smile as she mounted the steps and the women resumed their chanting.

As she took her place upon the tripod and the priests descended, leaving her alone, a sudden thunderstorm burst above the towering crags which overhung the shrine. The wind roared down between the Phædriades with mighty strength, and a crash of thunder, leaping and reverberating from rock to cliff, shook the temple to its foundations.

"Zeus is speaking to the son of Latona!" murmured Agias, and all bowed their heads in reverence.

Filled as he was with awe, Clearchus felt reassured by the calm demeanor of the priests. He fixed his eyes on the Pythia, who remained seated on the tripod with her hands loosely folded in her lap, oblivious alike to the storm and to her surroundings. The chill vapor seemed to grow more dense. At times it hid her entirely, wrapping her in its cold embrace. The color deepened in her cheeks and the smile left her parted lips. With dilated pupils she gazed over the heads of the little group before her. Gradually her face assumed a troubled expression and her tongue began to frame broken words and fragmentary sentences the purport of which Clearchus could not understand. Suddenly she half raised her hands as though she would cover her eyes and her face contracted as with a spasm of pain.

"Ask thy question—the God is here!" Agias whispered, pushing Clearchus toward the platform.

The young man found himself standing alone in the dread Presence, gazing upon the Pythia, who was no longer a woman, but an instrument in the hands of the God. The vapor curled about her and encircled her in swiftly changing, fantastic forms. Her gray eyes looked out into his, fixed and steadfast, and the tension of the influence which possessed her convulsed her features. Dead silence reigned throughout the vast and shadowy interior of the temple.

Clearchus tried to frame the question that he had prepared but the words refused to come. The awe of his surroundings paralyzed his speech.

Suddenly the dear, wistful face of his love seemed to appear to him amid the folds of the rolling mist, filled with sorrow and yearning. His fear left him. All else, even life itself, was as nothing before the fierce desire of his heart.

"Where shall I find Artemisia?" he cried, stretching out his arms before the whirling cloud which hid the priestess in its embrace.

There was a moment of suspense, in which he could hear the dull rushing of the torrent that filled the sluices, overflowing with the rain, on either side of the temple. The priests leaned forward attentively to catch the reply, each holding a tablet of wax and a stylus with which to record any words that the Pythia might utter. Clearchus stood motionless, his arms still outstretched, gazing with straining eyes upon the lips of the priestess. She writhed upon the tripod as though in agony. Her eyes were set and glassy and a slight foam showed itself upon her mouth. Then came her voice, strained and strange, through the eddies of the vapor:—

Her eyes closed, and a shuddering sigh issued from her bosom. The two priests who had placed her upon the tripod hastened forward and bore her from the platform. She had lost consciousness completely. Her head drooped upon her shoulder and her face was as pale as death. The old men gave her in charge of the women, who ran forward to receive her and quickly carried her into their own apartments.

A great joy filled Clearchus. "She is safe! She is safe! And I shall find her!" he said to himself, following the silent priests out of the temple. As they passed out into the portico he looked back over his shoulder at the platform where the God had manifested himself. The swift storm had swept over and the sun was shining again. A gleam of his light fell upon the curling mist and Clearchus saw it tinged with the prismatic colors of the rainbow.

CHAPTER VIII

THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS

Leonidas and Eresthenes stood in the portico of the temple awaiting the return of Clearchus.

"All is well!" the young man cried, throwing his arms around Leonidas in the excess of his joy.

Clearchus hesitated and his face fell. The oracle had not told him where she was.

"What did the God mean when he spoke of the Whirlwind's track?" he asked, turning to the priests.

"We know no more than thou," Agias replied. "The answer given to thee is more definite than any we have had in these later times. That is a good omen. Be content and doubtless the God will choose his own way to make all clear to thee."

Clearchus was troubled, but he thanked the priests and arranged for the bestowal of an offering of ten talents of gold. He was about to take his leave when a man with mud-stained garments came running up the steep incline to the temple. He was one of the agents or messengers that the priests maintained in every large city of Greece to keep them informed of events. The knowledge which they brought, added to that which came with visitors to the oracle from all parts of the world, made Delphi the centre of intelligence and enabled the servants of the God, if need there was, to supplement his answers from their own understanding.

The man halted breathless before the white-clad group that stood in the sunlight between the columns awaiting him.

"Out of the mountains of Thessaly—like a whirlwind!" Cimon replied. "Before men had time to learn of his approach, he was there."

Clearchus was amazed. He had believed that the words of the Pythia were to be taken in their literal sense, and he had resolved to consult Aristotle in the matter on his return to Athens. But when Agias called his attention to the reply of the messenger, who could have had no knowledge of the prophecy, he could not doubt that a metaphor had been intended. The plans of the young Macedonian monarch at once acquired a new and intense interest in his mind and he listened eagerly to Cimon's story.

"The Thebans are divided," said the messenger. "They know not whether to surrender their city and earn their pardon, or to give defiance to the young king. The last they had heard of him was that he had been slain in battle at Pelium by the blow of a club. You know already that the citizens rose when Phœnix and Prothytes came back from Athens and that they besieged the Macedonian garrison in the Cadmea. Athens sent money and promised an army. The Bœotarchs ordered the walls to be made strong and a barricade to be built inside so that even if the walls should fall, they would still be able to defend themselves. Fugitives from Onchestris brought the first news that Alexander and his army were there. Even then the city would not believe it was the Hegemon himself, but maintained that it must be Antipater or the Lyncestian namesake of the king. For how, they asked, could the dead come to life?"

"We expected a swift attack," Cimon continued, "but it was not until the next day that the army came within sight of the city and encamped north of the walls. The Thebans sent their cavalry and light troops to meet them. This was only a skirmish, but the soldiers brought word that Alexander, indeed, was there. Some of them who knew him had seen him directing the Macedonian troops.

"We found this to be true when the Macedonians moved their camp around to the main gate. The soldiers of the garrison in the Cadmea recognized their king and cried out to us that Alexander had come to avenge them. Still he did not attack, but sent a herald to say that he would forgive all that had been done if the city would yield itself and send him Phœnix and Prothytes to be punished."

"There were many who favored accepting the terms," Cimon replied, "especially since aid from Athens had been cut off; but the exiles who had returned to raise the revolt declared that the king was afraid. Should he have the boldness to attack the walls, they promised that he would be beaten and that Thebes would send a garrison to Pella instead of having one in the Cadmea."

"But they won the people," Cimon replied, "and it was resolved to fight. So matters stood when I slipped out of the northern gate last night to bring you word."

"You have done well, Cimon," Agias said. "Dost thou think the city will escape?"

"That I cannot tell," the messenger answered. "It has corn enough for a siege; but Alexander's army contains thirty thousand footmen and a troop of horse, besides ballistæ and battering-rams which they were setting up when I left."

"The walls are strong," Agias said, reflecting. "Well, go to thy rest. Thou hast need of it."

Clearchus and his friends had enough to talk about as they walked down from the temple.

"One thing is certain," said the young Athenian. "We must go at once to Thebes."

"They cannot," Leonidas said. "The man who could make the march that Alexander made is a general as well as a king. There is no Epaminondas in Thebes now."

"What will become of Chares' mother and his family if the city falls?" Clearchus exclaimed, stopping short.

"Have I not heard him say that his father formed a guest-friendship with Philip when the Macedonian was left in Thebes as a hostage?" Leonidas replied.

"Yes," Clearchus admitted, "but that may be forgotten by his son if all they say concerning Philip's death be true."

"Then we must remind him," Leonidas said, "and that is another reason why we must go to Thebes."

Eresthenes gave the young men a cordial good-speed when they left him in the morning to set out for the beleaguered city. They descended from the mountains and entered the fertile plains of Bœotia, through which they rode all day without finding a sign of war. The farmers went about their work and the shepherds were pasturing their flocks as peacefully as though there were no such things as armies and slaughter. More than once they stopped to ask news of the siege, but the people of the plain could tell them nothing. Many of them had not heard that Alexander was before the city; others had indeed heard the rumor, but convinced that they themselves were safe, they took no interest in it.

Evening was drawing on and they had approached to within a few miles of the city when they met a rider whose horse was dripping with sweat.

The man looked at them, but made no answer. He bent low on the neck of his horse and his cloak flew out behind him like the wings of a huge bird.

Burning with impatience, they urged their horses to the crest of a low hill, where they came suddenly upon half a dozen cavalrymen, who had halted in a small grove to bind up a wound which one of their number had received in the shoulder.

"Know you not that the city has fallen?" one of the soldiers replied. "The accursed Macedonians forced us in through the gates and came in with us. Not a soul is left alive in Thebes, and my wife and children were there!"

The poor fellow burst into tears at this reproach as he thought of the fate of his little family. Clearchus, touched by his grief, drew out his purse and gave it to him.

As the two friends proceeded they now began to meet other bands of fugitives straggling along the road. Most of them fled silently, often looking back over their shoulders as if in dread of pursuit.

They were rounding a turn in the road as he spoke, and before the words were well out of his mouth they found themselves entangled in a rabble of horsemen, who were retreating before a fierce attack.

"In here, quickly!" Leonidas cried, urging his horse back among the trees beside the road.

They had barely time to gain this shelter before the rush of plunging horses and shouting men went past them. The Thebans were evidently making a desperate attempt to rally, and just beyond the spot where the two were concealed they halted, wheeled, and stood at bay.

But before they had accomplished this manœuvre the foremost of the pursuers, headed by a young man riding a powerful chestnut horse, swept into sight. The leader, in his excitement, had distanced his troop. Clearchus and Leonidas, who, from their position in the elbow of the road, were able to see in both directions, realized that he was galloping straight into an ambush. Leonidas started forward to warn him, but it was too late. The Thebans had regained their order, and with a wild shout they charged back around the curve.

Either the unexpectedness of the onset caused the chestnut to swerve, or his rider tried to pull him up too suddenly, for he stumbled and went to his knees. The young man was pitched headforemost into the underbrush and fell almost at the feet of Leonidas.

Some of the Theban troopers saw the accident and rushed upon him with cries of triumph. They were confronted by Leonidas and Clearchus, who stood over the prostrate figure with drawn swords. Surprise caused the Thebans to hesitate, and this saved the lives of all three; for the Macedonian riders, thundering down upon the Thebans at full speed, struck them and tore them to pieces. Horse and man went down before that fierce charge, which left nothing behind excepting the dead and a handful of wounded, whose cries for mercy were cut short by a sword-thrust. The survivors fled without looking behind them.

"Where is Ptolemy?" shouted one of the Macedonians, a bearded man who seemed to be second in command. "Who has seen the captain?"

"If we do not bring him back, we shall have to answer for it to the king, and you know what that means," the first man said.

The bearded lieutenant and several others hastily dismounted and carried their captain out into the road. He was still unconscious.

"Who are you?" the lieutenant demanded gruffly, looking at the two young men with suspicion.

"Of Athens!" the man said sneeringly. "Go back to your city and tell the cowards who live there that we are coming!"

"I am of Sparta!" he cried boastfully. "My country never saw the face of Philip, nor shall it look upon that of his son, who calls himself the Hegemon of all Hellas. Put away your swords, or here is one whose funeral you will celebrate to-morrow!"

He placed the point of his blade at the captain's throat as he spoke. The men of Macedon dared not move.

"Listen to reason!" Clearchus said hastily. "We are without armor, as you see. We saved the life of your captain, and we are on our way to Thebes to see Alexander on matters of importance. Take us with you and let your king deal with us. This is no time nor place for brawling."

He sheathed his sword, and the others followed his example, though with an ill grace. The captain had begun to recover his senses. His skull must have been tough to have resisted the shock of his fall without cracking.

"Scattered and gone, excepting these that you see," the lieutenant replied, pointing to the bodies.

As they rode the lieutenant explained the presence of Clearchus and Leonidas. The captain frankly gave them thanks when he learned that they had protected him while he lay helpless.

"I am Ptolemy," he said, "and since you desire to see Alexander, I will take you to him. I owe you much and the day may come when I shall be able to repay you."

CHAPTER IX

THE DOOM OF THEBES

The plain where once the sons of Niobe lay weltering had borne its last harvest of slaughter. On every side Leonidas and Clearchus noted the ghastly evidences of battle. Darkness fell before Ptolemy's troop reached the shattered gates of Thebes. Men with torches in their hands wandered through the streets strewn with corpses, seeking plunder among the dead or searching for the bodies of friends. Neither sex nor age had been spared when Perdiccas hewed his way into the city. The very altars of the Gods were crimsoned with the vengeance taken by the Phocians, the Platæans, and the Bœotians for the centuries of cruel oppression that they had suffered from the rapacious brood of the Dragon.

Mothers lay dabbled in blood, with their infants beside them, struck down in flight. The market-place was heaped with bodies, showing how desperate had been the final stand of the Theban soldiers. The streets were littered with household gear that had been dragged in wantonness from despoiled homes.

The plundering was not yet finished. Bands of soldiers were still searching for booty in the remoter quarters of the city, where their progress could be traced by the sound of their drunken laughter, mingled with the screams of their victims.

Macedonian guards paced the walls and cut off all hope of escape. The wretched inhabitants, driven into the highways, sought concealment in dark angles and narrow lanes, cowering in silence.

Here and there a woman, rendered desperate by her anguish, walked with dishevelled hair, heedless of insult, seeking her children among the slain in the hope that she might find them still alive.

Clearchus felt his heart grow faint at the thought that Artemisia might be exposed to the frightful chances of such a sack. Phœbus himself, he thought, might be unable to protect her, since here the temples of the Gods had been profaned. An old man in priestly robes stood out before them with trembling hands upraised.

"Vengeance, O Zeus!" he cried aloud. "Vengeance upon those who have violated the sanctuary of Dionysus, thy son! May they—"

"Silence, Graybeard!" growled a soldier, striking him across the mouth with his fist.

"You'll choke if you ever try to drink wine again, Glaucis!" a comrade cried, laughing.

"Dionysus will forgive me soon enough for a sacrifice," Glaucis returned. "Never fear!"

Ptolemy learned that Alexander had gone to the Cadmea and thither he led Clearchus and Leonidas after he had dismissed his men, eager to take their share in the pillage. They found the young king in a large, bare room in the lower part of the citadel. He had not yet laid aside his armor, which was dented and scratched by use.

When they entered, he was giving orders to his captains, who stood grouped about him. Clearchus looked at him with eager interest. He saw a well-proportioned, athletic figure, no taller than his own. The handsome beardless face glowed with the warm blood of youth and a smile parted the full red lips. There was no trace of fatigue in the young king's attitude, despite the labors of the day, and his movements were alert and decisive. He looked even more youthful than his twenty-one years as he stood among his leaders, some of whom were veterans of Philip's campaigns, grizzled with service. But in spite of his youth, there was a confidence in his bearing that left no doubt of who was master.

Clearchus felt himself strangely drawn to the young man whom all Hellas, with the exception of Sparta, acknowledged as its champion, and who was about to assail that great power beyond the Hellespont, whose limits were unknown and before whom Greece had stood in dread since the days of Great Cyrus. The Athenian found the "boy king" very different from the arrogant, mean-spirited upstart that the orators of his city had painted him.

"Stop the plundering," Alexander said to his captains. "Even the Bœotians must be satisfied by this time. Let the men go back to the camp, and see that order is maintained. The Ætolians and the Elæans are on the march and reënforcements are coming from Athens. There may be more work to do to-morrow."

As the officers left him to execute his commands, Alexander turned to Ptolemy with hands outstretched.

"I am glad to see you safe!" he said. "You charged bravely before the gate, and I feared that something might have happened that would deprive me of your aid when we march into Persia."

Ptolemy's bronzed face reddened with pleasure as he heard the praise of the young king.

"Is it likely that any of those who escaped will be able to rally?" Alexander asked.

"They are scattered in every direction and think only of flight," Ptolemy replied.

"That is well," Alexander said. "We shall be the better able to deal with the others when they come. Who are these that you have brought to me?"

He turned toward the two young men, who had been standing at a little distance, and looked them frankly in the eyes.

"This is Clearchus, an Athenian, and this, Leonidas of Sparta," Ptolemy replied, presenting them in turn.

Alexander's face clouded at the names of the two most powerful of the states that opposed him in Greece, and Ptolemy hastened to add: "They saved my life when my horse stumbled in the pursuit, and they have a request to make of you."

"You have done me a great service," Alexander said kindly. "What is it that you desire?"

"We ask clemency for the family of Jason, on behalf of Chares, his son, whom we left behind in Athens," Clearchus replied.

"Because he did not know that you were coming," Clearchus said. "Had he been aware of the danger, he would not have been absent. We heard of your arrival while we were in Delphi, and we made all haste to remind you that Jason was a guest-friend of your father, Philip."

"Orders have been given that the guest-friends of Macedon shall be spared, both in their lives and their property," Alexander replied. "What did you in Delphi?"

Clearchus told him briefly how Artemisia had been stolen and of the response of the oracle.

"I would give all that I possess to recover Artemisia," Clearchus replied. "Nor would I be willing to exchange my hope of finding her for the wisdom of Aristotle or even for the hopes of Alexander."

"So you know Aristotle," Alexander said. "He is a wonderful man. Were I not Alexander, I would envy him." He looked curiously at Clearchus as he spoke, as though he were considering something that he did not understand. "So that is what they call love," he continued, "and I and my army are the Whirlwind of which the God spoke." He beckoned to an attendant. "Call Aristander!" he said.

He made Clearchus repeat his story to the famous soothsayer. Aristander listened attentively, stroking his chin with the tips of his fingers as his custom was.

"What do you think of it?" Alexander asked, when Clearchus had finished. Everybody knew the confidence that he placed in the words of the prophet and that he never took an important step against his advice.

"Full credit must be given to the oracle," Aristander said, turning his blue eyes upon the young king, "and I think that the priests of the temple were right in their interpretation, since the message brought and the title given could have had no other meaning. As the maid was carried away by sea, she was probably taken to some island or to one of the cities on the coast of Asia. The Whirlwind's track must needs lead thither, and since the maid is to be set free, it is clear that the Whirlwind shall prevail."

"Then the oracle is propitious!" Alexander exclaimed. "What is your plan?" he added to Clearchus.

"I shall obey the oracle and follow in thy track," the Athenian replied. "If thou wilt permit me, I myself will become a part of the Whirlwind."

"Thou art welcome!" he said. "And you, my friend of stubborn Sparta?" he continued to Leonidas.

"You shall be of my Companions," Alexander cried, placing his hand upon a shoulder of each. "The world grows old and we have been wasting our strength in foolish quarrels with each other while the tiger has been lying there across the water, waiting to devour us. We shall show him that the spirit of Hellas still lives, although Troy has fallen, and we will do deeds that shall be sung by some new Homer as worthy too of a place beside those of Achilles and Ajax and Agamemnon. Yes, and we will bring back a fleece more precious than that which the Argonauts sought. I promise you that the Whirlwind's track shall be long enough and broad enough to lead you to your heart's desire, whatever it may be. Ptolemy, I count these men among my friends and I give them into your charge."

Clearchus and Leonidas felt their hearts swell at the young king's words and his lofty generosity, but before they could thank him, they were interrupted by a commotion at the door.

"Out of the way! I will see him! I care not how late it is," an angry voice exclaimed.

Alexander quietly signed to the guard, and the Theban strode into the room, clad in armor that clashed noisily as he walked. He looked neither to the right nor left, but went straight to Alexander.

"I am come to remind the King of Macedon of the ties of hospitality," he said boldly, in a voice more fitted to a demand than a petition.

Alexander measured his great stature with admiration in his glance, noting that the armor, gold-inlaid, was crusted with mud and grime like his own.

The Theban, ignorant of the young king's train of thought and of what had gone before, imagined that he saw mockery in this remark. His face flushed darkly.

"My name is Chares!" he said haughtily. "Jason, my father, was the friend of Epaminondas, who furnished thy father with the weapons that thou hast used against us this day. I come not to thee on my own behalf, but on that of my mother and sisters, who were shut in here when the attack came."

Chares staggered and his face blanched. "Too late!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Does Alexander, then, make war upon women?"

"I say you came too late," Alexander replied, "and doubly so; for your friends, here, were more prompt than you, and yet even they were tardy."

"My friends!" Chares cried in bewilderment, seeing Leonidas and Clearchus for the first time.

"Alexander speaks the truth," Clearchus said quickly. "We are all too late, because he had already given orders for the safety of your family."

"I ask your forgiveness; I spoke without understanding," Chares said, turning to the king.

"Thou hast courage," Alexander said with a smile, "but I would not choose thee as my envoy on a delicate mission. Thou wert not here to defend thy home?"

"And I am glad," the young king rejoined, "for hadst thou been inside the walls, I fear I might have lost men whom I cannot spare. Didst thou come from Athens?"

"I left Athens with the army," Chares answered, "but it halted on the frontier when news arrived that Thebes had fallen."

"Then there will be no more fighting!" Alexander exclaimed, turning to Ptolemy. "I am glad of it. Greet thy mother for me, Chares, and tell her to fear nothing. Ptolemy will conduct you."

Escorted by the Macedonian captain, the three friends descended from the citadel. Order had been restored in the city as though by magic. Only the military patrols and the bodies of the dead remained in the streets. The living had been driven into their houses, taking the wounded with them. The plunderers had retired to the camp outside the walls.

Chares strode eagerly in advance, asking many questions regarding the experiences of his friends in Delphi. The house of Jason, a mansion built near the northern end of the city, had been saved by its location from the desperate fighting that had taken place about the southern gate and in the market-place. They found a guard stationed at the door.

"You see that the king is as good as his word," Ptolemy said. "You will find nothing disturbed here."

"How could he have remembered his friends in the heat of the attack?" Chares asked.

Chares urged the Macedonian to enter, but Ptolemy declined on the ground of fatigue and left them. The slave at the gate went wild with joy when he caught sight of his young master. He had been waiting in momentary expectation of being summoned forth to the death that he was convinced awaited everybody in the city.

Chares hastened to the women's court, where he found his mother and sisters robed in white and surrounded by their maids, who were trying to spin, although their fingers trembled so that they could hardly hold the distaff. The widow of Jason, a woman with silvery hair and a face that was still beautiful, sat calmly in the midst of the group, awaiting with quiet courage what might befall. She rose with composure to greet her son and his companions.

"You are safe, mother!" Chares exclaimed, clasping her in his arms. "Alexander has given his word that you shall be unharmed!"

"You have seen him?" she returned. "That is well. You may go to your rest. Nothing shall harm you," she added, dismissing her maidens.

CHAPTER X

CHARES BARTERS HIS SWORD

What was to be the fate of Thebes? The minds of the wretched inhabitants of the city were diverted from their sorrows as they asked each other this question on the morning after the battle. The dead had been removed from the streets. The wounded had been cared for. The enemy had withdrawn outside the walls, after posting guards in sufficient numbers to suppress any rising that the Thebans might be desperate enough to attempt.

All eyes were directed toward the Cadmea, within whose gray walls the punishment that was to be visited upon the city was being discussed. One citizen suggested that a heavy fine would be exacted. Another declared he had heard that the Thebans would be forbidden to bear arms. A dozen similar conjectures were made and canvassed before news came from the Cadmea that Alexander had left the Phocians, the Platæans, and the Bœotians, his allies, to impose the sentence. This announcement was received in gloomy silence; for more than one Theban recalled how his city in her day of pride had blotted out Orchomenus and Platæa and sold their people into bondage.

The anxious watchers in the streets at last saw a stir in the crowd that waited outside the gates of the citadel. The portals opened, and the victorious generals, surrounded by waving standards, came out and began to descend from the rock. The spectators below saw the Thebans scatter before them, tossing their arms above their heads and rending their garments. A hush full of dread fell upon the city.

"Thebes must perish! Her walls must go down!" cried one from above with a despairing gesture.

"We are to be sold for slaves!" shouted another, halting upon a parapet and making a trumpet of his hands.

The tidings were received with incredulity, followed by stupefaction. The blow had fallen, and it was worse than even the least sanguine prophet had predicted. The generals, as they rode toward the gates of the city, were followed by men who fell on their knees and begged for quarter. No heed was paid to their prayers, and the escort of soldiers thrust them back with jeers.

Alexander remained in the Cadmea, where Chares and a handful of the most prominent Thebans, who had been able to establish guest-friendship with the royal house of Macedon, sought him to intercede for the city. They found him alone, sitting with his chin in his hand. They recalled to him the glorious deeds of Thebes, dwelt upon the misery that the sentence would inflict upon the innocent, and warned him that all Hellas would reproach him if he permitted it to be carried into effect. They admitted the fault of the city and asked forgiveness.

"All that you have said to me," he replied when they had finished, "I have already said to myself. Thebes has been false to her oath. I pardoned her as did Philip, my father. The sentence is not mine, but that of my allies, and what cause they have, you know. Can I ask them to forget?"

Terror ran with the news through all Greece. The Athenians, the Ætolians, and the Elæans, who had encouraged the rebellion with money and promises of further aid, hastily recalled their troops and sent ambassadors to sue for mercy. Demosthenes was chosen to plead for Athens, but when he had advanced on his journey as far as Mount Cithæron, his courage failed him and he turned back. The young king sent a messenger to Athens calling upon the Athenians to deliver eight of their orators who had been foremost in stirring up the people against Macedon, and the name of Demosthenes stood at the head of the list.

In the Assembly that was called to consider this demand Demosthenes won the day by repeating the fable of how once the wolves asked the sheep to deliver to them their watch-dogs and how, when the demand had been granted, they fell upon the defenceless flock. But so great was the fear of Alexander among the people that they might, after all, have sent the orators to Thebes had not the men who were threatened hired Demades with a fee of five talents to offer himself as an intermediary. The offer was accepted and Alexander yielded.

The escape of Demosthenes through the intercession of his inveterate enemy and the mysterious disappearance of Thais were the talk of the city when Chares arrived with his two friends, bringing his family with him. Clearchus received them into his house, where they were to remain during his absence from Athens in search of Artemisia, following the directions of the oracle. Ariston was much disappointed when his nephew refused to exact any rental from his friend. He had taken charge of Clearchus' fortune again, and it grieved him that any possible source of income should be neglected. But Clearchus knew that Chares had need of all his resources; for his mother had drawn up a list of the friends of the family who had been forced to remain in Thebes, telling him that he must purchase them and thus save them from slavery, even if it should take all they possessed in the world. As the list was long, Clearchus deemed it wise not only to place his house at the disposal of Jason's widow, but to make provision for its maintenance out of his own income while he should be away.

He paid no attention to the grumbling of his uncle, who affected to look upon this generosity as little short of madness. He said so much to dissuade the young man from his plan, that Clearchus at last was forced to remonstrate with him.

"One would think that you were on the brink of ruin," he said, "instead of being one of the richest men in Athens, if reports that I have begun to hear lately are true."

"Who says that?" Ariston demanded sharply. "He lies, whoever repeats such things. Whenever you hear it, if you love me, say that it is not true. If such stories should get to be believed, that accursed Demosthenes will be forcing me to fit out a trireme for some of his wild schemes. The times are so troubled that what little I have been able to save by my frugality for the support of my age I am likely to lose."

He was not unwilling to have his nephew believe that he was at least moderately rich, for had Clearchus known the straits his uncle was in, his suspicions might have been aroused. With his mind full of the loss of Artemisia, there was small chance that he would discover anything.

Like vultures upon a deserted field of battle the slave-dealers gathered at the great market of flesh and blood at Thebes. The sale of the population of the city had been delayed so as to insure a good attendance; for Alexander had need of the money that it was expected to yield with which to defray the cost of his expedition against the Great King. Speculators, traffickers by wholesale, and agents from every considerable mart in the world, to say nothing of amateurs, flocked to the city. It was not so much the fact that thirty thousand men and women were to be offered and the consequent probability of low prices that drew them as the quality of the victims. It was easy enough to purchase slaves in almost any number, but there was a vast difference between ignorant barbarians, captured in distant raids, and the population of one of the oldest and most cultured of the Grecian cities. And no comparison was to be made between girls who had been destined to slavery from their cradles and the Theban maidens reared in the shelter of luxury and ease.

It had been expected that it would take several days to dispose of the prisoners, but so numerous were the buyers that the Macedonians decided to attempt it in one day. For greater convenience, the captives were separated into companies of about five hundred and brought out upon the plain before the city, where most of the dealers had pitched their tents. Each division was guarded by a squad of soldiers commanded by an officer, whose duty it was to conduct the auction of the group under his care.

No outcry was permitted among the hapless population. Mothers clasped their children in their arms, weeping softly over them. Some awaited their fate with sullen resignation. Others looked for a prodigy to restore them to freedom and their city. A report had gone abroad that Dionysus would appear in person and forbid the sale. On all sides rose the murmur of his name in tones of entreaty or reproach. With anxious eyes, the believers scanned the sky and the barren hillsides for some sign, they knew not what. None was vouchsafed. Their God had deserted them.

In order that the friends whom he was to ransom might not be lost in the confusion, Chares had obtained consent that they be assembled in one group. They came last out of the city, clad in garments of mourning and moving in heavy-footed procession. Lest he should raise false hopes, Chares had made a secret of his plans. The prisoners fully expected to pass into the possession of strangers. Old men of grave face and dignified bearing, who had spent their lives in the service of the city and whose names were known throughout Greece, led the way. Behind them walked their women, proud of bearing and accustomed to the privileges of rank and wealth. Some of the matrons led daughters who looked with terror upon the strange scenes that met their eyes. Orphaned children clung to each other in fear, while here and there new-made widows, whose husbands had been slain when the strength and vigor of the city were cut off in a day, walked sadly and alone.

When all had been herded within the ring formed by the guard, the Macedonian captain who was to conduct the sale of the group that contained Chares' friends mounted briskly upon a block of stone and announced the terms prescribed for buyers. Payment was to be made in all cases in cash, and the purchaser was to have immediate possession. Chares took a position facing the auctioneer in a knot of dealers who were searching for some fortunate speculation. These men looked upon the unhappy Thebans with professional keenness, exchanging comments among themselves.

"That's a fine old fellow with the white beard," said one. "He looks as though he might have money out at interest somewhere."

"Probably he's only a philosopher," another said scornfully. "For my part, I shall buy that thin one. He has been living on bread and water all his life and he must have a snug sum buried. Trust me to make him dig it up!"

"There seem to be some marketable girls here," observed a third. "I find the Medes will pay a better price for them if they have a pedigree as well as good looks."

Mena, the Egyptian, prying about through the crowd, examined the captives with speculative eyes. Suddenly he caught sight of a figure that caused him to stop and stare. It was that of a young woman, veiled, who seemed to be seeking to conceal herself behind the other prisoners.

"Who is she?" he asked of one of the guard when he had recovered from his astonishment.

Mena seemed puzzled. "I must find out more about this," he said to himself, taking his stand at a point of vantage. "Besides, there may be a chance here to turn a profitable investment."

The chatter ceased as the captain opened a roll of papyrus containing the names of the prisoners and announced that the sale was about to begin. The old man with the white beard was the first to be brought forward. He proved to have been one of the Bœotarchs.

"How much am I offered for him?" the captain cried. "He is old, but his wisdom is all the greater for that."

"Five drachmæ!" shouted a countryman in a patched and faded cloak. "He gave a decision against me once in a lawsuit."

Everybody laughed at this reason for making a bid, but the farmer seemed in deadly earnest.

"Five minæ!" Chares said quietly. There was no other bid and the sale was made.

Then came a slender girl with yellow hair and blue eyes that were swollen with weeping. Her chiton of fine linen clung in graceful folds to her slim figure, and she trembled so violently that she could scarcely stand.

"She ought to fill out well if she lives," said one of the merchants, stroking his beard, while he examined her carefully. "But it's always a risk to buy them so young."

"She might be trained to dance," said Mena, who had elbowed his way into the crowd. "It's worth trying if she goes cheap. Fifty drachmæ!"

"That's ten times what she is worth!" Mena exclaimed, turning angrily upon the Theban. "Are you trying to prevent honest men from making a living?"

The laugh that followed filled the Egyptian with rage. He was cunning enough to wait until Chares had made several more purchases, and at prices far above the market value of the captives. Mena guessed that the Theban intended to outbid all who opposed him. He resolved to be revenged by making him pay dearly for his purchases. It happened that the next offering was a man whose name was not on Chares' list. Out of mere good nature he bid two hundred and fifty drachmæ for him.

"Five minæ!" the Egyptian shouted, doubling the bid with the intention of forcing Chares to go higher.

But Chares was silent, and no other bidder appeared. Mena, who did not have the money that he had offered, shifted uneasily, looking at Chares.

"I see you have some sense," he cried at last. "You are afraid to bid against me!"

"He is yours," the auctioneer said, addressing Mena. "Step this way with your money!"

"Do you mean to accuse me of trying to cheat you?" roared the Macedonian captain.

While the prisoner was being awarded to Chares, two men led Mena out of the circle, amid the jeers of the spectators. At a safe distance, under pretence of seeing whether he really had the money he had offered, they took from him all that he possessed and divided it between themselves before they let him go.

"I'll make him sorry for this!" Mena said, shaking his fist at Chares. "I know what I know; but why do they call her Maia?"

Burning with rage, the Egyptian slunk away in search of his master, Phradates, whom he found wandering idly among the scattered groups of captives.

The Phœnician's figure was tall and well knit, although the profusion of jewels and golden chains that he wore, and his garments of rich silk, woven with gold thread, gave him an effeminate look. His face might have been handsome had it not been marred by an expression of haughty insolence which betrayed the weakness upon which Mena intended to play.

He had been sent into Greece by Azemilcus and the Tyrian Council in the guise of a rich young man on his travels, but with the real object of discovering the plans and strength of Alexander. Tyre was nominally tributary to the Great King, but the only sign of her dependence was the payment of a small annual tribute. In all matters of moment she managed her own affairs. It was important, therefore, for her rulers to have exact knowledge of what was going forward in Greece, so that they might shape their course as seemed best for their own advantage.

Mena noted the flush on his master's cheek and foresaw the success of his scheme of revenge.

"It occurred to my poor mind," he explained volubly, "that your Highness would be pleased with a slave from this city of rats, which, nevertheless, contains some charming maidens. I learned that they had assembled all the prisoners of gentle birth in one place together. I went there and examined them for you. Among them I found a girl of rare beauty and when I asked concerning her, they told me she was Maia, daughter of Thales, one of the chief men in the city. Such a form as she has!—with hair like copper and a glance that would—"

"I chose her for your Highness and gave command that she be reserved until I could find you to claim her," Mena continued. "But it seems a Theban, whom they call Chares, had resolved to buy her for himself. I told him that I had spoken for the girl in your name. 'Let the Tyrian hound go back to his dye-vats,' he said. 'The girl is mine and he shall not have her while I have an obol left!' He said much more against the people of Tyre and yourself in particular that I will not offend your Highness by repeating. I am sorry that I lost the girl, for there is no other like her among the captives."

"If your Highness will deign to follow, I will conduct you to her," Mena replied with alacrity.

"Lead on!" Phradates commanded. "And then fetch quickly the gold we borrowed from the old Athenian."

Chares had purchased all the prisoners on his list excepting the girl called Maia, and the soldiers were leading her forward when Mena and Phradates arrived. The young woman's face and head were muffled in a silken scarf, and her figure was concealed beneath a cloak.

"Give place!" cried Mena, bustling officiously into the crowd. "Make way for the noble Phradates!"

One of the soldiers raised the scarf long enough for the Phœnician to see the young woman's face. Her beauty evidently made a deep impression upon him, for his expression changed and he seemed hardly able to take his eyes from her.

Mena indicated the Theban with a nod, and then, noticing that all eyes were turned upon his master, he bawled out: "Make room for Phradates of the royal blood of Tyre!"

The Phœnician's face became purple and he turned angrily upon Mena, but the alert Egyptian had slipped away to fetch the gold.

The spectators, who had long ago ceased to think of bidding against the Theban, drew a deep breath and looked from one contestant to the other. Maia alone seemed indifferent. A tress of her hair had fallen upon her shoulder. She twisted it back into place. Chares had not seen her face when the soldier lifted her veil and his attention was now centred upon his opponent.

This was more than all the other captives in the group had brought. The crowd began to hum with excitement. Phradates looked over his shoulder and saw Mena leading four slaves who carried bags of gold.

Every face was turned toward Chares, who had called his steward and was consulting with him. "How much have we left?" the Theban asked. The man made a rapid calculation on his tablets.

"I bid ten talents and thirty minæ," Chares said promptly, addressing the auctioneer.

It was evident to all that he could go no further. Would Phradates be able to outbid him? The Phœnician hesitated and turned to Mena.

"He has won," the slave whispered. "You have only ten talents. If you had beaten him, we should have starved to death."

The scales were brought and the gold was poured into the broad pans which hung suspended from their framework of wood. The glittering heaps increased until each pan overflowed with the precious coins and ingots. When all was in readiness for the test, they held a fortune such as few men in all Greece possessed. The spectators devoured it with their eyes, pressing against the soldiers in the hope of getting a better view. The maiden, Maia, who was the object of the rivalry, was forgotten.

The scales oscillated slowly and at last settled deliberately on the side toward Chares. The tale was correct and his last thirty minæ had given him the victory. The crowd broke into a cheer.

"No!" Phradates shouted. A red spot glowed on his cheeks and his fingers trembled as he stripped off his rings and his chains of gold. He placed the ornaments on his side of the scales. "I bid thirteen talents," he declared.

"Payments are to be made in money," Chares remonstrated. "Who can tell what these trinkets are worth?"

He summoned a jeweller of Corinth, who examined the rings with care, and announced his readiness to take them at a sum sufficient to make up the total of the Phœnician's offer.

"Phradates wins!" shouted the spectators, cheering the Tyrian with all the enthusiasm that they had shown to his rival a moment before.

The Theban stood silent. He had nothing more to offer. He raged inwardly at his defeat, for he felt that his honor was involved. While he stood hesitating, nobody seemed to notice a young Macedonian soldier of athletic figure and fresh complexion who had stopped on the outskirts of the crowd and stood listening, with his head slightly inclined to one side.

Suddenly Chares strode forward and threw his sword upon the scales. The weight of the steel caused the balance to sway decisively toward him.

"I bid fifteen talents!" he cried. "Let my sword make up the weight of gold that is lacking."

Phradates laughed mockingly. "Let me have the girl," he said. "It is time to end this child's play. There is no place in the world where a sword is worth three talents."

Phradates turned, and his eyes met those of the soldier who had been lingering on the edge of the ring of spectators.

"Here!" the Phœnician exclaimed angrily. "And who is there here to give such a price for it?"

Phradates turned to the crowd, which had fallen back a little and now stood strangely silent.

"Who is this insolent fellow?" he cried. "Why do you allow him to interfere here?" he demanded of the captain.

The captain made no reply, and nobody in the throng ventured to answer. Phradates felt deserted. He stood with Chares and the soldier beside the gold-laden scales, beyond which waited Maia, with her eyes fixed upon the face of the newcomer.

"Is there no fair dealing in this land of thieves?" Phradates cried, losing his temper absolutely. "The girl is mine! Deliver her to me in accordance with your agreement and let me go. You have your price and it is enough!"

He made a step forward as though to seize Maia, but the soldier blocked his path.

"I am Alexander, as I told you," he said, slightly raising his voice. "I will tell you more. You are Phradates of Tyre, sent here by your king and your Council to spy out my strength and learn my plans. You have used the eyes and ears of your slaves. Take what you have learned to King Azemilcus, and with it take also this message: Alexander, King of Macedon, sends word that he is coming with his companions to offer sacrifice to Heracles in his temple, known in the city of Tyre as the temple of Melkarth. Let him prepare the altar."

Phradates read in the faces of the crowd that the youth who spoke so confidently to him was indeed the king. Nevertheless, he could not wholly stifle his rage.

"Has your army wings, Macedonian?" he asked insolently. "The walls of Tyre are both high and strong."

"What is the fate of spies in your country?" Alexander replied. "You are spared to bear my message. Must I choose another?"

There was something in the tone of these words that brought Phradates to his senses like a plunge into cold water.

"We shall meet elsewhere," he said, casting a look of hatred at Chares, who stood smiling at his discomfiture.

Mena had been hurriedly putting his master's gold into the sacks in which he had brought it. The waiting slaves took it up and followed Phradates back to his tent.

"I wished to buy her as a present to my mother, as I have bought nearly five hundred of our friends to-day," Chares replied.

"It is a good blade," he said, "and I would not deem its price too high if your arm was to wield it in my cause."

"Was not that included in the purchase?" Chares asked, surprised. "I have made my bargain and I will live up to it."

"No," said Alexander, gently, "I will not have such an arm at a price. I am no Cyrus to attack the power of Persia with hired weapons. The spirit and the hope that goes with us are not to be bought with gold. Come to me at Pella, if you will, with Clearchus and the Spartan, as soon as your affairs will permit. But if you come, let it be of your free will and not in payment of a debt."

Day was drawing to a close over the plain where the people of Thebes had paid the final penalty for their rebellion. The multitude that had assembled to witness the last scene was melting away. Some of the unfortunates had found friends like Chares to rescue them; but the greater part of the thousands who were sold that day had become the property of strangers. On every side rose the sound of wailing and lamentation. Wives clung sobbing to their husbands until torn from them by their masters. Children wept for mothers they would see no more.

In the gathering twilight camp-fires began to glow. Slave-dealers bargained and chaffered over their purchases. Melancholy processions moved away into the darkness. Men fettered together gazed back silently but with bursting hearts upon the dark mass of the Cadmea, where it rose, black and huge, against the crimson sky. The air reverberated with the crash of falling houses and walls as the soldiers labored by the light of torches to level the city to the earth. A pall of dust and smoke hung suspended above them. Thebes had become a memory.

The captives purchased by Chares had been led away by his attendants as fast as each sale was made. When Alexander and the Macedonian soldiers moved off he was left alone with Maia. He had scarcely glanced at her during his duel with Phradates. She stood before him now with bent head, submissively, and he fancied that she was drooping from weariness.

The girl did not move, but as he approached she raised the scarf that hid her face and her eyes met his.

There was a tone of displeasure in his voice, and the smile faded from the young woman's lips.

The Theban stared a moment in bewilderment, but as her meaning dawned upon him he threw back his head and laughed, a little recklessly. Thais bit her lip and then suddenly burst into tears.

CHAPTER XI

THAIS

Chares sat in the house of Thais in Athens, idly watching the lithe motions of the tame leopard as it worried an ivory ball. Its mistress lay at full length on a low couch of sandalwood looking at the Theban with eyes half closed.

"Am I not your slave?" she said softly. "Have you not ruined yourself to buy me?"

"That is true," he said, stroking his chin and examining her reflectively. "You are my most costly possession!"

"And I shall not be here to guard you," he continued. "Who knows what may happen?"

She drew through her slender fingers the silken fringe of the crimson shawl that was twisted about her waist.

"I wanted to see Maia," she said, looking at him innocently. "I had heard so much of her beauty."

"Let me see," Chares said, studying the walls as though in an effort to remember. "She has black hair and her eyes too are dark, I think. Her forehead is low and broad and her nose is straight. Perhaps her mouth might be thought a little too wide, but her chin is beautifully rounded and her shoulders and neck are perfect. Yes, I think she might be called beautiful."

Chares laughed. "How can a man make love without an obol that he can call his own?" he replied.

"Not even you!" he answered. He drew a scroll from the folds of his chiton and tossed it into her lap. She opened it slowly and read a release legally executed, giving her back her freedom and placing her in the enjoyment of all her possessions. Chares watched her with an expectant smile as her eyes followed the written lines. When she had ended, she raised herself on her elbow and gazed earnestly at him for a moment with dilated eyes. Then, without a word, she buried her face in the cushions and her form was shaken with sobs. As the scroll fell from her hand the leopard pounced upon it and began tearing it with his teeth.

"To save you from falling into the hands of the Phœnician, of course," he replied impatiently.

"Listen to reason, Thais!" Chares said in a graver tone. "It is I who am no longer free. I have sold my sword and I am in bonds to the Macedonian."

"Were it not so," he continued, "why should I stay here? This is not my city and these are not my people. I have neither, now that Thebes is no more. Clearchus and Leonidas are going with Alexander, as I have told you. Would you have me lag behind? There will be fighting and danger, glory and spoil. Shall I not share them?"

"Zeus grant that it be not until I have met Phradates on the field of battle!" he exclaimed.

"Thou knowest well that I love thee, Thais," he replied. "Thou knowest that it will tear my heart to leave thee behind. But it is the Gods who have decided for us and we have no choice. Were there no other reason for my going, Clearchus will have need of me in his search for Artemisia, and that would be enough to forbid my remaining here."

"Then I will go, too!" Thais cried, leaping from the couch and standing defiantly before him.

Chares returned her look with an indulgent smile. Her exquisitely moulded form was outlined under the clinging folds of her garment. Her tiny feet, with their pink little heels, looked as though they had never rested upon the earth. Her hair fell about her rounded neck and dimpled shoulders like spun copper. Her red lips and pearly teeth seemed made to feast on dainties. Physically she was as sensitive and delicate as a child; but her eyes shone with a fire that betrayed indomitable spirit.

She threw herself down on her knees on the floor beside him, taking his hand in hers and pressing it against her glowing cheek.

"Chares! Chares! My master! I love thee!" she murmured. "The blind God at whose power I laughed so often when I was in his mother's service has stricken me through the heart. My soul is naked before thee. I cannot have thee leave me. If thou dost, I shall die. I will go to the ends of the earth with thee. I will suffer hardships to be near thee. Thou art all I have. I am thy slave, and I do not wish to be free."

Suddenly she sprang to her feet and began to pace backward and forward on the many-colored carpet that was spread upon the floor. The leopard stopped tearing at the parchment and followed her with his eyes.

"Is it my fault that I am—what I am?" she cried. "Am I to blame because my life has not been like that of other women? They are shielded from the world and ignorant of what is good and what is bad. Have I committed a fault in fulfilling the will of the Gods, from whom there is no escape? For the evil done by others must I pay the penalty?"

"Of course not," Chares said consolingly, scarcely knowing what she meant or how to answer her. Her passion took him by surprise. She stood before him glowing in every limb with youth and beauty, her chin raised and her lips parted in scorn, as though defying the world to accuse her.

"Who cast me adrift?" she went on vehemently. "You talk of going into Asia to aid Clearchus in his search for Artemisia. Very well, I will go with you and search too, for I also wish to find Artemisia. She is my sister!"

"It is the truth," she replied. "I forced old Eunomus to tell me only last night. He has the proofs and he has promised to deliver them to me, for a certain sum, of course. I am the daughter of Theorus, who caused me to be exposed because I was a girl. The old pander found me, as he has found many another in his time, and—and—he made of me what you see me."

She threw herself once more upon the couch to ease her grief among the crimson cushions. Chares knew not what to say. He distrusted the story told by Eunomus, for he knew the wretch was capable of doing anything for money. But, after all, what if the tale were true? He was fond of Thais, of course. How could a man help being fond of a young and beautiful woman who loved him? There was Aspasia, who had ruled Athens and all Hellas through Pericles. There was the son of Phocion, who had actually married a girl no better than Thais. Still, what had been could not be changed; and even if Thais was the daughter of Theorus, that fact could make no difference.

Thais raised her head from the pillows as though she had read his thoughts. Her eyes were softened with tears.

"Is it my fault," she pleaded, "that my sister has the love of an honorable man and will be married to him, while I—I can never hope for such a marriage? I know it, Chares, and I do not ask it. All I ask is that you will permit me to go with you. I am tired, since I knew you, of my life here. Without meaning to do so, you have opened my eyes to new things. I am what I am; but, in spite of all, I am still a woman—more a woman perhaps, than Artemisia, my sister, whom I have never seen. Let me go with you, Chares, to share your dangers and your glory, to nurse you if you are wounded, and to stand beside your funeral pyre and watch my heart turn to ashes if you are killed. I cannot bear to be left behind. The weariness and the waiting would surely kill me. Let me go with thee, my Life, for I think neither of us will see Athens again."

Chares felt deep pity for the unfortunate girl stir in his heart. The strength of his emotion troubled his careless nature.

"There, there," he said, anxious to pacify her. "Don't make gloomy predictions. You shall come."

"I shall never know greater happiness," she said, with a sigh of content; and then, changing her tone, "They say the women of the Medes are very beautiful. You will not make me jealous, will you, Chares?"

He laughed and kissed her, looking into her eyes. "Small need have you to fear the Medean women!" he said.

CHAPTER XII

MENA READS A LETTER

"Clearchus and his two friends, Chares and the Spartan," the old man replied. "They set out for Pella this afternoon to join the Macedonian army. Fortune has smiled upon us once more and I think there will be a turn in our affairs."

Ariston made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. His shoulders no longer stooped, and his step was light. A hundred schemes were running through his head for repairing the disasters that had brought him so low. For all practical purposes he was again the richest man in Athens, and with the gold at his command he imagined that it would be easy for him to regain his feet.

"You must be cautious," Xanthe said anxiously. "You know that at any time Clearchus may demand an account."

"Yes, but he will not," Ariston replied, pinching her withered cheek. "He will never return to trouble us. I have news of what the Great King is doing and unless the Gods themselves interfere to save Alexander, he will be crushed as soon as he has crossed the Hellespont. The Persians will meet him there in such numbers that there can be no escape for him. None who follow him will return. By Hermes, I feel almost young again!"

He entered his workroom briskly and sat down at the table. Producing a roll of papyrus, he broke the seal, slipped off the wrapping, and spread the document out before him.

"Iphicrates to Ariston," he read. "Greeting: I have obeyed your instructions. Syphax brought me the girl. I dismissed him with promises after she had told me that she had no complaint to make against him. I am convinced that he is a rogue and that he will live to be crucified. For Artemisia, she remains in my household. I have told her that I am awaiting a suitable opportunity to send her back to Athens; but I have put her off from time to time with excuses. She has lost flesh since she came hither, and if she is to be sold, I think it would be best not to delay too long, as her value will be less than if she were offered now. She has written many letters, which I promised to forward for her. One of these I send you with this; the others have been destroyed.

"It is expensive for me to maintain her as you directed. It has cost me already one talent and twenty drachmæ, which leaves me in your debt six talents, eleven drachmæ, and thirty minæ. Please make this correction in our account.

"There is talk here that Alexander, the Macedonian, is preparing to lead an army against this city. Nobody doubts that he will be defeated, since Parmenio could accomplish nothing. Memnon, the Rhodian, has been here, strengthening the fortifications and exercising the soldiers, but of this there is no need; for all the armies of Greece could not take this place, even though they should invest it by land and sea. May the Gods keep you in good health! Farewell."

"He has cheated me out of a talent, at least!" Ariston muttered. "The old skinflint!"

He turned his attention to a second roll of papyrus, which had been enclosed in the first.

"My Beloved," it ran. "Why hast thou not answered the letters I have sent thee, or come thyself to take me home? Clearchus, my Life, I know thou hast not forgotten me, although it seems ages since I last saw thee. Each day I watch and wait for a word from thee, only one little word, but none has come. I try to keep up my courage, thinking that perhaps thou art seeking me elsewhere and that thou hast not received my letters. I do not doubt thee, Clearchus, but I am weary of waiting for thee and my heart is sick. When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face again? I pray each night and morning to Artemis to give thee back to me. My love, my love, may the Gods, who know all things, keep thee safe! While I live, I am thine. Farewell."

A smile played about the corners of Ariston's thin lips as he thrust the papyrus into the flame of the lamp and held it over the brazier until it was consumed. He did the same with the epistle that Iphicrates had sent to him, and then plunged into his accounts.

Xanthe had never been quick-witted, and the monotonous round of her labors had dulled even her natural perceptions. At the bottom of her heart she believed her husband to be the cleverest man in the world. She did not pretend to fathom his schemes. The twistings and windings of his subtle mind confused and bewildered her, and she had no thread by which to trace the labyrinth. While she had long ago ceased to try to follow him, the fact that she did not know all that he was doing tended to make her suspicious, and her distrust, as is usual with women of limited intelligence, took the form of jealousy.

In their forty years of married life Ariston had never given her the slightest cause for such an emotion. Among his few weaknesses there was none for women, whom he despised as mere machines or treated as commodities. But notwithstanding its lack of result, Xanthe, year after year, maintained her vigil, ever seeking what she most dreaded to find.

Of late her husband's cares and advancing age had given her a feeling of security, but the revival of his spirits at the departure of his nephew sent her mind back again to the well-worn track. Could it be that he was deceiving her after all?

This idea laid siege to her thoughts with recurrent insistence. What had she to attract so brilliant a man? Her mirror showed her a wrinkled brow and hollow cheeks. She turned away from it with bitterness in her heart. The wonder was that he had ever loved her; but that was years ago. She could not blame him if he sought a younger and fairer companion for his hours of relaxation. Other men did the same, and men were all alike.

Tormenting herself with these thoughts, the unfortunate woman passed a sleepless night, and rose determined to know the worst. As soon as Ariston had gone out, she entered his workroom. Her search brought her at last to the brazier, where she found the charred fragments of the letters from Halicarnassus. Unluckily one corner of Artemisia's missive to Clearchus had not been wholly burned. She bore it in triumph to her own apartments and set herself to the task of deciphering its contents. The very fact that her husband had sought to burn the letter was enough in her excited frame of mind to convince her that her suspicions were correct. It remained only to establish the proof.

She succeeded in making out a few words, but she could derive no meaning from them. Study them as she would, her skill failed her. The tantalizing thought that knowledge was within her grasp and eluding her filled her with rage. She was still puzzling over the fragment when she was interrupted by a knocking at the door. On the threshold stood the sharp-faced Egyptian whom she had so often seen with her husband.

"Then I will wait for him," Mena returned coolly, pushing past her into the house. "He told me to see him without fail and he will soon be here."

There was no help for it now that he was inside the house. Xanthe led him to a bench beside the cistern and gave him fruit and wine. The thought occurred to her that he might be able to read the riddle that had baffled her. There could be no harm in showing him the fragment, she reasoned, since it could tell him nothing, although to her it could reveal so much. The temptation was strong, and after all the opportunity was too good to be lost.

"Can you read this for me?" she asked, placing the blackened papyrus before him.

"Where did you find it?" he demanded, shifting his beadlike eyes quickly to hers.

"The wind blew it into the court, here," she stammered, taken aback by the question. "I wondered what it might be."

His glance continued to rest upon her face for an instant before it went back to the fragment. It was easy enough for him to read them both, and a malicious smile twitched his mouth as he understood that Ariston had a jealous wife. The idea struck him as distinctly ridiculous. More in idleness than with any direct purpose, excepting that of making mischief, he determined to humor her mood.

"It is difficult to understand," he said, looking carefully at the papyrus, "as it seems to have been burned. But here it says: 'When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face?' and here: 'While I live, I am thine.' It sounds like a poet, but the writing is that of a woman. You seem to have surprised some romantic love affair. You probably have some amorous youth among your neighbors whom a girl is foolish enough to adore."

Xanthe's forebodings had suddenly become realities. Ariston, then, was deceiving her, and she had not been mistaken in him. Of that, she was now certain. He had probably always deceived her and she had been a fool ever to believe him. Her world seemed coming to an end.

"Why do you say that the letter was sent to a young man?" she asked. "Might it not have been an old one?"

"I dare say," the Egyptian replied carelessly. "Old men are often the worst in these matters."

"This girl, whoever she may be, seems very much in love with him," Xanthe remarked.

"No doubt," Mena said, watching her with increasing amusement, "and probably he has a wife of his own. Why else should he burn the letter?"

Xanthe winced at this thrust, although she had no idea that Mena had fathomed what was in her mind. "At any rate, he cannot marry her," she said, as though thinking aloud.

"The old one might die, you know," Mena suggested. "Such things have been known to happen at the right moment."

These words were accompanied by a look so full of meaning that poor Xanthe felt a chill of apprehension. She did not trust herself to say more, but carried away the fragment to her own room, where she concealed it.

Mena's hint had fallen upon fertile ground. She went over the situation again and again in her mind, coming always to the same conclusion. That Ariston was carrying on an intrigue with some girl was now certain; for it never occurred to her that the letter might not have been intended for him. It seemed certain to her also that her husband would seek to rid himself of her so that he might marry her rival. Mena was right. Such things had happened more than once and poison was the easiest way. If she should die, who was there to ask what had caused her death? Nobody. She began to take infinite precautions regarding her food, tasting nothing that she had not herself prepared; yet she felt that she was in hourly danger in spite of all she could do. When nothing happened to her, she concluded that her husband's failure to attempt her life was due solely to the fact that his plans were not yet ripe. When all was ready, he would kill her and flee with Clearchus' fortune to some distant land, where he could meet the abandoned creature upon whom his affections had fallen. She knew only too well that he was capable of anything in the furtherance of his selfish schemes. Thus her folly led her on until at last she came to regard her imaginings as truth confirmed. But if she was to be murdered, she thought, at least she would prevent him from enjoying the fruit of his wickedness. She would write to Clearchus and tell him all.

When she had reached this conclusion, she lost no time in carrying it into execution. But it was long since she had used the stylus and she was forced to confine herself to the barest outline of what she wished to say. After many failures, she finally produced the following:—

"Clearchus: Iphicrates has Artemisia in Halicamassus. My husband is a beast who wants to poison me. If you hear that I am dead, you will know why, and I hope you will see that he is punished. Go to Halicamassus, and when you get her, keep her safe. Iphicrates is a wicked man and he should be killed. If my husband does not poison me, make no accusation against him."

Xanthe sealed this letter and hid it away until a chance should offer to send it to her nephew. She felt much easier, as though the fact that she had written it were in some way surety for her safety. Several weeks passed before she found the opportunity for which she had been looking. At last she learned that Callias, son of a widow of her acquaintance, had joined a mercenary troop that was being raised in Athens. She gave the letter to his mother to be delivered to Clearchus in Pella, but Callias, having received part of his pay in advance, could not tear himself away from his friends in Athens until the gold was spent. Consequently the letter was not delivered until after Macedon and Persia had met at the Granicus.

CHAPTER XIII

THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE

It was a clear, bright spring day when the three friends rode into Pella. The new sap was beginning to swell the buds, and the fresh green of the grass was gleaming hopefully on sunny slopes. Chares had been singing snatches of love songs since early morning when they set out on the last stage of their journey. Even Clearchus forgot his anxiety in the thought that he was drawing nearer to Artemisia, and the grim Leonidas had smiled more than once at the sallies of the light-hearted Theban.

In the Macedonian capital on every side was the stir of animation and preparation. Recruits were being drilled for the army. Messengers were hastening hither and thither. Ambassadors were coming and going with their trains. They gazed with admiration at the solid buildings, designed with a stately magnificence which, in its own way, was as impressive as the marble embodiments of Athenian genius. Everywhere were the evidences of a young and strong people, buoyant, self-confident, energetic, and fearless. No idlers blocked the streets. Every man had something to do and was doing it. The tide of vigorous life flowed strong through the city as in the veins of a young oak tree.

It was not strange that Pella should have swarmed with activity on that day in spring. Within the boundaries of the rugged little state, half Hellenic and half barbarian, a vast project, supported by a sublime confidence, was taking shape. It had been formed and nursed by the crafty and far-seeing Philip, whether as a possibility or as a stroke of policy to bring Hellas under his control none could say. Now it had suddenly become a reality. The great empire of Persia, which covered the world from the shores of the Euxine to the sources of the Nile, and from the Ægean to limits undefined, beyond the regions of mystery through which the Indus flowed, was to be invaded. It had endured for centuries as an immense and impregnable power. Fierce tribes dwelt in the fastnesses of its snow-clad mountains, numberless caravans crept across its scorching deserts, gigantic cities flourished upon its fertile plains. Nations were lost among the uncounted millions of its population. Its wealth surpassed the power of imagining, and about the throne of the Great King, whose slightest wish was the unchangeable law of all this vast dominion, stood tens of thousands of the bravest warriors in the world, ready at a sign to lay down their lives for him.

What had Persia to fear from the handful of peasants turned soldiers who had made a boy their king? Why should Darius feel any uneasiness concerning the projects of a rash young man who already owed more than he could pay? To be sure, he had made himself the Hegemon of Hellas, with the exception of Sparta, but everybody knew that he had forced the older states to bestow the title upon him against their will and that they were waiting only until his back should be turned to fall upon him. With the slender resources at his command, how could he hope to hold Greece in subjection and at the same time to subdue an empire which had more Hellenic mercenaries alone upon its pay-roll than the sum total of his entire army? Surely, the Great King must be himself despised if he did not look with contempt upon such mad ambition.

Something of the force of this reasoning assailed the mind of Clearchus as he lay down that night on the hard pallet that had been assigned to him by Ptolemy in the barracks of the Companion Cavalry. The immensity of the obstacles to be overcome oppressed him, and he began once more to doubt whether, after all, there could be any hope of success for the young king. He fell asleep, to see in his dreams the pale face of Artemisia framed in her unbound hair.

His mind was still clouded with misgiving when he went next morning with Chares and Leonidas to pay his respects at the palace; but they were dispelled like mists before the morning sun when he stood face to face with Alexander. In the inspiring presence of the young leader no doubts could live. He radiated confidence as a fire radiates warmth. Every glance of his sympathetic eyes, every tone of his voice, revealed a certainty of the future that was beyond peradventure.

The palace was the centre of the activity that was filling the city. Generals and captains, agents, princes, hostages, ambassadors, and messengers swarmed in its halls. Here stood the gray-haired Antipater, who had been appointed by Alexander regent of Macedon and guardian of Greece during his absence, talking with citizens of Corinth who had come to consult him concerning proposed changes in their civil government. There was old Parmenio, fresh from his campaign in Mysia, giving his orders for the disposition of a company of mercenaries who had arrived that morning.

There were travellers from the Far East, who had been summoned to tell what they knew of the cities, rivers, and mountains through which the Macedonian march would lie and of the character of the peoples who were to be encountered. There were contractors for horses and supplies anxious to provide the army with subsistence. There were soothsayers and philosophers, slaves, attendants, and courtiers; and among them all, with banter, jest, and laughter, walked the young nobles of Macedon, bosom friends of the king, who had defied Philip for his sake and were now reaping their reward. There were Hephæstion, son of Amyntas, Philotas, son of Parmenio, Clitus, Crateras, Polysperchon, Demetrius, Ptolemy, and a score of others, in spirits as brave as their attire, as though they were about to start upon a holiday excursion instead of a desperate venture into the unknown.

Alexander recognized the three friends immediately and gave them cordial greeting.

"So you have come to follow the Whirlwind," he said, laughing, as though the simile pleased him. "It will soon be launched now."

They gave him their thanks for this mark of favor, for the Companions contained the flower of the kingdom, young men of distinguished families, who were admitted freely into Alexander's confidence as his friends.

"I have just been giving away the security for my debts," Alexander said, smiling at Chares. "I saw you spend your last obol to purchase the liberty of your friends at Thebes. You trusted to the chance of war to bring your fortune back to you, but I have gone further than you, for I have staked my honor. As you see me, I am worth some thirteen hundred talents less than nothing."

"Never fear," Alexander replied, laughing. "What are our debts of to-day in comparison with our riches of to-morrow? The Companions are all following my example. We set out with only our swords and our courage—and our golden hope!"

"The queen, my mother," he said, "has heard the story of Artemisia and of what they told you at Delphi. She desires to see you. Philotas will take you to her."

Philotas led the way through courts and colonnades to the women's wing of the palace, where Olympias held sway. As they went, Clearchus recalled all he had heard of Alexander's mother—how it was averred that a great serpent was her familiar, and the tales of her passionate and revengeful nature that had caused her to order the babe of Cleopatra, who had supplanted her in the affections of her husband, to be torn from the arms of its mother and killed in her sight before she herself was slain. He had heard also of her devotion to religious mysteries and especially of her skill in the secret rites of the Egyptian magicians.

As they neared the queen's apartments, Clearchus was astonished to hear a woman's voice raised in anger, followed by the sound of blows and pitiful cries for mercy. He paused in embarrassment, but Philotas drew him on.

"Do not be disturbed," said his guide; "the queen is probably chastising one of her slaves."

He ushered the young Athenian into a large room furnished with luxurious magnificence. Before them stood Olympias, with a rod of ebony in her grasp, and at her feet upon the silken carpet crouched a weeping girl with bare white shoulders, marked with red where the rod had fallen. The queen turned upon them with blazing anger in her great black eyes and the wrathful color on her cheeks.

"Who enters here unbidden?" she demanded sternly, and then in a milder tone she added: "Is it you, Philotas? These girls will kill me yet with their stupidity. I wish I could drown them all in the sea! Ah!"

She swung up the rod and brought it down upon a great vase of Phœnician glass, which flew into a thousand fragments. She laughed and threw the rod from her.

"There, now I feel better!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "You may go, Chloe. Dry your eyes, child; you shall have your freedom. Who is this whom you have brought me, Philotas?"

"I remember," she said quickly, turning to Clearchus. "You were robbed of your sweetheart. Do you love her very much?"

"Will you never grow weary of her and cast her off, as Philip did me?" she persisted.

"If I find her, I will never willingly let her go out of my sight again," the young man declared.

"But did not the Pythia tell you that you would find her if you followed my son?" she inquired.

"Tell me about it," Olympias commanded, seating herself upon a couch. She made him relate his experience with the oracle in the minutest detail, asking many questions that indicated her lively curiosity. She then inquired of Artemisia's personal appearance, her age, and family.

"Appearances are sometimes deceitful," Philotas replied dryly, "especially when they are assisted by art."

The queen was absent for more than half an hour. She seemed tired when she returned.

"I have consulted the Gods," she said, "and you will find her if your heart remains true and strong. The priestess of Apollo told the truth."

"I thank you for giving me this consolation," Clearchus said eagerly, hoping that she would tell him more; but she began pacing thoughtfully backward and forward, with bent head, apparently forgetful of his presence.

Suddenly she stopped before him and smiled, rather wistfully he thought. He almost fancied that there were tears under the fringe of her dark lashes. "Farewell," she said. "May the Gods protect you—and Alexander, my son."

She resumed her walk, and the young man left the apartment in silence. Clearchus tried in vain to analyze the strange impression that she had made upon him, but for many days her smile, half sad, and her mysterious dark eyes, with the living spark in their depths, continued to haunt him.

CHAPTER XIV

ACROSS THE HELLESPONT

Upon Bucephalus, whose proud spirit he alone had known how to tame, Alexander led his army out of Pella. The great charger tossed his head and uttered a shrill neigh, which sounded like a trumpet-call of defiance to the whole world, as he issued forth from the gate of the city. Many a Macedonian wife and mother, standing upon the walls, dashed the tears from her eyes that day as her gaze followed the lines of the troops, striving until the last to distinguish the form that perhaps she would see no more.

The young king drew aside, with his captains about him, upon a low hill a short distance from the city. The sunlight flashed upon his gilded armor and upon the double white plume that swept his shoulders. With swelling hearts, the men saluted him as they marched by, horse and foot, squadron and company, thirty thousand in all. The bronzed faces of the veterans of Philip's wars lighted up as they heard his son call one or another of them by name, and the countenances of the younger soldiers flushed with pride and pleasure at his smile of approval. Last came the baggage and provision trains and the great siege engines, lumbering after the army on creaking wheels.

Alexander turned to Antipater and gave him his hand. "I would that thou, too, wert coming with us to share in our victories," he said. "Remember, all our trust is in thee. Be just and firm."

"I will remember," the old general replied, his stern face softening. "Return when and how thou wilt; thou shalt find all as thou hast left it to-day."

Alexander turned to go, but a cry of "The queen!" caused him to halt. A chariot drawn by foaming horses drew up before him. He sprang from his horse and ran forward to receive Olympias in his arms.

"But I am still a woman and thy mother," she replied. "How can I suffer thee to leave me?"

"Thou goest to victory and to glory," she said. "Of that I have no fear; but thy mother's heart is filled with sorrow! Kiss me yet again!"

Alexander embraced her and led her back to the chariot. He stood looking after her with bared head, until, escorted by Antipater, she disappeared in the city gate. His heart went out to the jealous, fiery woman's spirit, whose great love for him made her ever faultless in his eyes. Something told him, as it had told her, although neither had confessed it, that they would never look upon each other again.

In another moment he was astride of Bucephalus and off after the army. Clearchus, riding with Chares and Leonidas in their company of the Companions, saw him dash past with a smile on his eager face.

Along the northern shore of the Ægean, and always within sight of its blue waters, they marched for twenty days until they crossed the Melas and came to the Hellespont, beyond which they could see the mountains of Phrygia, with the snow-capped summit of Mount Ida towering above the rest. Before them, across the strait, lay the promised land. Wheeling south to Sestos, they met the fleet that had kept them company along the coast. There Alexander left Parmenio to take the army over to Abydos, while he pushed on with the Companions to Elæus.

He himself steered the foremost of the ships that carried them across the strait to Ilium. In mid-channel they offered sacrifice to Poseidon and the Nereids, and as they neared Cape Segeium the king hurled his javelin upon the sand, and leaping into the water in full armor, dashed forward to the Persian beach. From every ship rose cries of emulation as the Companions plunged in after him and strove with each other to see which of them should first follow him to the shore.

Upon the battle-field where the terrible Achilles had raged among the Trojans when the Greeks of olden time sought revenge for Helen's immortal shame, the Companions celebrated with feasting and with games the fame of the Homeric heroes. These exercises, filling their minds with thoughts of wondrous deeds, were a fitting prelude for the mighty task that lay before them.

Through their camp the rumor ran from sources none could trace that beyond the mountains lay the Persian host in countless numbers. Arsites, Phrygia's satrap, and the cruel Spithridates, ruler of Lydia and Ionia, were said to be in command. Memnon of Rhodes, the story went, was at the head of an Hellenic mercenary force more numerous than Alexander's entire army.

No attempt was made to check the spread of these tidings. If the thought of possible defeat crossed the mind of any of the Companions, he was careful not to give it utterance. In their talk around their camp-fires they assumed that the first battle was already won and their plans ran forward into the heart of Persia. What mattered it whether the enemy was many or few? Had not the Ten Thousand, whose exploits Xenophon related, shown to the world that one Greek soldier was better than a hundred barbarians?

But in the intervals of the celebration Alexander talked long with Ptolemy. The truth was, they knew not what preparations had been made to receive them nor what force had been sent against them. The scouts who had gone out weeks in advance had either failed to return or could not tell them what they wished to know.

Clearchus was sitting with Leonidas discussing Xenophon's account of the death of Cyrus when a messenger brought them word that the king desired to see them. They followed at once to Alexander's tent, where they found Chares awaiting them.

"You have heard the rumors of the enemy's advance," Alexander began. "I wish to know how strong he is in both horse and foot, how many Greeks he has with him, where they will fight in the line, and who are the commanders. To win this information will be the first service of danger and difficulty in the campaign. Which of you is willing to undertake it?"

"Why not send us all?" Clearchus said. "Then if one of us falls, two will remain, and if two are lost, the third may still be able to reach you."

"Be it so," Alexander replied, smiling. "We shall join the army at once and march along the coast, as you see upon this map, to the Granicus. There I think you should be able to rejoin me and there I shall look for you."

He rolled up the map and handed it to Leonidas. "This may serve for your guidance," he said. "I shall place you under no instructions, for I do not think you need them."

He rose and shook each of them by the hand. "Farewell," he said, "and be not rash, for I shall have need of you hereafter."

Some of the Macedonians cast envious eyes at them as they came out of the pavilion. Young Glycippus, who was in the same company with them, joined them as they passed.

"The king wanted to ask me whether I thought Ajax or Achilles was the better fighter," Chares answered gravely.

"I told him that Ajax, in my opinion, was the better with the sword," the Theban said. "He did not like it because, you know, he claims descent from the son of Thetis."

"Yes," the young man said eagerly. "And he has taken Achilles' armor from the temple here, leaving his own in its place."

"He had it on while he was talking with us," Chares said. "It fits him well enough. You know he has ordered Ilium to be rebuilt."

"That, at least, has the merit of being true," Chares said. "Ptolemy told me while I was waiting for you."

"First of all we must choose a leader," Clearchus said when they were alone in their tent. "I vote for Leonidas."

Leonidas protested, but his friends refused to give way, pointing out that to him Alexander had given the map. They persuaded him at last to yield.

"My idea is that we shall go as peltasts and as though we were seeking the Persian camp to take service under Memnon," he said. "Get rid of that gaudy armor of yours, Chares."

"What, must I part with my mail?" the Theban exclaimed, glancing down at the glittering links that covered his broad breast. He was inordinately proud of this display. "What shall I do with it?" he asked dolefully.

"Some rascal is sure to steal it if I leave it here," Chares grumbled, as he divested himself of the armor.

At nightfall the three slipped out of the camp in the guise of light-armed footmen, each with a round shield at his back, two javelins in his hand, and a short sword at his side. As soon as they were safe from observation Leonidas struck out briskly for the northern slopes of Mount Ida, and they quickly vanished into the darkness.

CHAPTER XV

THAIS AND ARTEMISIA

Through her window in the house of Iphicrates in Halicarnassus, Artemisia could see the blue waters of the harbor and beyond them the massive gray walls of the Royal Citadel. For weeks she had watched the merchant ships coming and going, bringing their freights from Tyre and Egypt and even from beyond the Pillars of Heracles, and many times had her eyes filled with tears at the thought that perhaps one or another of them might be bound for the Piræus. She imagined Clearchus questioning the master and the sailors on their arrival at the port of Athens, seeking to learn from them whether they had seen in their wanderings the ship that had borne her away.

At times her sorrow was made more bitter by doubts that forced themselves upon her mind in spite of her repeated resolve not to admit them. They whispered that Clearchus had given her up for lost and had forgotten her. Perhaps at first, they said, he had been eager in his search; but when all his efforts were in vain and he could find no trace of her, he had become gradually resigned to her loss, occupied as he was with the cares of his estate. Why else had he paid no heed to her letters?

When such evil ideas tormented her, Artemisia could no longer endure the sight of the glancing sails and the quivering waters of the harbor. She hid her face in her hands and her embroidery slipped unheeded to the floor.

But always she put the black thoughts from her and turned again to her faith in her lover. He was brave and true. It could not be that he had forgotten. It must be that her letters had never reached him. Then she pictured him wandering in distant lands in search of her, or sailing from city to city in hope of finding the men who had taken her away. When in this mood, she would watch every sail as it emerged from the misty distance in the belief that it might be bringing him to her at last. But as the days went by her cheeks lost their roundness and shadows darkened beneath her eyes. Her gaze grew more wistful and unconsciously more hopeless as she looked out upon the harbor, and more and more her hands lay idle in her lap.

Day after day her thoughts trod the same round. "He will come to-day," she said to herself in the morning. "Surely, to-day he is coming." Her pulses quickened at every footfall, and she started at every strange voice. When twilight fell and he had not come she whispered to herself: "He will come to-morrow!" but to-morrow faded into yesterday and he came not.

Gradually her gentle spirit lost its courage and its hope under the repeated buffets of disappointment. She drooped like a flower whose roots can find no water, and even her nightly prayer to Artemis, the Virgin Goddess, failed at last to bring peace to her troubled mind.

One morning she was aroused from the lethargy into which she had fallen by a change in the scene with which she had become so monotonously familiar. Instead of the usual merchant ships, the harbor was filled with warlike vessels with brazen beaks and banks of oars on either side. The wharves were covered with soldiers in armor. Hundreds of men were unloading bales and boxes which were being carried to the Acropolis, to the Citadel of Salmacis, or to the Royal Citadel.

The streets were filled with strange men, some of them wearing cloaks of gay color, with plumed helmets, others in shining coats of mail, with swords at their sides. Throughout the city rose the hum of activity and the bustle of preparation. Artemisia, ignorant of the invasion of Alexander, wondered what the reason could be. She imagined that the barbarians might be planning another attack upon Greece, and she reflected that this might bring Clearchus into danger. All her thoughts and all her hopes centred in him.

In the midst of her conjectures some one knocked at her door. She had found it necessary to keep it fastened as a precaution against the unexpected entrances of Iphicrates. He came into the room with a smile on his fat face, glancing furtively from side to side out of his restless little eyes, which always reminded her of the eyes of a pig. He sat down wheezing from the exertion of his climb. His neck carried a triple roll of fat at the back and his bullet head looked like a mere knob affixed to the shapeless mass of his body.

Artemisia attributed to his unfortunate physical appearance the nameless aversion that she felt for him, and she sought to overcome it, for he had always been considerate of her.

"They say Alexander will try to cross the Hellespont," he replied, attempting a shrug.

He caught the eagerness in her voice and his eyes grew cunning among their wrinkles. "Perhaps," he replied. "Who can tell? These Asiatic dogs laugh at him, but they may find themselves mistaken. We Greeks know how to fight."

"It is Memnon of Rhodes," he told her. "He is a great general, but the Persians do not trust him. He is on his way to the north with his troops."

"My dear child," he exclaimed with a gesture of despair, "it is impossible. All my plans have failed. The war has already begun. The Persian fleet holds the sea, and if you attempted to leave now, you would be captured and sold as a slave. You know how I have tried to grant your wish. Only yesterday I thought that at last I had found the vessel for which I had been looking, and I had hoped to earn your gratitude. But now—all is at an end while the war lasts. If they overthrow the Macedonians in the north, it will be short."

"I do not wish it," Artemisia said decisively. "I prefer to remain here. I hope that Alexander will win, and when he comes, I shall be free."

"You are free now," Iphicrates said reproachfully. "You know that I have kept you in seclusion only for your own safety and that I have done all I could do to console you."

"Yes, yes; I know," she replied hastily. "I have no complaint to make against you. You have tried to be kind."

"If the Macedonians should come after all, you may be able to repay me," Iphicrates continued, reaching the real purpose of his visit. "In time of war men are likely to judge hastily, and it may be that old Iphicrates will have to look to you for protection as you have looked to him."

"What have you to fear?" Artemisia asked in surprise. "And why do you think that I may be able to protect you?"

"It is possible that some of your countrymen may be with the army," he replied evasively. "But they may not come here, even if they win in the north."

He rose with some difficulty from his chair. "Is there anything you want?" he inquired. "You know that if I can give it to you, you have only to ask."

"There is nothing," Artemisia said, and the mockery of her answer struck her to the heart.

Artemisia's mind was diverted for a time by the activity in the city, which seemed at least to portend a change; but soon the novelty wore off, and although the soldiers did not go away, she fell once more into the listless mood against which she found it so difficult to struggle.

When she least expected it, the change came. A disturbance arose in the narrow street before the house which led up from the harbor. There was a medley of cries and shouting, and Artemisia, leaning from her window, saw the street below her filled with a throng of men who had met in conflicting currents at the turn of the way. In the midst of the press lay a litter, whose gilded frame was curtained with crimson silk. It had been overturned by collision with a chariot in which one of the generals had been proceeding toward the harbor. Beside the litter Artemisia saw the form of a young woman. Her robe was of shimmering saffron, and her copper-colored hair, broken from its coil, lay spread upon the pavement.

While she looked, the general, whose chariot had been the cause of the mishap, descended and stood beside the prostrate figure. Glancing about him in evident embarrassment, his eyes met her own as she leaned from the casement. Brief as the meeting was, she felt the piercing power and directness of his glance. He turned quickly to his escort and gave a brief command, motioning toward the house of Iphicrates as he spoke. As he resumed his place in his chariot, the soldiers lifted the unconscious woman into the litter and bore it to the door of the house, followed by a curious crowd.

Artemisia heard them enter and the sound of voices, among which she recognized that of Iphicrates raised in whining protest.

"Then you will make room," was the rough reply. "It is Memnon who gives the order, do you understand? He directed that the young woman who lives here should care for her. Where is she?"

"There is no young woman here," Iphicrates replied glibly. "The general must have been mistaken."

"Lying will not help you," the soldier replied. "I saw her myself. Call her quickly if you want to save your skin."

Artemisia did not wait to be summoned. She descended the stairs and went in among the soldiers.

"Carry her to the room above, and I will see that she is cared for," she said quietly.

The young captain to whom the execution of Memnon's order had been entrusted looked at her with frank admiration.

"By Zeus!" he said, "I wish I had been run over myself. Take her up, litter and all," he added to his men, "and be quick about it."

With some difficulty the soldiers carried the litter with its burden up the staircase.

"If he makes any trouble for you on account of this, report it to the general," the captain said to Artemisia, indicating Iphicrates with a nod. "And tell her when she recovers," he continued, nodding toward the litter, "that Memnon desired to express his regrets."

Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled and tramped down the stairs, followed by his men. Artemisia was already bending over the young woman. There was a bruise where the back of her head had struck the pavement, but otherwise she seemed to have escaped unhurt. Her wonderfully thick hair had evidently broken the force of the blow. She recovered her senses at the first touch of the cold water with which Artemisia bathed her temples.

The strange woman's lips parted in a responsive smile. "Then it might have been worse," she said.

With Artemisia's assistance she walked to a couch, where the young girl made her comfortable with pillows. Presently, under Artemisia's ministrations, she fell asleep. Artemisia sat watching her even breathing and wondering who she could be. A great ruby flamed upon her finger, and heavy chains of gold encircled her white throat. Her tiny feet were shod with silken sandals and her yellow chiton disclosed the rounded grace of her delicate limbs and the willowy suppleness of her figure. She must be some great lady, in spite of her youth, Artemisia thought, innocently, and she felt drawn to her in a manner that she hardly understood. If only she would stay, she would be a friend in whom confidence might be placed and whose sympathy would be a help. But of course she would go away as soon as she was able to move. Artemisia sighed in her loneliness.

When the stranger woke, however, she seemed in no hurry to go. She declared that the pain in her head had left her, and, turning lazily on her side, she studied her surroundings.

"To Iphicrates?" the strange woman replied with sudden interest and in evident astonishment. "And—are you his daughter?"

Her companion's head fell back among the pillows and her gaze rested upon Artemisia's face. So intent was the look that Artemisia grew uncomfortable under it.

"Then you, too, are of Athens?" the girl cried joyfully, throwing herself on her knees beside the couch and taking the strange woman's hand. "You have heard of Clearchus? Is he—living?"

"He is living, and he loves thee," the stranger replied, as though reading what was in her mind.

A great gladness rushed through Artemisia's being. An immeasurable load was suddenly lifted from her heart. She put her face down upon the edge of the couch and wept for sheer gratitude. The strange woman said nothing, but her hand rested lightly on the soft brown hair, and she stroked the bent head with gentle fingers.

The door opened without noise, and the bulk of Iphicrates advanced gradually into the room. As his cunning eyes took in the scene before him an anxious look overspread his face.

The strange woman raised her body slightly on the couch and extended her hand toward the door.

Iphicrates hesitated and cleared his throat, trying to meet the scornful gaze directed upon him. Finally he mustered up his courage with an effort.

"Go," the stranger repeated in a tone of unutterable contempt. "Must I speak again?"

Iphicrates slowly turned and went, slinking from the room before the blaze of her anger like a beaten hound.

"Because he deserves it," the stranger said. "Has he not held you captive here?"

"I am thy—" The word "sister" trembled upon her tongue, but she checked it. "I am thy protectress," she said. "Men call me Thais."

A blush rose to her cheek as she uttered the name and felt the clear blue eyes of the young girl upon her own.

"Thais?" Artemisia repeated, searching in her memory. "I have heard the name in Athens, but I forget when and where. I think they said you were beautiful, and indeed you are."

Thais felt relieved. Her sister would learn soon enough who and what she was. She hoped that when the knowledge came Artemisia would love her enough to grant her forgiveness. She had broken with her old life. Why drag it with her wherever she went?

Artemisia nestled beside her companion on the broad couch while Thais told her of all that had happened in Athens since she had been carried away by Syphax and his crew. In her narration she omitted the feast in the house of Clearchus and passed lightly over details that might have given Artemisia a clew to her identity. She described Clearchus' despair at her loss and his vain effort to find some trace of her. She told how he had consulted the oracle and of her own adventure in Thebes when Chares had given his fortune to save her from Phradates. Then the young men had joined the army and left her alone in Athens.

"Chares consented that I should meet him here," she went on. "He said that women would not be allowed to follow the army to its first battle. It is there the greatest danger lies; for if they win there, they will hold all the western provinces of the Persian empire."

"If they lose," Thais replied slowly, "then we shall return to Athens. But they will not. The Gods are faithful to their promises. I had intended to wait until the battle had been fought, but Mena, the same who set Phradates upon me in Thebes, found me out. From him I discovered that you were here in the care of Iphicrates, and I came."

Artemisia kissed her. "I would have died if you had not come," she said simply. "But how did Mena know where I was?"

"Will he not find out where you have gone and inform Phradates?" the young girl suggested. "Would it not be better to leave this house and conceal ourselves somewhere?"

"I have thought of that," Thais replied. "I cannot leave the city, since I am to meet Chares here; and if we were to go to some other house, Iphicrates would know where we were. The Rhodian general sent me here and Iphicrates fears me. As for Phradates," Thais smiled slightly, "we need not try to avoid him, for he loves me. He is my slave."

Thais threw her arms around her and crushed her in a fierce embrace. "Love him!" she cried. "To the last drop of my blood—in every fibre of my body! He is my God! If I lay dead before him, my eyes would see him, as they do now."

"I think you love him as much as I love Clearchus, only differently," Artemisia said. "Does he love you?"

"As much as he can," Thais replied. "There will always be more of the boy than the man in him; but he loves me more than any other."

Thais rose and went to the litter, where, from its hiding place among the cushions, she drew forth a bag of leather which she emptied upon the couch. Artemisia uttered a cry of delight. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and gems of turquoise lay spread before her in a glittering heap.

"There is our fortune," Thais said. "We shall not want, at least for the present."

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE CAMP OF THE MERCENARIES

Sometimes running and sometimes walking, Leonidas led Clearchus and Chares all night through the foot-hills of Mount Ida. It was not until day was breaking and they were thoroughly exhausted that he halted at a spot well advanced upon the northeastern slopes of the great mountain. They found themselves at the bottom of a rocky ravine, shaded by evergreens, through which trickled a shallow brook.

"Let us eat and sleep," Leonidas said, and in ten minutes they were lying wrapped in their cloaks in the shelter of a thicket.

Leonidas was awake and had aroused his friends before noon. Although the country was wild and thinly settled, they pushed forward with caution, fearing that they might stumble upon some Persian outpost. For the same reason, they skirted the hillsides instead of keeping to the valleys, where it would have been easier to advance, and the wisdom of this precaution was made manifest before they had gone far. The keen eyes of Leonidas caught a drift of smoke above the tree-tops. Advancing cautiously along a ridge, they found an abrupt declivity which permitted them to look down upon a camp-fire about which were gathered twenty or thirty men.

From the variety of their weapons and costumes, the Spartan judged them to be shepherds and farmers who had been sent out by the Persian commanders as scouts. They were under the command of an officer who wore a conical cap, linen trousers, and a flowing garment of yellow and blue, with wide sleeves. In his hand he carried a whip of rawhide, and his only other weapon was a dagger which he wore at his waist. The party had evidently halted for its midday meal.

Seeing that the Persians did not suspect their presence, the three spies crept behind a huge bowlder which had fallen from the face of the cliff behind them and hung poised on a ledge above the camp. They hoped to learn something from the talk of the men around the fire, but their conversation seemed to be carried on in a dialect with which they were not familiar. While Leonidas and Clearchus were watching, one on either side of the rock, Chares, crouched behind it, began idly to examine the mass of stone. It was taller than the stature of a man and shaped like a rough sphere. Ferns grew from its crevices and around its base, showing that it had hung there for years. It was separated from the cliff by a narrow passage, and its outer side overhung the ledge upon which it had been caught.

Chares measured the great rock with his eye and then quietly stretched himself down upon the ledge behind it, with his feet against the cliff and his shoulders against the stone. As he put forth his enormous strength, slowly a crack appeared in the earth at the base of the stone. The delicate plumes of fern that grew from the moss on its summit began to nod gently, although the air was still. The crack widened and there was a sound of the snapping of slender roots. Clearchus and Leonidas, intent upon the scene below, noticed nothing. Suddenly the great bowlder seemed to start forward of its own motion. It hung balanced for an instant and then plunged from the ledge, bounding down the steep hillside with long leaps, rending everything in its path.

With shouts of alarm, the soldiers scattered in every direction, but their leader tripped on the long skirt of his gaudy robe and fell face downward beside the fire. Before he could rise, the great stone was upon him. It rolled over his prostrate form and came to rest.

Leonidas turned to discover what had happened and saw Chares lying with his head in the hole where the stone had been, shaking with laughter. Without losing a moment, the Spartan dragged him to his feet and ran swiftly back along the way they had come. It was impossible to avoid being seen. There was a cry from below, and half a dozen arrows struck against the cliff about them as they passed. Luckily, they succeeded in gaining shelter in safety.

The Spartan's face was pale with anger. "If you had done that in my country, nothing could save you!" he said to Chares.

"You have endangered the safety of the whole army and run the risk of bringing the expedition to failure," Leonidas answered hotly. "I say nothing of ourselves, but we have been seen, and what you have done to no purpose may cost us our lives."

"You made me leader," Leonidas continued bitterly. "If I am to lead, you must obey my orders. If not, lead on yourself, and I will show you how to obey."

Clearchus peered down into the ravine and saw the Persians gathered about the motionless body of their chief, debating with many gesticulations.

"They are not thinking of pursuit," he said. "Come, I will answer for Chares that he will be more careful in future. Let it pass. We have no time to lose."

The Spartan made no reply, but turned and led the way once more toward the east. They did not halt again until the mountain was at their backs, its peaks cutting a giant silhouette of purple in the crimson evening sky. After a brief rest they struck out along a water-course which brought them at daybreak to a larger stream that they judged to be the Granicus.

As they advanced, the hills became smaller and the country more open. They met several companies of the Persians, some with wagon trains and some on foraging expeditions; but when they explained that they were Greek mercenaries on their way to join Memnon, they were permitted to pass unmolested, since it was extremely unlikely that any of the Macedonians could have advanced so far inland. Finally, late in the afternoon, they reached an opening between the hills which gave them sight of a broad, rolling plain, through which the river ran like a band of silver. Far away they could see the tents of the Persian camp, spread out like a white city, and, a little to the right, a dark square, which they took to be the earthwork surrounding the camp of the Greek mercenaries. Although the Persians made use of the Greeks, they were so jealous of them that they always made them camp apart. Encounters between them were not uncommon, even when they were fighting in the same cause.

Descending to the plain, the three friends lost sight of the camp, but they took the river for their guide, knowing that it must bring them to their destination. They passed farms and cottages, from which the women peeped curiously at them, the men having been drafted into the army. They were emerging from a pasture behind a farm-house rather larger and more prosperous-looking than its neighbors, when they heard a commotion in which they distinguished the shouting of Greeks. Running forward, they found two foraging parties from the rival camps in angry dispute for the possession of a drove of cattle. The Greeks had found the cattle and were about to drive them away when the Persian party came up and demanded them.

Words led to blows. The Greeks were heavily outnumbered, and although they fought stubbornly, it was clear that they would be unable to hold their ground.

He drew his sword and rushed into the conflict, with Clearchus and Chares behind him, shouting at the top of their lungs. The Greeks, encouraged by their unexpected succor, made a stand, while the Persians, not knowing how large a force was upon them, ceased to follow up their advantage.

"Drive in the sheep with the cattle," Chares cried, catching up a heavy stake from a hayrick and swinging it around his head with both hands. "Don't let them escape!" He brought the stake down upon the Persian heads like a gigantic flail.

Leonidas and Clearchus forced themselves into the thick of the fight, thrusting and hewing with their swords. The Greek foragers, regaining their courage, ran in after them. The Persians were unable to withstand the charge. They broke and fled down the road toward their camp in disorder, leaving half a dozen of their number upon the field.

"Praise be to Zeus, the Preserver!" said the lochagos, or captain, who was in command of the mercenaries. "Where did you come from?"

"By the horn of Dionysus, you came in time!" the captain cried, wiping his sword. "But I have been long away from home. Is it the fashion there now to fight with stakes for weapons?"

He looked at Chares, whose mighty onslaught had aroused the admiration of the soldiers.

"It is the fashion there, as it always has been, to fight with whatever comes to hand when Greeks are in danger," Chares said with dignity. "But do you suppose, now, that there is a skin of wine in that house?"

"No harm in looking," the captain replied. "Get the cattle together if you expect to eat before you sleep," he added to his men and led the way into the house.

There were only women inside—the farmer's wife and two daughters, all in a flutter of fear. Chares, ignorant of their language, began by kissing each of them, which served somewhat to dispel their alarm. When the captain produced a bag of gold pieces and announced that he would pay for everything they took, they became quite at ease and readily brought the skin of wine that Chares demanded.

Having finished the wine in great good humor and settled their account, the party set off to the camp, driving the cattle before them. Around their camp-fire that night the three Companions learned all there was to know of the Persian army. Under Memnon, there were nearly twenty thousand Greek mercenaries drawn from the entire Hellenic world and including thieves, fugitives, murderers, and runaway slaves. The Persian force was equal in number to the army of Alexander and consisted mainly of cavalry. It was made up of picked men, the best troops of the empire. With the satraps Arsites and Spithridates were many of the great nobles of the realm, among them Atizyes, satrap of Greater Phrygia, Mithrobarzanes, hipparch of Cappadocia, Omares, and others who were renowned for their bravery and high standing with the Great King.

"They think it will be a holiday affair," the honest captain said contemptuously. "We Greeks know better. They are encumbered with wine and women for the feast that they intend to celebrate after they have won their victory, and they are already quarrelling among themselves for places at the board; but their greatest contention is over what shall be done with Alexander when he is led before Darius, loaded with chains, to answer for his boldness. They have invented more new punishments than would destroy the entire army."

"Why are they so certain of winning?" Clearchus asked. "I have heard the Macedonians are good fighters."

"So they are," the captain replied heartily; "but the best troops of Persia are here, and the young nobles cannot bring themselves to believe that common men can stand against them. Why, they are even predicting that the army of Alexander will run away before a blow has been struck."

"You don't seem to care over much for our friends," Chares remarked with a yawn.

"Nor they for us," the captain said. "You saw what happened this afternoon. They think they can get along without us and they do not intend to let us have any share in the victory if they can help it. I believe we shall win if it is true that Alexander has only half as many men as we; but they will never win without our assistance."

"I don't know," the captain exclaimed. "Nobody seems to know. If they take Memnon's advice, they will not risk all on a battle now. There is no need of it. All we have to do is to fall back, leaving nothing to eat behind us, and the Macedonians will starve to death. But the nobles will not listen to reason. They want glory, and so they insist upon a battle where the advantage will be all with the other side. They called Memnon a coward in the council this afternoon for proposing to retreat, and now they are at it again over yonder."

He pointed to a gayly colored pavilion in the middle of the Persian camp, where the council feast was being held. It looked like a strange, gigantic mushroom, glowing with interior light.

"They even jeer at us for throwing up breastworks," the captain added bitterly. "They have left their own camp defenceless, to show how brave they are. Perhaps they will be glad enough to take refuge in ours before they are through!"

"We must find out what the decision of the council is," Leonidas whispered, as they rolled themselves in their cloaks, "and then the next thing will be to get away."

CHAPTER XVII

THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARSH

It was after midnight when the council ended and the generals returned to the mercenary camp. Chares and Clearchus had long been slumbering, but Leonidas, feeling his responsibility as leader, had deemed it his duty not to yield to his fatigue until the camp was still.

The story of what had occurred in the council spread quickly through the mercenary army next morning. Memnon had returned in a rage. He had warned the satraps of their folly in expecting an easy victory and had advised them again to fall back, laying waste the country as they went, so that the Macedonians would be forced to give battle on disadvantageous terms and when they had been disheartened by privation.

This suggestion had been treated with scorn by the Persians. They had taunted Memnon with cowardice and the satrap Arsites had flatly refused to permit a single house in his province to be destroyed.

"If the Greeks wish to earn their pay without fighting," he had said, "let them stand idly by and see how brave men can conquer."

Thereupon all the Persian nobles had shouted assent and it had been decided to proceed without delay to crush the invasion by forcing a battle.

This was the news that was told through the camp of the Greeks and discussed with bitter comment by groups of soldiers.

"I wish I was back with my wife and children," said a sturdy Locrian. "These dogs know nothing of war."

"I shall stay here, no matter what they do," remarked an Athenian, with a shrug. "Hemlock does not agree with me."

"Wait until the phalanx strikes them," said a hoplite from Syracuse. "I'll wager that the date-eaters will sing a different song when the sarissa begins to tickle their ribs."

"You would suppose that these fellows would like to see the barbarians beaten," Chares muttered to Clearchus.

"Hush," said Leonidas. "We know all that we came to learn. What we have to do now, is to get out as soon as we can. The army cannot be far away and unless we can reach it before it arrives, the day may be lost. If we give the Persians time, they may yet change their minds. All depends upon an immediate attack, while their forces are divided. We must get away at once. How are we to manage it?"

"That will not do," Leonidas replied. "You know the order that nobody shall straggle from the camp. There is too much danger of getting into a brawl with the Persians."

"That is worth trying," the Spartan assented; "wait here until I find our friend, the captain."

It happened that the same foraging party that they had joined the day before was going out again. Leonidas asked permission to join it.

"You have not yet been enrolled," the grizzled captain objected, "but come along if you wish; we may need the big fellow with the stake. I'll leave three of my men behind and you can take their places."

Leonidas breathed more freely when they were out of the camp, with the most dangerous part of the mission accomplished. They were forced to cross the Granicus and to walk five or six miles on the other side before they met with any success in their search for provisions. At last they discovered a flock of sheep, of which they took possession. All was in readiness for the return march when Leonidas, Chares, and Clearchus approached the captain.

"We have decided that we will not join the army," Leonidas announced. "We have seen enough of this war. We are going back to the coast."

"Well, we are not going back," the Spartan said deliberately. "Are you going to try to force us? There are thirteen of you and only three of us, but if you want a fight, you can have it. We don't intend to risk our lives for such leaders as Arsites. Which shall it be—shall we go, or shall we fight for it?"

"Let them go," interposed one of the soldiers who had drawn near to learn what the controversy was about. "They saved us yesterday. I have half a mind to go with them myself. I would if I had my pay."

"Farewell," Leonidas said, sheathing his sword and extending his hand to the captain. "You can say we were killed in a skirmish with the Persians if you like."

"That's it, I'll say you were killed," the captain exclaimed in a tone of relief, clasping the proffered hand. "Only, you will not come back?" he asked doubtfully.

"Never fear," cried Chares, giving him a slap on the back that almost felled him to the ground. "If we do, we'll swear you told the truth."

So they turned north and passed on, while the remainder of the party drove in the sheep to camp.

It was mid-afternoon when they separated from the mercenary company, and they had no means of knowing how many miles they would have to travel before they fell in with the Macedonian army.

Before they had gone far, they found themselves descending a long slope toward what seemed to be a wide stretch of marshland extending as far as they could see. It was covered with long, dry rushes, which rustled and bent before the strong breeze. The brown expanse apparently had once been a lake, for in the distance they could catch the gleam of water; but the greater part of the basin had dried, and the reeds had sprung up as the water receded.

"It looks like a swamp," Clearchus said, anxiously scanning the plain. "How are we to pass?"

"It seems dry enough now," Leonidas replied. "We will cross it if we can find no better way; but let us look first for a road."

Facing to the east, they skirted the edge of the rushes for more than a mile without finding an opening or coming within sight of the end.

"I'm afraid we shall have to try to get through," Leonidas said at last, halting on a tongue of land which extended some distance into the marsh. "We can't afford to waste much more time."

The question was decided for them in a manner that left them no choice. As they stood in doubt, shouts came from their rear, and turning, they saw a company of horsemen at the top of the slope, half a mile away, bearing down upon them at a breakneck gallop. Their long lances and flowing garments showed them to be Persians.

"You were right in saying that we had no time to waste, Leonidas," Chares exclaimed. "What are you going to do about this? I am anxious to take orders."

For answer, the Spartan set off at a run for the marsh. It was evident that the Persians had seen them and were aiming to attack them at a distance from the camps, where the affair would remain undiscovered.

With the wind blowing in their faces, the three young men plunged in among the reeds. The dry stalks met above their heads and whistled about their ears.

The Theban took the lead, tearing like a wild bull through the crackling stems. Clearchus followed at his heels and Leonidas brought up the rear, retaining for himself the post of danger. Although their figures were hidden, they knew their pursuers would have no trouble in following them, for they left a broad trail, and, moreover, the elevation of the backs of their horses would enable the barbarians easily to mark their progress by the waving of the rushes.

For a mile and two miles the race continued without a word being spoken. The Persians had ridden headlong into the marsh after them and were slowly gaining upon them, although the speed of their horses was checked by the rushes, which caused them to stumble, and by the softness of the ground, into which their hoofs sank to the fetlock at every stride.

Clearchus was panting for breath and he heard Leonidas breathing hard behind him. Sweat streamed from the face and neck of Chares, who broke the path. The Athenian knew that the pace could not be maintained much longer.

Still another half mile they struggled on with the endless brown walls of reeds before them and around them. Long ago they had cast away their javelins and their shields, which caught in the reeds and hindered them. Even if they could find a barrier behind which to make a stand, they knew they would have no chance for their lives against the enemy, who outnumbered them six to one and had the advantage of being mounted.

Clearchus thought of Artemisia, and his temples throbbed with anguish as he nerved himself to fresh effort. Was he never to see her again? His bones would bleach in the middle of that vast morass and she would not know. He thought of the high-spirited young king who had sent them to obtain information that might save his army from destruction and the hopes of Greece from ruin. On them alone might depend the result of the battle that was to be fought and the destiny of two nations.

He saw Chares stumble once and again. His own muscles were benumbed by the long strain. The shouting at their backs was growing louder and more near and he could hear the thudding of the hoofs upon the spongy, black soil.

"Stop!" Leonidas gasped behind him, and looking over his shoulder, Clearchus saw that the Spartan had fallen to his knees.

The Theban halted and they both ran back to Leonidas, drawing their swords with a fierce determination to defend themselves to the last.

They saw that he held his flints in his hands and that a tiny blaze was flickering up from a heap of rushes which he had crushed into a tinder-like mass.

They understood his plan and hope returned to them. Like madmen, they trampled the reeds to the right and left. A puff of wind came through and caught the darting tongue of fire. It leaped upward so suddenly that the Spartan's hair was singed before he had time to draw back. In an instant, it seemed, a sheet of flame flung itself into the air above the reed-tops, casting off a thin swirl of bluish smoke. With incredible swiftness the fire swept from them straight down upon their pursuers, leaving behind it a rapidly widening wake of black.

"Scatter it!" cried Leonidas, seizing the blazing reeds and throwing them in every direction. The others followed his example, spreading the fire as far as they could to the right and left so as to make it impossible for the Persians to evade it by avoiding its path.

As soon as the barbarians saw the first smoke, they halted, hesitated for a moment, and then turned wildly back in the hope of escaping by the way they had come. The Greeks had taken a position on the charred ground, where they themselves were safe from the flames, and were awaiting the result, sword in hand.

The conflagration, as it gathered headway, seemed to become a monster animated by a living spirit. One broad sheet of flame swept high into the air, roaring like a hungry beast, and throwing up clouds of smoke that hid the southern sky. With deadly swiftness it devoured the lake of reeds before it, leaving behind a bare and level plain of ashes from which here and there rose smoky spirals. It seemed to create a scorching gale stronger even than the wind that had fanned it into life. It rushed forward by great leaps and bounds, pausing now and then over some especially tempting thicket of reeds, and then starting up far in advance.

In vain the three young men tried to learn what had become of the pursuers upon whom Leonidas had let loose their terrible ally. Grasping their swords, they stood back to back amid the drifting smoke, striving to look beyond the flaming wall. The wave of fire reached the slope from which they had fled, lingered there for a few moments, and then vanished as quickly almost as it had sprung into existence. The smoke blew away over the uplands in a bellying cloud. Gazing through its rifts, they could see nothing of the Persians. They seemed to have disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them.

"No, by Zeus, I see them!" Chares cried, pointing to a group of blackened mounds about halfway from where they stood to the edge of the marsh.

One of the mounds stirred as he spoke, and they saw that he was right. It was one of the horses. The animal tried to raise itself on its fore legs, gave a scream of agony, and fell back among the cinders.

Without a word, the three Companions turned away. While the fire had fled rapidly before the wind, it had made little progress in other directions. It was still eating into the rushes behind them and on either side and they were surrounded by it, excepting where it had swept back to the slope. To return in that direction would be to run new risk of capture. They were prisoners.

They looked at each other. Their faces and garments were black with smoke and ashes.

"What would they say if they could see you in the Agora in Athens looking like that?" Chares asked of Clearchus.

"They would ask me the price of charcoal, I suppose," the Athenian replied, laughing.

They moved slowly after the receding fire, choosing their path with caution and halting every few yards to wait until the ground had cooled.

"Don't be too sure," Clearchus cried. "Look at that." He extended his hand, upon which a drop of water had fallen.

It was rain, indeed. The drops were falling all around them, making little puffs in the hot ashes and hissing on the embers. The wind shifted further to the east and brought a refreshing dampness to their faces, crimsoned by the stifling atmosphere which they had been forced to breathe. There was a muttering of thunder, then a nearer crash overhead, and they saw the storm striding across the plain in a long, sweeping curve. They lifted their faces to it and drew deep breaths, letting the water trickle through their hair and down their bodies. Steam rose from the blackened expanse all about them. Gaps began to appear in the hissing circle of fire. The red tongues flickered and went out.

"There is yet time," Leonidas cried, and in a few moments they were once more among the reeds, heading for the northern margin of the swamp.

CHAPTER XVIII

GREEK AND BARBARIAN

Alexander was riding upon Bucephalus, with Parmenio at his side. Behind them rode the light-hearted pages and the grave generals, followed by the Companions and the infantry, winding like an enormous snake along the road that led southward to the Granicus.

The young king seemed preoccupied. He glanced restlessly to the right and left where scouting parties were beating the country to guard against surprise and in the hope of finding some trace of the enemy.

"The Persians cannot be far away now," he said to Parmenio. "Do you think they will wait for us?"

"If they were wise, they would fall back and draw us away from our supplies," the old general replied.

"I have no doubt they will," Parmenio answered, with the shadow of a smile upon his lips.

Alexander glanced sharply at him and was silent, riding with bent head as though debating with himself. There was something in the veteran's tone that jarred upon him.

"Is there none that you trust?" Alexander said sharply. "They are not deserters; but they may have been killed."

"I care not so much for the Persians," Alexander continued, "but I would like to know how many men Memnon has and what spirit they are in."

"It is Amyntas himself," Alexander said, catching sight of them. "What has the Lyncestian found?"

"Either stragglers or prisoners," Parmenio replied, shading his eyes with his palms. "They seem to be negroes."

"We will put them to the torture," Alexander said, with satisfaction. "They may be able to tell something of what we wish to know."

He urged Bucephalus forward to meet the skirmishers, who halted to await his arrival.

"Three men who seemed to be wandering about the Country," Amyntas replied. "They are Greeks, but they refuse to give any account of themselves excepting to Alexander."

One of the three prisoners, short and strong of build, stood forward and saluted. Alexander looked hard at him and then at the other two. His face cleared and he laughed aloud.

He gave his horse to a groom and led the way to a wide-spreading oak tree a short distance from the road.

"I thought you had been either killed or captured," he said to the prisoners. "Leonidas, what have you learned?"

"No, because the Persians will not let them," Leonidas said. "Memnon advised a retreat, but the satraps laughed in his face and gave him permission to watch them win the battle."

"What think you of that, Parmenio?" Alexander exclaimed. "He gave them the same advice you would have given had you been there. They have refused it. The day is ours!"

With hasty questions he brought out the whole story of the expedition. The plan of battle formed itself in his mind as he listened, walking back and forth before them. His eyes flashed and his cheeks glowed red.

"You have done well," he said to the three friends, when they had finished. "Your horses are waiting for you. Refresh yourselves and put on your armor, for you will need it before the sun goes down."

Alexander continued to pace backward and forward with his head inclined a little to the left, as was his wont when in thought. Parmenio watched him closely, but did not venture to speak. Amyntas, who had ridden forward after surrendering his prisoners, now returned at a gallop.

"Your prisoners have already told me," Alexander replied. "Is the stream fordable?"

"Not directly in front of their line," the cavalryman replied. "There is shallow water above and below them, but the stream is swift."

Heralds bore the order down the road beside which the army lay at rest. The commanders left their stations and came forward, singly and in groups, gathering about their leader. In few words he set the situation before them.

But Parmenio frowned and shook his head. "My advice is to wait," he said boldly. "Already it is late and we must cross the river to reach the enemy. They have chosen their own ground. The men are weary with their march."

"As for the river," Alexander replied, "the Hellespont would blush for shame if we stood waiting on the banks of such a stream as this after having crossed the other. It is true that we have little time, and that is the more reason that we should make the most of it. We will fight now."

His decision was received with a burst of cheers. He waited with a smile until the clamor of approval had ceased.

"Comrades and Macedonians!" he continued, "we are about to face the Mede. If we win here, we win all. I say to you that we shall win. I ask you only to be worthy of yourselves. Fight this day as the heroes fought before the walls of Ilium. Their shades are with us. Your names shall be linked forever with theirs. Here we shall reap the first harvest of our hope."

They ran back to spread the news among the soldiers, who received it with such enthusiasm that even the anxious face of Parmenio brightened. In another half hour the army was again in motion with Alexander in the van, wearing the helmet with the white plumes that swept his shoulders.

When they reached the river, they saw the Persians drawn up on the opposite bank in a long, deep line. The front of the enemy was gay with banners flaunting in the sun and resplendent with the multi-colored finery of the Persian lords. The Greeks could hear the braying of their trumpets and the shouts of their commanders as the dense masses of their cavalry wheeled into position to meet the attack. At sight of Alexander a high-pitched, long-drawn cry ran from one end of their line to the other, rising and falling in derision.

There was no answer from the Greeks. The young king drew aside to a point of vantage and threw a rapid glance at the barbarian host. He saw that the river before them broadened into a pool, over whose quiet surface the swallows were skimming. Immediately in front of him the water foamed and gurgled over a shallow, and a similar break ended the pool below. The opposite bank rose steeply from the water's edge to the wide declivity upon which the Persians had taken their stand. Behind them Memnon's mercenaries had been posted as a reserve and to be spectators of the punishment which the barbarians were to inflict upon their countrymen.

"Leonidas was right," Alexander exclaimed, pointing to the mercenaries. "See, we shall not have to meet the spears of the Greeks. Form the line, Parmenio."

Squadron and company emerged from the road and wheeled into their positions in silence under the direction of their captains. Clearchus, Chares, and Leonidas were riding with Ptolemy's troop when a page sought them and they saw Alexander beckoning.

"Do not forget that you are to fight with Alexander to-day," he said, as they rode up.

Leonidas flushed with pride and Chares threw a satisfied glance at the gorgeous breastplate which he had recovered safely. They took their places in the cluster of young Macedonians behind the king.

Amyntas, with his light horsemen, was posted on the extreme right, beyond the left of the Persian line. Ptolemy, with the heavy cavalry, stood next, and Alexander, with seven squadrons of the Companions, the best and bravest of his army, supported him on the left. Then came the terrible phalanx, rank on rank, its sarissas standing up to four times the height of a man, like a giant field of corn. Farther down the river, in the left wing, where Parmenio commanded, was the dashing Thessalian horse, with the riders of Thrace and the Greek allies, supported by other squadrons of foot-soldiers.

Quickly and calmly, as though forming for a parade, the line extended itself and stood still. Behind its centre the catapults and ballistæ were posted, with their strings tightened and their great arms drawn back, ready to hurl their bolts or to discharge their missiles.

A sudden hush fell on both sides of the river. The jeers of the Persians died away and their banners stirred lazily in the light air. The Macedonians stood facing them like an army of statues. Alexander touched his horse with the spur and rode slowly down the line alone to see that all was in readiness. As he passed he spoke to the captains, calling them by name.

"Nicanor," he said, "let your men prove themselves men once more to-day! Perdiccas, fight for the honor of Hellas! Cœnus, there are no cowards among your followers; fight now as you never fought before! Remember Macedon!"

So the young king reached the left of the array, where he gave his final instructions to Parmenio, and galloped back to his place on the right with his double white plume streaming behind him.

Gazing across the narrow stream, the veterans of Macedon saw the pride of Persia awaiting their onset. The great struggle for which they had been making ready through years of toil was about to be brought to an issue. There rose before them a vision of the farms and villages among the rugged Macedonian hills where their wives and children awaited them. They set their teeth upon the thought that defeat would leave the road to their homes unguarded. They pictured the shame of returning as hunted fugitives, with the barbarians at their heels—how sullen Sparta would exult and fickle Athens blaze up in revolt. It would be better to die there on the banks of the foreign river than to incur such disgrace.

To all minds came the thought that the fate of the world was hanging in the balance, and all eyes turned to Alexander. The young king, cool and confident, had regained his position at the head of the Agema. He raised his hand and away on the right the army heard the clear notes of a trumpet sounding the charge.

Amyntas, with his gallant lancers, galloped down the slope and dashed into the river, which foamed about the knees of the plunging horses.

Again the trumpet-call quavered in the air, and Ptolemy's squadrons followed Amyntas with a clanking of armor and a jangling of scabbards.

On the opposite shore the Persians raised their fierce, defiant shout and rushed eagerly forward to meet the charge. A flight of arrows rose from the archers posted upon the hillside in their rear and converged in a glittering shower upon the ford.

Then along the dreaded phalanx of the Greeks ran a swelling murmur. The forest of sarissas began to move toward the river. Louder rose the chant until it drowned the clash of arms and the shouts of the barbarian host. It was the solemn pæan from twelve thousand bearded throats, calling upon the Gods of Hellas for their aid. The hearts of the Greeks in the mercenary camp on the heights across the river tightened as the deep-toned chorus rolled up to them and for a time they avoided looking into each other's eyes.

Enormous darts, ponderous balls of lead, and jagged stones were hurled against the Persian line from the death-dealing engines in the rear of the Greek position. Amyntas was struggling hand to hand in the foaming ford. The battle was joined.

CHAPTER XIX

THE ROUT OF THE SATRAPS

Again and yet again Amyntas was thrust back from the other shore, slippery with mud and clay, while deadly gusts of arrows and javelins beat upon him. Jealous of glory, the young Persian nobles crowded with reckless daring to the brink and overwhelmed him by the weight of their numbers. But they could not drive him off. He clung to the attack with the stubborn tenacity that knows not defeat, refusing to abandon the stream, although his lines were broken and his men were falling around him.

Alexander, watching the battle like a hawk, saw the desperate situation into which he had thrown Amyntas. "Enyalius!" he shouted, calling upon the God of War by the name that the Homeric heroes had used before Ilium; "Enyalius! Follow me, Macedonians!"

The Agema swept down the slope behind the waving plumes of white and struck the river into foam. The disordered ranks of Amyntas raised a breathless cheer as it passed, heading straight for the thickest of the fight. There was a splintering of shafts, a crash of steel upon steel, and from the fierce vortex of the battle rose cries of rage and agony.

Clearchus fastened his eyes upon the double white plume which fluttered before them. He heard the cry "Alexander! Alexander!" run from lip to lip through the Persian host and saw its squadrons rushing down to meet the onset.

A lean, swarthy man, wearing a head-dress that glittered with jewels, aimed a blow at him with his curved sword. The Athenian threw himself back upon his horse to avoid the stroke and thrust the man through the side with his lance.

Alexander was fighting in the foremost rank amid a flashing circle of steel. The Persian courtiers threw themselves upon the Macedonian spears in their eagerness to reach the king and win the honors which they knew would be bestowed upon the fortunate man who should slay him. The young leader seemed heedless of his danger. Twice he spurred his horse up the treacherous bank and twice he was hurled back. The river, from shore to shore, was filled with soldiers fending off as best they might the merciless rain of darts and arrows. The moment was critical. Unless the Agema could gain footing on the Persian side, the day was lost.

"We must end this," roared Chares above the turmoil. "Down with them! Alexander!"

He drove his bloody spur deep into the flank of his powerful steed. The tortured animal leaped at the bank and staggered upward against the living wall that barred the way. A score of swords struck at him, and the polished shield that the Theban held above his head rang beneath the blows that were showered upon it. The great roan gained the top of the bank, but a spearman buried a javelin in his broad chest and his knees gave way. As he fell, Chares leaped from his back and stood firm.

"Alexander!" he cried again, in a mighty voice that rose above the din of conflict like the roar of a lion at bay. His long sword, so heavy that a man of ordinary strength could hardly wield it, though he used both hands, swept on this side and on that in whistling circles. Down went horse and rider before it like grain within the compass of a sickle. For a moment a space was cleared, and in the next the double plume of white flaunted before his eyes as Alexander passed him, and the Theban knew that the shore had been won. The Agema, like a wedge, struck far into the Persian ranks and held there, driven home by the weight of troops behind it.

Mithridates, son-in-law of Darius, infuriated by this success, ordered a charge which should sweep the Macedonians back into the river. Followed by Rhoisakes, his brother, and by a throng of nobles he hurled himself upon the stubborn mountaineers, aiming straight for Alexander. Chares, who was in the path of the avalanche, was swept aside. His shield was shattered upon his arm by the blow of a mace which also broke the fastenings of his helmet. A shout of warning rose from the Agema as it wheeled to face the attack. With sword upraised, Mithridates rushed upon Alexander; but the king's tough lance pierced the scales of his armor before he could deliver his stroke. The prince fell from his horse and rolled beneath the flying hoofs. Rhoisakes, thundering behind him, aimed a blow with his keen battle-axe which shore away the king's crest and half the double plume. At the same moment the satrap Spithridates attacked Alexander from behind, but before his arm could fall, dark Clitus, with an upward stroke, severed his wrist so that his hand, still grasping his hilt, leaped into the air. Rhoisakes met his brother's fate upon Alexander's spear. Dismay filled the Persian ranks. The charge was broken. "Enyalius!" Alexander shouted, and the Agema thundered up the slope against the disordered barbarians.

Clearchus and Leonidas fought close behind Alexander. The Athenian was never afterward able to recall the details of that desperate struggle. His remembrance was a confused blur of thrust and parry, of shouting and confusion. Suddenly, out of the shifting throng, the proud, flushed face of Phradates appeared to him as in a dream. The young man's gaze was fixed and he seemed to be striving to extricate his horse from the press that hemmed him in. Struck by the expression of rage and hate that convulsed his features, Clearchus followed the direction of his glance and saw Chares, with bare head and on foot, holding two adversaries in check with his sword. Blood flowed from a wound upon his cheek, reddening his shoulder and dimming the lustre of his armor. He had been left behind by the cavalry, and the space around him was clear except for the two riders, who had thought to find him an easy victim.

Clearchus read the thought in the dark face of the Phœnician. Phradates had recognized his rival and was bent upon taking him at a disadvantage. The Athenian turned to warn Chares of his peril, but Phradates shot out of the crowd in advance of him and spurred down upon his enemy, bending low upon the neck of his fleet Arabian horse.

"Ho, Chares! Guard thyself!" Clearchus shouted, realizing that he would be too late.

The cry reached the ears of the Theban, who turned his head for an instant and saw Phradates rushing upon him. He leaped forward and hewed one of his adversaries from the back of his horse. The other closed in, aiming a blow with his sword that Chares had barely time to catch upon his own blade. The shoulder of the leaping horse hurtled against him, causing him to stagger and drop his point.

So intent was the Phœnician upon his ignoble revenge that he had not seen Clearchus, spurring desperately to overtake him. The Athenian heard his shout of triumph and his heart failed.

In a few more strides, Chares would be at the mercy of his foe. Phradates raised his arm to strike at the defenceless head. There was one chance of stopping him and one only. Clearchus hurled his sword at the Phœnician. The hilt of the whirling blade struck Phradates on the arm with such force that, with a cry of pain, he let fall the sword from his benumbed fingers.

"Not this time, Phœnician!" Chares shouted, as Phradates swooped past him. "Go back to Tyre and await my coming; for I follow!"

Clearchus leaped down from his horse and recovered his sword with the intention of pursuing Phradates, but he saw at a glance that the attempt would be useless. The Phœnician, unarmed as he was, fled toward the Persian lines too fast to be overtaken.

He looked around for the second of the two horsemen with whom Chares had been engaged when Phradates attacked him, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He turned to his friend and embraced him.

"Thank the Gods!" Clearchus replied. "This is no place to die. I think the battle is ours."

Phradates, riding at full speed, passed through the Persian lines and galloped up the slope. Here and there a Persian horseman saw him go and followed. Others, and still others, joined the flight until, like a dam that goes down before the swollen current of a river in spring, the barbarian squadrons wavered and broke, streaming up the hill disordered and panic-stricken, with death at their heels. Their only thought was to save themselves.

Slaughter took the place of conflict. Grim and silent the Macedonian cavalry and the Thessalian horse rode among the fugitives with swords that knew no mercy. In that disastrous rout the pride of Persia's chivalry was dragged in the dust, and the courtier deemed himself fortunate who escaped to tell of his own dishonor.

Past the camp of the despised Greek mercenaries who had been bidden to watch the defenders of the Great King conquer or die, ran the barbarian rabble, with the wolves of Macedon tearing at their flanks. Southward they fled, leaving behind a broad track of the wounded and the dying, and scattering as they went until no semblance of the Persian army remained. Sweet in their ears at last was the music of the trumpet notes that withdrew the pursuit and left them free to take breath.

The mercenaries stood before their camp, unmoved amid the panic, awaiting the command to fight or flee. The order never came. Memnon had fought beside the Persian generals and had been swept away with them, leaving his army to its fate. Below them the Greeks saw the Macedonian phalanx re-forming its ranks, with the cavalry, of which they had none, upon its wings.

"Why should we die for these cowards?" they said, one to another. "They have deserted us and we are free."

"They surrender," Parmenio said. "They are ready to join us. Why not accept them? It will cost many lives to punish them."

Alexander's brow darkened. "They are traitors to Greece," he said. "I will have none in my army who has raised his hand against his country."

The deep phalanx rolled onward to the chant of the pæan, and the despairing mercenaries knew that they could expect no quarter.

"Let us die like Greeks, since we must die," their captains exhorted. "There is no escape for us."

The phalanx dashed upon them with a rending shock. The long sarissas tore through their ranks; but they stood firm, giving blow for blow, and calling upon each other not to disgrace their name. They even forced the veterans of Macedon to recoil, and the phalanx surged back like a mighty wave that dashes itself against a sounding cliff and returns with renewed strength.

Had only the foot-soldiers, with whom they could fight on equal terms, been arrayed against them, the issue might have remained in doubt; but the cavalry, against which they had no defence, fell upon their rear ranks with terrible effect. Their squares were broken; their captains fell; disordered and without guidance, they went down before lance and sword, fighting to the last.

Alexander's horse was killed under him while he was leading the cavalry charge upon the left, and for the second time that day he narrowly escaped with his life.

"They fought like men," he said sadly to Ptolemy. "I wish they had been with us instead of against us, for they were Greeks."

He gave command to stop the carnage. Where the mercenary line had stood the dead lay in heaps, friend and foe together. A few of the mercenaries who had been cut off from the main body by the cavalry had succeeded in making their escape; but of the twenty thousand whom Memnon had led, eighteen thousand never left that bloody field. At least, they had shown the barbarians how to die.

"It will be harder for Darius to hire Greeks to fight for him after this," Chares remarked, as he reined in his horse beside his two friends and dismounted.

"They were not cowards," Chares assented, nodding his head in approval, "and we have lost more men than we could spare. Here is a fellow, now, who might have amounted to something."

He pointed to the body of a young man who lay with his broken sword beside him. His pale face was calm and his wide eyes stared upward at the crimson evening sky. His corselet had been broken, disclosing the end of a thin roll of papyrus. Chares drew it out and broke the seals.

"This is a letter from Xanthe to me," Clearchus said, and he proceeded to read the lines that his unhappy aunt had written with so much toil.

"I know not," Clearchus replied eagerly, "but if it be the will of the Gods we shall learn. Let us seek the king at once!"

CHAPTER XX

MENA MAKES A DISCOVERY

Mena, the Egyptian, had found a good excuse for remaining in Athens during the fighting, but after the battle of the Granicus Phradates had summoned him to Halicarnassus. He was sitting in a wine-shop, discussing topics of moment with his host. His restless mind, ever on the alert for intelligence that he might turn to account, was gathering information concerning the city.

"Memnon is an able general," he said. "If they had let him lead, the war would have been over by this time."

"I wish they had, then," the host replied, drawing his cup. "That battle on the Granicus came near to ruining me, there were so many of my debtors who did not return."

"You can make up your loss by raising your prices when the siege begins here," the Egyptian observed.

"Of course," Mena replied. "Do you expect Alexander to turn back now that the northern provinces are his? But with Memnon here, he will have his trouble for his pains."

"I don't know," the shopkeeper said, shaking his head. "They say these Macedonians are wonderful fighters, and I am not sure, after all, that I want to see them beaten. Blood is thicker than water, and this is a Greek city, when all is said, even though it pays tribute to Darius. I can't see how we should be worse off under Alexander than we are now. The Persians are robbers, and my grandfather was a Bœotian."

"No, of course not," the shopkeeper said hastily, taking his cue from his customer, after the manner of his kind. "No, I would never surrender, for our walls are so strong and high that the Macedonians will never get through them; but we might make terms," he added cautiously.

His embarrassment was relieved by a boy who came to tell him that two strangers who had just entered the shop desired to speak with him. He excused himself to the Egyptian, whose sharp eyes followed him as he went to obey the summons. He could not suppress a start of surprise when he saw who had sent it. The two men had taken their places at a remote table, evidently not wishing to be remarked. They wore the garb of light-armed foot-soldiers and their accoutrement seemed much the worse for rough usage. One of them was of great size and strength, with blue eyes and yellow hair which curled about his temples. The other was smaller and more delicate in appearance. The cunning Egyptian recognized them in an instant. They were Clearchus and Chares.

Mena knew the two young men had set out with the army of Alexander, and that they must have had some purpose in coming to Halicarnassus. Either they had found some clew, he thought, to Artemisia's hiding place, or they had been sent forward from the army as spies. He gradually shifted his position so that he might watch their conversation with the host without danger of being recognized. Their talk lasted long enough for Chares to drain a huge measure of wine, after which the keeper of the shop bowed them out and returned to Mena.

"They were two Athenians," he said. "They wanted to know where Iphicrates lives."

"He is an old rascal who makes his living out of the necessities of others," the shopkeeper replied. "I dare say they want to borrow money from him. They will have to pay well for it!"

The wily Mena drew from his companion all that he knew about Iphicrates. He found the house without difficulty and easily learned the details of the accident that had befallen Thais. With this information and with what he already knew of Artemisia's disappearance, he soon found out all the rest.

"Chares and Clearchus will attempt to rescue the two women," he reflected. "If they succeed, Clearchus will return to Athens and Ariston will be stripped of all he has. He will undoubtedly be thrown into prison besides. That must not happen, now, at any rate. Chares will probably go with Clearchus, and my worthy master will lose, not only his revenge, but the girl that he makes himself such a fool over. Of course he would blame me for that. This Iphicrates is a money-lender, therefore he must have money. Let me see."

Mena's further cogitations led him to Phradates, whom he found playing at the dice with a party of mercenary captains, who were robbing him without shame. The Egyptian drew him aside.

"I will deliver Chares into thy hands to-night," he said, "and give thee Thais to-morrow."

"I mean exactly what I say," Mena replied with dignity, and he related all that he had discovered.

"My turn has come sooner than I expected," Phradates cried exultingly. He lost no time in seeking Memnon, with whom he held a long consultation.

Save for the military patrols, the streets of Halicarnassus were deserted that night when Chares and Clearchus approached the dwelling of Iphicrates. They kept the darker side of the way and advanced with caution, halting at every sound. They had laid aside their weapons, which they knew would be useless in case of attack and which might excite suspicion should they be noticed. In front of the house they stopped to listen. Not a sound broke the stillness and nobody was in sight. In one of the upper windows a light was burning.

Clearchus picked up a pebble from the street and tossed it at the window. The first trial failed, but at the second the stone entered the opening.

"Back now until we see her!" the Theban said, drawing Clearchus into an angle of the opposite wall.

In a moment a woman's head, with hair unbound, appeared at the window against the light.

"It is Artemisia!" Clearchus cried, unable to control himself in the rush of his joy. He started forward and stood in the full moonlight with his arms outstretched.

She vanished from the window, and Clearchus advanced eagerly toward the door. Before he had taken three steps a score of men seemed to rise out of the ground around him. The trap set by Phradates had been sprung.

In an instant, Clearchus had been overcome. Chares, who had remained in the angle of shadow, sprang forward with a cry of rage. He reached Phradates before the soldiers could stop him, and dealt the Tyrian a blow that sent him down in an inanimate heap ten yards away; but, as he did so, a dozen men leaped upon him and bore him to the earth.

With a groan Clearchus submitted; and the guard, having bound their arms behind them, dragged them to their feet.

"At least, that Phœnician coward has his deserts," Chares exclaimed with a laugh, glancing at the senseless form of his enemy. "I hope I have killed him!"

Part of the guard marched them quickly away, while the rest remained behind to care for Phradates. As long as the house could be seen, Clearchus kept his eyes upon the window, hoping for another glimpse of Artemisia, but he saw her not.

It was necessary for the soldiers who had stayed behind with Phradates to summon a physician before he could be brought back to consciousness. His life had been saved by the fact that he threw up his right hand to protect himself from Chares' terrible blow. The bones of his wrist had been broken and splintered so badly that the physician doubted whether he would ever be able to use his hand again.

In the morning Iphicrates received orders to join the citizen levy that had been raised to defend the walls of the city; and Phradates, with a retinue of slaves and attendants, took possession of the house. The money-lender protested bitterly against the service demanded of him, but his entreaties were in vain. He had not even time to make provision for the security of his valuables before he was hurried away, and he was forced to accept the assistance which the sympathetic Mena pressed upon him. He revealed to the Egyptian, with many lamentations, the hiding-places of his hoard, promising to reward him liberally if he would bring it to him. Mena found not only the gold of which Iphicrates had spoken, but much more that had been so cunningly concealed in the walls of the house that Iphicrates had deemed it unnecessary to allude to it. So expeditious was Mena's search that he was able to report to Iphicrates, before nightfall, that the soldiers had anticipated him and had carried everything away.

"I am ruined!" cried the wretched man, turning pale and wiping the drops from his brow. "The savings of a lifetime of toil have been taken from me! Ah, the robbers! Would that I had them here before me!"

"Take hope," Mena replied soothingly. "The fortunes of war may bring thee more than thou hast lost, and it is better, at any rate, that thy gold should have fallen into the hands of thy friends rather than into those of the Macedonians."

"Give yourself no concern about that," the Egyptian replied hastily. "I have already complained to my master, and he has promised to see that the soldiers are punished. He is generous, and he feels that it was partly his fault that this misfortune has come upon thee."

Iphicrates clasped his hand and thanked him with tears. Mena left him to his drill and hastened to make provision for the secret conveyance of the gold to Tyre. Phradates remained in ignorance of the whole transaction, having matters of more importance to occupy his thoughts than the ruin of an old miser.

Artemisia passed the night in an agony of suspense and weeping. Thais did her utmost to comfort her, though her own heart was scarcely less troubled than that of her younger companion. It was by representing that, weak as they were, they might be the only persons in the city who could aid Clearchus and Chares, and that they must not abandon themselves to despair that she finally persuaded Artemisia to sleep. While she talked, her swift mind was busy with plans. She had heard that the Persian officials were venal, and that anything in the empire might be had for a price. She knew that the purchase of a general or a viceroy was beyond her means, but she hoped that the jailers who had the two young men in charge, whoever they were, might be bribed by her jewels to let them escape. It was with a kind of exaltation that she made a mental account of the gems, thinking that the price she had paid for them might not have been in vain. The question that most occupied her mind was what temper Phradates would be in, for she doubted not that he would seek to take advantage of her situation. Finding Artemisia quiet at last, she lay down and resolutely closed her eyes.

As soon as the Tyrian had occupied the house, his slaves brought food and wine in his name to the young women. Thais accepted it.

"How can you receive anything from that man?" Artemisia exclaimed indignantly, when the slaves had gone.

"If I had my wish, I would drive this through his heart," Thais replied, catching up a small dagger that she sometimes carried in her bosom. "My desire to aid Chares and Clearchus is no less strong than thine; but we are women and we must fight as we can, not as we would. So hide thy grief if thou canst, for it will win pity neither for them nor for thee."

Artemisia looked at her splendid beauty, heightened by the smouldering fire in her eyes. "I feel that I am a child," she said, embracing her. "I know nothing of the world and I am afraid. I will trust thee in all things."

Thais returned her caress. "Our lovers are in the net," she said, "but you remember in the story that it was the mouse that freed the lion. If Phradates sends us the women, he is still my slave, though we are in his power, and we may hope. Now, let us eat."

They had scarcely finished when Mena knocked at the door and ushered in two women of Cyprus, with gleaming black eyes and slender, agile forms. "My master, the noble Phradates, sends you these," he said, bowing low before Thais.

"Phradates hath our thanks," she replied gravely. "Tell him that we hope to express our gratitude to him in person."

Mena withdrew, and Thais immediately commanded the women to dress her and Artemisia. To this task she gave her whole attention, directing every step with the minutest care, to the least fold of the saffron chiton. She chose for her adornment a topaz necklace that seemed to sparkle with inward fire. Artemisia she robed simply in white, with a white rose in her soft, brown hair.

There was an unwonted stir in the house. Slaves came and went with messages. The sound of men's voices rose from below. Thais was restless and uneasy. She paced backward and forward, stopping now and then before the polished mirror to examine once more the lustrous coils of her hair, or the arrangement of her silken chiton. She seemed expectant, and at every footfall turned her face toward the door; but the morning wore on, and Phradates did not come. Finally she sent one of the Cyprian women down, on pretence of fetching water, to learn what was going on. The woman returned with the news that the Tyrian was there, but of Chares and Clearchus she could learn nothing.

Thais hesitated for a moment. "Go down again," she said at last, "and tell Phradates that we are ready to receive him."

The woman took the message, but she came back almost immediately, saying that Phradates had left the house.

Thais stamped her foot. "Then we must wait," she said regretfully. "O that I were a man this day!"

CHAPTER XXI

PHRADATES TRIUMPHS

The morning sun, shining from a cloudless sky, danced upon the rippling harbor before the eyes of the two prisoners as they were led to the Royal Citadel where Memnon had established himself. The Rhodian had been placed in command of all the western border of the empire after the disaster on the Granicus, and his authority was nominally supreme.

They were conducted to an antechamber of the council room to await their turn. They found themselves surrounded by a throng in which the Greeks far outnumbered the barbarians. Sullen looks were levelled at them by the officers who came and went. Ephialtes, who had been exiled from Athens, smiled at them mockingly. Neoptolemus, the Lyncestian, and Amyntas, son of Antiochus, who had been concerned in the murder of Philip, Thrasybulus, and others who had become exiles from their native land for various crimes, passed them in the crowd of civil and military officials whose faces and garb indicated the widely scattered races that they represented.

Phradates was making his way through the hall, holding his head high and ignoring the salutes that were offered to him. He wore a magnificent cloak of purple, under which he concealed his maimed right arm, and his spurs clanked on the marble floor.

"They are the same spurs he used to get away with from the battle," Chares observed. "He seems to be a person of some importance here, and that will do us no good."

"That is true," Chares replied. "I wish I had struck him harder! His head must be of iron."

"Do you think the oracle was accomplished when we found Artemisia?" Clearchus inquired anxiously.

"Come along," the captain of the guard said roughly, "the general is waiting for you."

He led them into the council room, where Memnon sat behind a table littered with documents. With him were Orontobates, Phradates, and a few of the higher officers. The famous Rhodian raised his head from the letter that he had been reading and looked keenly at the two young men.

"You are charged with being spies of the Macedonian," he said abruptly. "What have you to reply?"

"He lies!" Phradates broke in. "I saw them both at Thebes in the army of Alexander, and again in the battle of the Granicus. They are spies!"

"What he says is partly true," Chares replied coolly, "but it also true that we are not spies and that he knows it. We have left the army of Alexander."

"We came in search of Artemisia, a young woman of Athens," Clearchus said. "She was stolen before the war began. We followed the army in obedience to the oracle at Delphi for the purpose of finding her. When we learned that she was here, we came hither to seek her."

"It is all false," Phradates cried. "Put them to the torture and they will reveal the truth!"

"Spoken like a Phœnician," Chares said scornfully, "but it is only among savages that they torture free men. Do you remember, Tyrian, what was done to you when you came as a spy to Thebes?"

"Alexander sent thee back to Tyre," Chares continued, "and he gave thee a message to deliver to thy king, Azemilcus. Hast thou forgotten it? He told thee to bid him prepare the altar in the temple of Heracles, for that he was coming with his army to make sacrifice there. He is on his way."

Chares spoke boldly, and the threat conveyed in his words had an evident effect upon the minds of the men who heard him. Many of them, like Phradates, had seen with their own eyes the impetuous charge of the Macedonians across the Granicus, and they knew in their hearts that the Great King had no troops that could have withstood it. Sardis, Ephesus, Miletus, and all the Carian cities in the north had fallen, and the mutterings of the approaching storm were all about them. Would the great walls of Halicarnassus, upon which they had been toiling, give them shelter? Misgiving seized their minds, and they looked questioningly at each other and at Memnon. None could read what was passing in the thoughts of the wily Rhodian, but no doubt he reflected upon the jealousy of the Persians, his masters, which had forbidden him to lead his Greeks into the battle of the Granicus and which still encompassed him, all the more vigilant because of his promotion. He must have thought, too, of his wife and children, hostages in the hands of Darius. He knew that Clearchus and Chares had told the truth. Would it not be well to have two young men of influence in Greece and on terms of intimacy with Alexander to speak for him in case of need?

With his eyes on Memnon's furrowed face, Clearchus, with the subtle intelligence of an Athenian, divined something of what was passing in his mind.

Memnon at last raised his head and glanced about him. "I am inclined to think that the story these men tell is true," he said deliberately.

"Who was the girl in the litter?" said Ephialtes. "Was she this Artemisia whom they were seeking?"

"She was not," he answered. "She was Thais. You may have seen her, Ephialtes, before they drove you from Athens."

"Thais?" Thrasybulus said. "Why not send for her? She may be able to tell whether these speak truth or falsehood."

"Let her be brought before us," Memnon commanded. "Remove the prisoners until she comes. My Lord Orontobates, I wish to consult with you concerning the disposition of the fleet."

Clearchus and Chares were conducted back to the antechamber, while a tall, handsome man, wearing the headdress and insignia of a Persian noble of high rank, bent beside the Rhodian over a map which showed the coast on either side of the city. Although Memnon had been made general and civil governor of the western provinces, he well knew that Orontobates had been placed beside him to watch every act of his, and that the Great King was bound, even though it might be against his own judgment, to take the word of the Persian before that of the mercenary. It was no wonder that the brow of the general was thoughtful and his face careworn, surrounded as he was by traps and pitfalls, and with the terrible army that he had been chosen to defeat drawing hourly more near.

They were still studying headland and bay when Thais and her escort arrived. As if by accident, she took her position full in the sunlight that streamed in through a lofty window cut in the gray stone wall of the fortress. There was a stir of surprise in the room as she entered, and the gaze of every man was bent upon her. The bright flood touched the coils of her hair and filled them with changing gleams. It bathed her face in a rich glow, warm and delicate as the blush upon the petals of a rose. The folds of her chiton, leaving bare the rounded grace of her neck and the swell of her bosom, swept down to her little white feet, shod with saffron sandals, and revealed the firm curves of her figure, youthful, erect, and elastic as a wand of willow. The yellow light sparkled and ran through the topaz chain that rose and fell with her breathing.

As she stood there, a butterfly danced in upon the sunlight, fluttered about her head, and finally settled upon her hair, slowly opening and shutting its red-brown wings, mottled with darker spots. Like a sudden breeze in a ripened field of grain, a whisper of admiration and superstitious wonder ran through the room. Thais raised her eyes, and the shadow of a smile parted her crimson lips, showing the pearly gleam of her teeth.

Thus for a moment she stood in the sunlight before the gaze of the assemblage that thronged about the Rhodian general. The flower of her womanhood seemed to exhale a nameless, sensuous fascination, like the strange perfume of a rare exotic, the spell of which was longing and desire.

Clearchus and Chares were led into the room before Thais. She turned to them with a swift warning in her glance that stopped the words of protest on the lips of the Theban.

"I know them," she assented, in a voice that sounded singularly sweet and timid. "They are Chares, who was of Thebes, and Clearchus, of Athens."

Her answer had substantiated the story of the prisoners. Memnon turned inquiringly to Orontobates.

"It may be that this is some trick," the Persian said softly, in his own tongue. "Who knows that they have not concerted this story for this occasion?"

"My lord's suspicion is just," Thais returned, smiling upon Orontobates and addressing him in his own language; "but he will observe that I have not seen these men since they left Athens, and, indeed, I did not know they were here."

"I came because I learned that Artemisia was here, and I, too, wished to find her," Thais replied.

Orontobates shook his head incredulously. "If this young woman, for whom all Athens seems to be seeking, is here in Halicarnassus, doubtless she can be found," he remarked.

"Shall we send for her?" Memnon asked, turning to Orontobates, who sat thoughtfully stroking his beard, "or shall we set the prisoners free?"

"Thou knowest that Darius commanded us to send him our captives, so that he might learn for himself concerning the Macedonians," the Persian replied. "We have had few to send, and I think he would like to question these men. By their own confession, they have been in Alexander's army. Dost thou not think it might be well to obey the command relating to them?"

Memnon saw that if he refused he might be charged with disobedience to the Great King, whose lightest word was law, and he could not afford to take the risk.

"Thy words are wise," he said smoothly, hiding the anger that he felt at the Persian's interference. "It shall be as thou hast said. Take away the prisoners," he added to the guard, "and let them be sent to-night to Babylon with the messenger who is to carry my letters to King Darius, my master,—may he live forever!"

Clearchus' face grew pale. The thought that Artemisia was so near and that he was about to be separated from her, perhaps forever, without being permitted to see her again, was a blow under which he staggered.

"Why send us both?" Chares demanded, restraining himself with an effort. "I know all that Clearchus knows, and I will tell it freely to the Great King if you will let him go free."

"Two are better than one," Orontobates said. "Thou wilt tell what thou knowest, whether freely or not."

"Take them away," Memnon said harshly, "and see that they speak with nobody before their departure."

Thais followed them with her eyes to the door, where Chares turned his head and smiled at her. She gave him back the smile bravely; but as he passed out of her sight her face changed and became like marble. Her eyes sought those of Orontobates, and she spoke to him in an even voice that vibrated with the intensity of her passion.

"I am a woman, O Persian," she said, "but I say to thee and to thy master that if harm befalls either of these men, the proudest palaces of thy kings shall be their funeral pyre."

A dead hush followed this defiance, and all eyes were turned upon the Persian in expectation of an outbreak; but Orontobates merely smiled upon her as though she were a petulant child and turned again to the study of the maps spread out before him.

CHAPTER XXII

THE VISION OF DANIEL, THE VICEROY

Silent and thoughtful in the midst of the swarthy Arabian guard commanded by Nathan the Israelite, who bore Memnon's letters to the Great King, Clearchus and Chares rode out of the eastern gate of Halicarnassus. Even the Theban's buoyant nature for once was subdued. They were going to what seemed certain death, and they were leaving behind them those they loved most on earth.

To Clearchus this thought was unbearable. He cared not what happened, now that the last hope of rescuing Artemisia was gone. What would become of her? Who could aid her now? He rode with his head sunk on his breast, seeing and hearing nothing of what went on around him. A low fever filled his veins, dulling his senses and leaving him only half conscious of their situation. At times he imagined it was all a dream, from which he would awake, still free to continue the search for his lost love. Then a realization of the truth would return to him, and he groaned aloud in his despair.

The response of the oracle of Delphi, which had supported him, now seemed like a mockery. It had been fulfilled, he thought, when in truth he found Artemisia in the track that Alexander's army was to follow. The Gods had made him their sport, and he fancied them smiling down from the heavens upon his agony. The light of the sun became hateful to him.

So he rode, mile after mile and day after day, in listless and inert abandonment to his fate. Who could resist the will of the Gods? He ate almost nothing, and his strength wasted visibly, while lines of suffering deepened on his face.

In vain Chares sought to rouse him. He returned patient answers to the arguments of the Theban, but his power of effort was gone. In the first stages of their journey Chares watched over him constantly to prevent him from destroying himself in his despair.

Through Lycia, Pisidia, and Cilicia they passed, finding fresh relays of horses at each station along the great highway that had been established by the predecessors of Darius. Through the Amanic Gates they galloped at last, and paused at Thapsacus, on the banks of the mighty Euphrates, where, more than a century and a half before, the Ten Thousand had halted in their desperate dash upon Babylon.

Chares had long ago recovered his cheerful temper. Of what lay before them when they reached the Persian capital he had ceased to think. The condition of Clearchus, and the fact that they had advanced so far toward the heart of the Persian empire, made escape practically impossible. The Theban was regarded rather as a comrade than an enemy by the Arabs of the guard, and his unfailing good nature made the long journey seem less wearisome.

With Nathan he had formed a solid friendship. The young Israelite, browned by the sun and wind, was naturally taciturn and inclined to silence. His form was active and sinewy, and his muscles seemed always on the alert. In his dark eyes burned the mystic intelligence and indomitable earnestness of his race. He rode usually in advance of the little troop, and, although often he seemed wrapped in contemplation, nothing ever escaped him. The contrast between him and the careless, talkative Theban, with his laughing blue eyes and yellow hair, was as complete as possible; and it may have been this very difference in their temperaments that drew them together.

Nathan showed an extraordinary interest in all that related to Alexander, even in his personal appearance and what he had said on this or that occasion. He would listen by the hour while Chares talked of the young Macedonian king, his people, and his court. No suspicion entered the Theban's mind that Nathan was seeking information for the use of his superiors in Babylon. He would have dismissed such a thought as unjust. The Israelite inquired little about Alexander's army, and seemed rather desirous of forming in his own mind a portrait of the young leader. That he reflected deeply upon what Chares told him was shown by the questions that he asked from time to time for the purpose of enabling him to fill out some incomplete detail.

Chares sometimes wondered whether the interest that Nathan displayed in Alexander could have any religious bearing. He had heard from Aristotle of the mysterious and peculiar belief of the Israelites, who worshipped only one God, and who would not suffer an image of Him to be set up in their temple; but his ideas regarding their faith were confused with stories of a hundred other equally insignificant tribes.

His attention was aroused one day by a sudden change in the young Israelite. He became both restless and abstracted. Often he returned no answer to the questions that the Theban put to him, and there seemed to be an unusual luminous depth in his dark eyes. At times his lips moved as though he were conversing with unseen companions. There was a strangeness in his actions and expression that caused even the heedless Theban to feel a vague uneasiness. Toward nightfall, Clearchus, as though drawn by some undefinable bond of sympathy, rode forward and took his place beside Nathan. It was the first time that this had happened since they left Halicarnassus, and Chares watched them with amazement. Neither spoke, but each appeared conscious of the other's presence, and Chares imagined that there was more animation in Clearchus' glance when they halted for the night. At the same time he had a dim sense that something was going on between them that he could not understand.

After the evening meal Nathan sat before the tent that he always occupied with his two prisoners when they spent the night away from human habitation. Clearchus lay beside him, with his head resting on his hand. The Arabs were sleeping in a group beside the tethered horses.

In the measureless depths of the sky the great stars blazed with a steady light. Strange cries of night birds came from the broad river, sweeping silently past them in the darkness. The howl of a jackal sounded faintly in the distance.

Nathan's face was turned toward the south, as though his eyes could see there the walls of the city in whose narrow streets he had played with his companions as a boy. Presently he began to speak.

"He will requite His enemies and those who scorn Him," the Israelite said. "Terrible is His wrath!"

"Is He more powerful than Zeus?" said Clearchus, seeming to comprehend what Nathan meant.

"Yea," Nathan answered solemnly. "Thy Gods are as nothing before Him. Baal He overthrew in Babylon with all his brood."

"I have heard that it was the Persians and not thy people who smote Nebuchadnezzar," Clearchus replied. "Is He the God of the Persians, too?"

"They paid Him honor under the name of Ormazd," the Israelite replied. "While they were faithful to Him, nothing could stand against them; but they have turned their faces from Him, and their time has come. He hath weighed them in His balance, one by one—Chaldean, Egyptian, Assyrian, Phœnician, and Mede. He hath given the victory into their hands; and one by one hath He smitten them until they were humbled in the dust. There is no God but God."

"He hath delivered me out of the snares of mine enemies," Nathan replied earnestly, "even when they compassed me about in wrath. Once and again hath He brought my people out of bondage because they worshipped Him alone. He hath made good His promise. He hath never failed us in our hour of need. By the mouths of His holy men hath He given us knowledge of that which is to come; and now once more He will show to the sons of men His wrath and His favor. He shall put down the mighty from their seats."

Chares saw that Nathan's hands were trembling as they lay clasped upon his knees and that drops of moisture glistened upon his forehead.

"His word was given to Daniel, viceroy of the Great King, Belshazzar, in the palace at Susa by the waters of the river Ulai in the time of my fathers' fathers," the Israelite continued. "The mysteries of the future were laid bare to him by Gabriel, Jehovah's servant; and behold, he saw standing before the river, a ram with two horns; and the two horns were high, but one was higher than the other, and the higher came up last. He saw the ram pushing westward and northward and southward, so that no beasts might stand against him. Neither was there any that could deliver out of his hand; but he did according to his will and became great. Lo, these are the words of Daniel, the viceroy.

"And as he stood considering, behold, an he goat came from the West on the face of the whole earth and he touched not the ground. And the he goat had a great horn between his eyes; and that was thy king, who cometh. And while Daniel looked, he saw the he goat come close to the ram and there was no power in the ram to stand before him, but he cast him down to the ground and stamped upon him, and there was none that could deliver the ram from him. These things were seen of Daniel in olden times; and the hour is at hand."

"If it is written that Alexander shall overthrow the Great King, why dost thou lead us captives to Babylon?"

"I know not," Nathan replied, "but the command was laid upon me, and it is Jehovah's will that I should obey. Were it not so, He would have told me. How can we know His ways? Who are we that we should question His wisdom? Yet in the end, I have faith that it will be well with thee; for to Him nothing is impossible."

It was long before Clearchus closed his eyes in sleep that night. He lay looking upward at the tranquil and steadfast stars and revolving in his mind the words of the Israelite. Could it be that a Divinity greater than all others existed in the universe, whose will ruled all things? The idea took possession of him, and at the same time hope was renewed in his breast. The Gods whom he had honored had deserted him; perhaps the God of Israel could help him.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE WHIRLWIND'S TRACK

Long before Nathan with his captives reached the Persian capital, the sentinels upon the towers of Halicarnassus gave warning of the approach of Alexander's army. Fresh from the storming of stubborn Miletus, the Macedonians advanced against the lofty walls which sheltered the army of Memnon, nearly as numerous as their own. At the first alarm the braying of trumpets sounded through the city, and soldiers filled the streets, marching quickly towards the Mylasan Gate.

Iphicrates, perched high on the walls with the corps of citizen defenders to which he belonged, watched the regular troops making ready for their sally. He held a spear in his hand and a sword was buckled about his fat sides.

"I wish I was with them," said a youth beside him, little more than a boy, gazing down upon the array.

"It's cooler up here—and safer too," the old money-lender muttered, wiping his brow.

"They will cut the Macedonians to pieces," the boy exclaimed, "and I shall have no part in the victory."

The boy turned and looked outward towards the attacking army. "They have stopped," he cried. "They are afraid!"

Iphicrates shaded his eyes with his hand. The Macedonians indeed had halted amid the clouds of dust that their feet had raised and they seemed to be in some confusion. At that moment the gate was thrown open and the garrison emerged in a wide, glittering column. The walls rang with cheers. The column advanced, wheeled, and deployed in a long, deep line, confronting the enemy. It was evidently Memnon's plan to strike a blow that might prove decisive while the Macedonians were still wearied from their march and before they were able to form. His archers sent a flight of arrows towards the Macedonian ranks and his spearmen prepared to charge.

Then behind the dust-cloud rose a sound that seemed to the watchers upon the walls like the murmur of a mighty river. The advance guard of the Macedonians scattered, and in its place appeared the solid front of the phalanx with its forest of sarissas.

"What are they singing?" asked the boy, gazing wide-eyed upon the changing scene.

"It is the pæan; they are calling upon the Gods," Iphicrates replied, again mopping his face.

"It is like a tragedy in a theatre," the boy said, catching his breath in the intensity of his excitement. "Look! Who is that?"

Across the front of the Macedonians rode a man upon a great black horse that curvetted and tossed the foam from his bit. The rider's armor flashed through the dust and his white plumes nodded from his helmet.

Louder rose the pæan as the phalanx swept forward. The space that divided the two armies seemed to shrink away until they almost touched. Then, as with one impulse, the sarissas of the foremost Macedonian ranks dropped forward, until their points were level with the breasts of the foe, and were driven home by the impulse of the charge. The lines of the defenders bent, swayed, and broke. Order gave place to confusion. Here and there small parties began to run back toward the gate they had left so bravely half an hour before.

"It is cooler up here," Iphicrates replied mechanically. A chill ran through his bulk as though he already felt the edge of the swords that were rising and falling in the hands of the victors.

The swiftest of the fugitives, throwing away their weapons, had already dashed panting through the gate. Others crowded behind them, and the opening quickly became choked by a mass of men who trampled each other in their eagerness to get inside the walls. The cavalry and light-armed troops of the Macedonians pressed close at their heels, giving them no respite from their terror.

Of the army of Halicarnassus hardly a remnant would have escaped had not the rain of missiles and arrows from the walls checked the Macedonian advance. As soon as the enemy was within range the order was given to the archers and slingers, of whom there were thousands posted upon the ramparts. They showered stones and arrows upon the pursuing force, and the catapults sent huge darts buzzing down among the close-packed squadrons.

The boy beside Iphicrates was twanging away with his bow as fast as he could fit his arrows to the cord.

"I hit one!" he cried, following the course of a shaft with his eyes. "I saw him fall! He went right over backward!"

Meantime a few squadrons of the bravest men in Memnon's forces rallied and made a brief stand before the gate. They succeeded in halting the Macedonians long enough to enable their comrades to swarm through to safety; but soon they were swept off their feet and hurled back toward the battlements. To their dismay, they found the great gate closed against them. They were cut down as they ran hither and thither, seeking in vain for a place of refuge.

Iphicrates watched the butchery with horrible fascination. His face was mottled, and the spear in his hand shook like a blade of corn.

A shout of warning sounded along the crest of the wall. The Macedonian slingers and archers had turned their weapons against it, and they swept the parapet with a deadly storm that drove the defenders to shelter. The hissing of the arrows and the humming of the balls of lead from the slings filled the air. The boy beside Iphicrates uttered a cry, threw up his arms, and fell with a red mark on his forehead.

Iphicrates dropped to his hands and knees and crawled away, shaking with the palsy of fear.

There was little sleep in Halicarnassus that night. Soldier and citizen labored together, and morning found them still toiling upon the walls, preparing for what they knew was to come. The city was in the iron grip of the siege.

By day and by night the great walls crumbled before the unremitting assaults of the enemy. The Macedonians filled in the wide ditch, raised mounds and towers, and burrowed beneath the foundations of the defences like moles. There was no lack of provisions in the city, for Memnon's fleet came and went with nothing to oppose it, bringing corn and supplies as they were needed. It had been the hope of the inhabitants that Alexander would withdraw when he had measured the difficulty of the task before him. They had ground for the belief that disturbances might be fomented in Greece that would cause him to turn his attention to that quarter. But their plans miscarried. Antipater held Greece with a firm hand and the siege continued.

No man was permitted to lay aside his armor, for the Macedonians attacked at every hour. Again and again the city was roused in the dead of night by the crash of falling battlements, and the defenders were obliged to guard some new breach while they repaired the damage as best they might. They made frequent sallies, attacking the formidable engines that had been constructed by the enemy. Several of them were destroyed in this way, but they were replaced by new ones more powerful than their predecessors.

Orontobates sent urgent messages to his master, Darius, telling him of the desperate situation and begging for succor; but none came. What was one city, rich and populous though it might be, to a monarch who counted his cities by the thousand? The brave garrison was left to its fate, fighting obstinately against its doom. The faces of the men grew haggard with watching and anxiety. Custom and order were forgotten. Rich and poor, slave and freeman, labored side by side against the inevitable; and ever, like men swimming against the current, they felt the resistless pressure bearing them down.

Artemisia and Thais, shut up in the house of Iphicrates, awaited the result of the siege. The younger woman was overcome at first when she learned that Clearchus was to be sent to Babylon, but Thais managed to convince her that he was in no danger, and a message that was brought to them before the siege began went far to revive her hope. One of the Cyprian women came back from the market with a basket of grapes. She said that a young man had followed her and asked her whether she did not belong to Thais. She replied that she did.

"Then tell her," the stranger said, "that Nathan the Israelite bids her have no fear."

They learned without much difficulty who Nathan was, and the mysterious message consoled them. Artemisia spoke of it with a childlike faith that touched Thais' heart.

"When they return, they will rejoin the army of Alexander," she said. "If we could only escape to the Macedonians."

Phradates, whose broken wrist prevented him from taking part in the fighting, came often to visit them. He had never forgotten his glimpse of the face of Thais as it appeared in the great slave market before the ruined city of Thebes. His defeat that day was rendered more bitter in the recollection by the thought that she had been a witness of it. The face had haunted him until it had become a part of his life. After her return to Athens he had dogged her footsteps until he was called away to join the army of the satraps.

When he saw her again before Memnon's tribunal, the fascination of her beauty took complete possession of him. His anger against Chares was forgotten, and he was even glad when his rival was sent to Babylon instead of being condemned to death. He believed that the Theban would never come back, and the execution of the prisoners in Halicarnassus might have proved an insurmountable barrier between him and Thais.

Phradates knew that he had the young woman in his power, but he could not bring himself to make use of this advantage. He would not force a triumph; he must have a complete surrender. Day by day he hoped to obtain it. He found a half promise in her words, a suggestion of tenderness in her manner, and at times an implied appeal to his generosity that made his hope almost a certainty. When he grew impatient, the fear of losing her entirely restrained him. Thus he fell more and more completely under her domination, like a man who sips a narcotic, yielding by little and little to its power, until his will to resist is gone, and he gives himself wholly to its subtle intoxication, unwittingly a captive.

After one of her interviews with him, Thais often threw herself down, disgusted with the part that she was forced to play. She grew angry at Artemisia's failure to understand the necessity of what she was doing. When the smile faded from her lips as the door closed upon the Phœnician, she found Artemisia's eyes fixed upon her in sorrowful reproach.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she exclaimed petulantly. "Speak out, if you must!"

"Do you think I love him?" Thais demanded scornfully, coming close to her. "Do you believe that I am false to Chares? Tell me, if you do."

"It seems to you that I do it too well," Thais exclaimed, completing her thought. "What would you do if you were shut up with an untamed tiger? You may give thanks to your Artemis in your innocence that I have been able so far to hold this one in check."

"Forgive me," Artemisia cried, embracing her. "I know you must, and yet—I am sorry for it, my sister."

Artemisia often made use of this title, never dreaming how true it was, and it always awakened a pang of tenderness in Thais' heart. She returned the embrace and forgave her, although she felt that Artemisia could not really understand, try as she might.

"I wish the siege would end!" Thais said wearily. "If you knew how much I loathe all this, you would have more pity."

Her wish was granted at last. Even the most hopeful inhabitant of the city understood that neither flesh nor stone could hold out much longer against the dogged Macedonian assault. Memnon knew that unless the battering rams and catapults could be destroyed the city must fall. There were breaches in the massive walls and the great towers were tottering. If he could gain a little more time, reinforcements might arrive and compel Alexander to raise the siege. Mustering his best remaining troops, he poured them out of the Triple Gate and through the gaps in the wall upon the works of the enemy. The attack was repulsed without accomplishing its object; and when the garrison sought to regain the defences, scores were slain at the wall and hundreds more in the moat, where they were precipitated by the breaking of the bridge leading to the gate.

It was plain that the end was at hand. The Rhodian felt that the city was at the mercy of the young king, and he hastened to take advantage of the respite that Alexander's forbearance allowed him. At midnight after this last defeat the evacuation began. The troops were withdrawn to the Royal Citadel and to the Salmacis, where they could still remain in touch with their ships. The greater part of the population fled to the harbor and sought escape in the merchant vessels which were putting to sea. Azemilcus, king of Tyre, who had been acting with the fleet, made ready a trireme in which to send home the wounded among the Tyrians. He placed it under the command of Phradates.

Thais learned from the slave women that the young Phœnician was making ready to depart in haste.

"If we are to escape, we must do it now," she said hurriedly to Artemisia. "He will try to take us with him."

"No," Thais responded. "To refuse him would be to open his eyes, and he would certainly take us by force. Flight is our only hope."

She gathered her jewels into a packet and placed it in her bosom. She then ordered the women to muffle them in long cloaks that concealed their faces.

One of the women brought word that Phradates had gone to the harbor to see that all was in readiness, and that Mena was also absent. Thais led the way boldly down the stairs and out of the house, followed by Artemisia and the two women. The slaves who were at work below stared at them, but in the absence of their master none ventured to stop them. They gained the street in safety, and were immediately swept away in the clamoring, terror-stricken streams of fugitives who were pouring toward the harbor. A lofty tower that had been built beside the Triple Gate was on fire. The flames roared up the sides of the structure, bursting from its windows and loopholes, and converting it into a gigantic torch. They spread quickly to the houses nearest the walls, sending volumes of reddened smoke rolling over the harbor. The howling of dogs mingled with the shouts of men and the wailing of women who clasped their children to their breasts.

Iphicrates left the walls with his comrades in arms and plunged into the crowded streets. He had intended to seek his own house in the hope of finding some remains of his hoard untouched; but the panic seized him, and he changed his direction. He determined to gain the Royal Citadel, which he knew was to be defended against the Macedonians. Thinking only of his own safety, he forced his way through the press, pushing women and children aside in his haste. Blinded by the terror that possessed him, he took no heed of a small, dark-skinned man with sharp features who reeled back from the thrust of his elbow. Even if he had noticed that the figure fell in behind him, following his footsteps like a shadow, he would have taken him only for one of the fugitives.

Steeped in the contagion of fear, the money-lender hardly noticed where he went. He soon became exhausted by his struggle with the crowd, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he found himself at last in a street that was comparatively deserted. He overlooked the fact that the few persons whom he met were hurrying the other way, and it was not until he was brought to a halt by a blank wall that he recognized his surroundings. He had entered a road from which there was no outlet.

He halted in dismay. The shadow behind him glided into a doorway and crouched out of sight. The street was hemmed in by tall buildings that had been emptied of their tenants, and the light of the burning tower flickered redly upon the upper walls, increasing the gloom below. A sense of loneliness and desertion smote him. He felt himself suddenly cut off from human companionship. His heart beat thickly and heavily. He seemed to be strangling under the oppression of a nameless and deadly horror.

He turned and rushed back in the direction whence he had come. As he passed the doorway within which the shadow had disappeared, a light form bounded out upon him. There was a flash of steel; a lean arm was thrust forward and seemed to touch him lightly on the back beneath his shoulder. He fell upon his face with a choking cry; the shadow leaped over him, fled, and vanished, leaving him motionless where he lay.

Thais and Artemisia were borne forward in the crowd without power to choose the direction of their flight. In the frantic masses of humanity, all fighting toward the harbor, they saw women and children trampled underfoot; and they clung to each other in desperation, knowing that if they fell, they would never be able to rise. The maddened crowd swept them on to the wharves, where the agitated waters of the harbor spread before them like a lake of blood in the glare of the conflagration.

Utterly bewildered and unable to extricate themselves, the young women were drawn hither and thither by the eddies of the mob as it rushed feverishly from one vessel to another, seeking means of escape. Suddenly they found themselves wedged in before a double line of soldiers drawn up before the gangway of a trireme, the sides of which loomed dark above their heads. Torches shed a smoky light upon the agonized faces of the throng, held at bay by the spears of the guard. Warning shouts rose from the darkness, followed by a swaying motion of the crowd which divided before the rush of a compact body of men making toward the vessel. Thais and Artemisia felt themselves crushed forward against the living barrier until they could hardly breathe. They heard the shouting and cursing of the soldiers advancing from the rear into the circle of torchlight. The pressure became unbearable. They had given themselves up for lost, when, before they knew what was taking place, they were seized and borne upward. Thais recovered her senses to find herself seated upon the deck of the trireme, with Artemisia's head in her lap.

She looked up and saw Phradates standing before her. "It is fate!" flashed through her mind.

He turned and commanded the sailors to cast off. The great vessel swung slowly from the wharf, leaving behind the mass of unhappy fugitives, some of whom cursed her, while others stretched out their arms toward her, praying to the last to be taken on board. Artemisia was revived by the cooler air of the harbor.

"We are on the Phœnician trireme, bound, I suppose, for Tyre," Thais answered bitterly. "No, it was not my doing," she continued, replying to her sister's glance of surprise and question. "I had no more part in it than you this time. It is the will of the Gods."

The trireme pointed her brazen beak toward the entrance of the harbor. The banks of oars which fringed her sides in three rows, one above the other, like the legs of some gigantic water insect, caught the waves, and the panic-stricken city began to glide away from her stern. A fishing boat, laden with fugitives, drifted across her path. The sharp prow struck the side of the hapless little craft and cut through it like a knife. For a brief moment the screams of women and children rose out of the darkness, and then the voices were stifled.

Artemisia hid her face on Thais' shoulder and wept; but Thais, gazing back on the fiery city, saw the great tower reel and fall, clothed in flame from base to summit. The roar of turmoil and terror sounded in her ears, and she smiled. The red light danced in her eyes, making them gleam like opals as she turned them upon Phradates.

"They say thy city hath strong walls, Phœnician," she said. "Thou wilt have to build them still stronger, I think."

"They are strong," Phradates answered proudly; "but we shall not need them, for between us and Alexander stand a million men, ready to lay down their lives for their king."

In the stern of the trireme sat Mena, gazing thoughtfully back at the city and wiping the stains from the blade of his dagger.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GORDIAN KNOT

Alexander kept the anniversary of his departure from Macedon in the city of Gordium, surrounded by his army, on the wind-swept uplands of Phrygia. He reached the place through the drifted snows that blocked the passes of the Taurus and the rugged hills of Pisidia, subduing on his way the tribes that had held them for ages, to whom the Great King himself had deemed it wise to render tribute in exchange for peace.

Looking backward, the young leader of men saw the Ægean coast and all the territory west of the mountains subject to his rule. To the rich and prosperous Grecian cities by the sea he had restored their ancient rights, and the hostages of the barbarians thronged his camp. He had made a beginning, and his heart had confidence in the end.

Parmenio came from Sardis, bringing the troops that had wintered there, with the siege train and abundance of supplies. Alexander resolved to rest until the roads should be settled so that he might strike another blow. In games and feasting and martial exercises his army passed the breathing space permitted before the onslaught. The camp was filled with jests devised by the detachments that under Alexander had conquered stubborn Salagassus, at the expense of the men who had been idling in Sardis and who were accused of having grown white-faced and soft in their luxury. Parmenio's men, in turn, took their revenge in quips levelled at the young married men, who had been allowed to go to their homes across the Hellespont and who now returned, bringing the latest news and gossip of Pella and squadrons of eager recruits.

Leonidas had risen high in the favor of the young king, who had seen his courage tested in the winter campaign. He had become one of the Table Companions, with command of a squadron of cavalry, and even the proud young Macedonian nobles, jealous of intrusion, had ceased to look down upon him as an outsider and had taken him into their circle. Of all the stories told in the camp, none was more often repeated than that which related how the Spartan had held the light-armed troops when they were taken in ambush by the fierce mountaineers before Salagassus, until Alexander could lead the phalanx to their rescue.

But Leonidas showed no elation. On the contrary, he seemed more grim and taciturn than ever. Gladly would he have given both favor and command if he could have seen Clearchus and Chares ride into camp unharmed. Since they started for Halicarnassus, he had heard nothing of them, and it was the general opinion in the army that they were lost. The Spartan had few friends and none to take the place of these two. His grief for them was the deeper because he would not show it. Though it gnawed at his heart like the stolen fox, he gave no sign. One night, at table, the jest turned upon Amyntas, who had purchased gilded armor.

"You are as vain as Chares the Theban," one of the Thessalian officers said to him, laughing.

Leonidas sought the man out next day. "You have insulted my friend, who is not here. I think you are sorry for it," he said quietly.

The young captain laughed, looking down upon the Spartan from his six feet of stature.

With a bound, Leonidas caught him by the throat in a grip that was like that of a bulldog's jaws. In vain the Thessalian sought to break his hold. His face grew black and his tongue protruded.

The other, feeling his senses leaving him, made an affirmative motion, and the hands that gripped his throat relaxed.

"Thou shouldst speak no ill of those who cannot answer," the Spartan said, turning away and leaving the young man to recover his breath.

When this incident reached the ears of Alexander, as everything that happened in the camp was sure to do, the king smiled.

"I suppose you would serve me in the same fashion if I should be unfortunate enough to make such a jest," he said.

Alexander laid his hand on the Spartan's shoulder. "I am Alexander," he said, "but I envy Chares and Clearchus. I wish I had such a friend as they have."

"Thou hast many," the Spartan replied. "Wrong them not; but thou hast small need of mortal friends since the Gods are with thee."

"That is true," Alexander said simply. He knew that nine-tenths of the army believed indeed that the Gods had taken him under their protection. He seemed to them, in fact, to be himself almost like one of the immortals in the beauty of his face and form, his perfect courage, and his unerring judgment. While the graybeards at home, the philosophers and statesmen, were predicting failure for him and demonstrating by precedent and logic that his success was impossible, he had succeeded. Already he had wrested from the Great King the colonies of Greece that for centuries had groaned under Persian oppression, and while he had not yet stood face to face with the mighty power that he had attacked, he had confounded the prophets of evil and proved their wisdom to be no better than folly. When his captains looked into his face, ruddy with youth and strength, his smooth brow, unmarked by a line of care, and felt the charm of his glance, remembering what he had done, it was impossible for them to think that he was only a man like themselves.

So when it became known, after the preparations for the southward march in search of the Great King had been completed, that Alexander had determined to attempt the loosening of the knot that King Gordius had bound, there were few of his followers who doubted that he would accomplish it. For ages this knot had defied all attempts to guess its secret. The farmer, Gordius, driving his oxen into the city, found himself suddenly raised to the throne. Tradition told how he had tied the neap of his cart to the porphyry shaft in the midst of the temple and how it had been declared that whoso should unbind it should become lord of all Asia. In the reign of King Midas, his son, friend of the great God Dionysus, whose touch had changed the sands of the Pactolus to gold, many had essayed the task and had failed. In subsequent years a long line of ambitious princes and scheming kings had made the attempt, seeking to propitiate the God with rich gifts, but none had succeeded. More lately, few had tried the knot, for the Great King watched the shrine, and those who were bold enough to tempt Fortune there soon found themselves summoned to his court, where they were taught how unwise it was for the weak to aspire to the dominions of the strong.

It was knowledge of all this that led the soldiers to regard Alexander's trial of the knot as no less important than a great battle. If the knot should yield to him, there would no longer be any doubt of what the Gods intended.

Parmenio, with the caution born of age, shook his head when the king told him of his project.

"What will you gain?" he asked. "The army already has complete confidence in you, and if you fail, some of it will be lost."

"And dost thou not believe in the prophecy regarding the knot?" Alexander asked again.

Parmenio hesitated and looked confused. "It is very old," he said at last, "and we know not whence it came."

"Thy faith is weak," the young leader said severely. "Fear not; the cord shall be loosed."

Before the ancient temple the army was drawn up in long lines, archers and slingers, spearmen and cavalry, find the phalanx in companies and squadrons. Alexander, mounted on Bucephalus, rode slowly along the ranks, splendid in his armor, with the double plume of white brushing his shoulders on either side. He halted before the temple, where the robed priests stood ready to receive him. Every eye was upon him as he leaped to the ground and turned his face to the army.

"I go to test the prophecy, whether it be true or false," he cried, in a clear voice. "Wait thou my return."

Followed by his generals and by Aristander, the soothsayer, he entered the portals of the temple after the priests. They led him to the spot where the cart was fastened to the pillar. Its rude construction indicated its great age. Its wheels were sections of a tree trunk cut across. Its body was carved with strange figures of forgotten Gods and monsters, colored with pigment that time had dimmed. Its long neap was tied at the end to the shaft of stone with strips of cornel bark, brown and stiff with age and intertwined in curious folds that left no ends visible.

"To that man who shall loose the knot bound by King Gordius under direction of the high Gods," he quavered, "shall be given the realm of Asia from the southern ocean to the seas of the North. Once only may the trial be made. Thus saith the God."

Outside the temple the soldiers stood silent in their ranks awaiting the result. As the aged priest ceased reading and rolled up the parchment, Alexander drew closer to the magic knot and examined it, while the others fell back in a wide circle. Between the priests there passed a covert glance of understanding as though they said to each other, "Here is another who will fail, and more gifts will come!" The young king saw that no man could ever disentangle the convolutions of the fastening without tearing the bark. Avoiding even a pretence of attempting the impossible, he drew his sword. The astonished priests started forward with a cry of protest, but before they could interfere, the flashing blade fell and the neap of the ancient cart clattered to the stone floor.

"The God greets thee, Lord of Asia!" the chief priest declared in a solemn tone, bowing his head.

"The knot is loosed! The knot is loosed! We shall conquer!" ran the joyful cry through all the ranks, and the young king, listening within the temple, knew that the hour for decisive action was at hand.

CHAPTER XXV

BESSUS COMES TO BABYLON

Clearchus and Chares gazed with wonder upon the mighty walls of Babylon, raising their sheer height from the surface of the Euphrates until the soldiers who paced the lofty parapet seemed like pygmies against the sky. The little cavalcade, stained with weeks of travel, entered the city through a long archway tunnelled in the wall and flanked on either side by enormous winged lions carved in granite.

Nathan reported to the captain of the gate, who detailed a lieutenant to escort him to the palace. Chares snorted his disgust as the young man took his place at the head of the troop. His beardless face was touched with paint, and his eyebrows were darkened with pigment. His hands were white and soft. His flowing robe of blue silk swept downward on either side below his feet, which were encased in buskins with long points. He glanced superciliously at the two prisoners.

"See that they do not try to get away here in the city," he lisped to Nathan. "It might be hard to find them—there is such a dirty rabble here since the Great King himself decided to take the field."

"Fear?" the lieutenant laughed. "That word, as you will find, is not known here. Ride behind me and let your men surround these two dogs."

He adjusted his long robe and inhaled a breath of perfume from a flask of scent that he carried in his left hand while he gathered up his reins with the other. Chares could restrain himself no longer.

"So we are dogs, are we?" he roared, so suddenly that the lieutenant almost fell from his horse. "Has no one told you that we Greeks have to be fed? Lead on, or I will make half a meal off thy miserable carcass, though how magpie will agree with me, I know not."

"Seize him! Seize him! He talks treason!" screamed the lieutenant, scarce knowing what he said. He looked at Nathan's men, who made no move to obey, but the gleam of their white teeth as they smiled at his agitation brought him to his senses. With an air of offended dignity, he set his horse in motion, and the little troop clattered away into the city.

Inside the vast circumference of the wall they found streets along which stood magnificent dwellings surrounded by trees and gardens. So ample was the enclosure that ground enough remained unoccupied between the houses to sustain the population, if necessary, upon its harvests. Great temples reared their towers above the roofs. Gay chariots and gilded litters passed or met them. Now and then a curious glance was directed toward them, but beyond this they seemed to attract no attention. Everybody was too intent upon his own business or pleasure to give more than a passing thought to the sun-browned soldiers who rode wearily behind the brightly accoutred lieutenant of the guard.

As they advanced the streets became narrower and the houses stood close together, with no space between them for gardens. Shops and bazaars appeared on either hand, filled with a bustling, chaffering throng. The young Greeks saw a strange medley of nations. Swarthy Egyptians elbowed dusky merchants from beyond the Indus. Phœnicians and Jews drove bargains with large-limbed, blue-eyed men of the North, who wore shaggy skins upon their shoulders and carried long swords at their belts. This part of the city was given over entirely to foreigners, for among the Persians the old belief still prevailed that no man could buy or sell without being dishonest, and falsehood was held in religious abhorrence by the conquerors of the Medes.

Darius was collecting the host which he purposed to lead against Alexander and with which he intended to crush the adventurous invader. Military trappings were to be seen everywhere. The summons of the Great King had brought within the walls an enormous influx of strangers from every corner of the empire.

Chares and Clearchus aroused more curiosity as they rode through the narrower streets of the commercial quarter, where they were forced to proceed more slowly because of the throngs. They were soon recognized as of the race of the enemy.

"By Ormazd, that is a big one!" said a soldier in a lounging group, pointing to Chares.

"Granicus! Granicus! Kill the Greeks!" a woman screamed from the top of one of the flat-roofed houses.

Her imprecation caused a stir among the idlers, who pressed forward to learn what was the matter and to obtain a better view. The rumor ran that there was to be fighting, and customers poured out of booth and bazaar to see it. They came good-naturedly, but in such numbers that they quickly blocked the way and brought the troop to a halt. Some mischievous boys began to pelt the horses with pebbles, causing them to rear and plunge. One of the animals kicked a man in the crowd, who struck at the rider with his staff. The Arab lunged back with the butt of his lance. The crowd drew out of the way, jeering and laughing.

Meanwhile the woman on the roof continued her cry. "Kill the Greeks!" she screamed. "Slay them! Remember the Granicus, where they slew my son!"

Her words were taken up and repeated by other women who leaned from the house-tops on either side of the street. The crowd continued to gather, those behind pushing the foremost against the plunging horses. Several were trampled upon.

"Go away," commanded the lieutenant. "Stand back, you hounds; these are prisoners for the king."

"Prisoners!" howled the mob. "Kill the prisoners! Burn the murderers! They would assassinate the king!"

The crowd showed signs of becoming inflamed. Some of the bolder spirits made a rush for the horsemen, seeking to pull them down and break the circle that the Arabs had formed about the two Greeks. The impact swept the little party into an angle between two houses, from which there was no escape save through the multitude. The women began to shower sticks and tiles upon them from the roofs. It became necessary for them to raise their shields to protect their heads from the missiles.

Nathan turned to the lieutenant, who, with a blanched face, had shrunk back against the wall.

"Do you intend to stay here?" he demanded sternly. "Draw your sword and lead us. We must cut our way out. My prisoners are for Darius and not for these."

"Then give him your sword, since you are afraid to use it," Nathan said, pointing to Chares. The Theban snatched the weapon from the young man's hand.

A javelin hissed through the air, cast by some soldier in the throng, and stood quivering in the beams behind their heads. Clearchus pulled it out and took possession of it.

The mob still held back, agitated by conflicting currents. The idlers who had instigated the attack in a spirit of wantonness had no stomach for fighting, and were struggling backward through the press, seeking a safe distance. Their places were taken by reckless and half-drunken soldiers, who had grown weary of inactivity in the city and were eager for any excitement, even though they obtained it at the risk of their lives. Many of them were little more than savages whose innate ferocity was aroused by the mere sight of blood. Some had received cuts and bruises when the rush was made. The voice of the mob changed from a tone of banter to a menacing cry for revenge.

Nathan saw that the non-combatants had succeeded in extricating themselves, and that the men who now faced them carried weapons in their hands and were preparing to use them. The situation was perilous. His handful of soldiers were outnumbered by more than a hundred to one. The mob was momentarily being reënforced from the wine-shops and the alleys that honeycombed the district. It was plain that there was no escape unless rescue should come quickly.

He raised himself on his horse and anxiously scanned the faces of the crowd that had pressed back out of harm's way and now stood in expectant silence. He knew that through the years that had passed since the Captivity, many thousands of his race had continued to dwell in Babylon and that the trade of the city was chiefly in their hands. He saw their keen dark eyes looking on indifferently from beneath the awnings that shaded the entrances of their shops. To them he determined to appeal.

"Israel! Israel!" he shouted, raising his open palm above his head. "In the name of Jehovah, I call upon thee! To the rescue!"

His cry rang clear in the momentary hush of expectation and reached the ears for which it was intended. Upon the outskirts of the mob men turned to their neighbors. "He is one of us! We must save him!" they said, one to another. "Israel! Israel!" The rallying shout spread through the dense masses of men into streets where Nathan's voice had not penetrated. It ran like a spark in a field of dry corn. Bearded men and dark-skinned youths left their occupations and sprang forward, snatching up such weapons as they found nearest to their hands. There was a second shifting of the crowd as they pushed their way toward the front, pressing in a great circle upon the ring of soldiers who were hemming Nathan in.

This ring was composed mainly of the fiercest and wildest fighting men in all the Persian Empire. It represented the extremes of the Great King's dominions. Yellow-haired Scyths, clad in the skins of animals, stood side by side with gigantic negroes from the mysterious forests of Ethiopia. Their language was unknown to each other, but they had been brought together into a fleeting comradeship by the irresistible and savage desire which, they held in common for excitement and slaughter.

The Jews attacked this formidable band without hesitation, hurling fragments of stone, earthen pots, and even the merchandise that had been displayed in the shops. The unexpected assault caused a momentary diversion. The Scyths and Ethiopians turned and charged into the crowd, striking with their swords and war clubs indiscriminately at friend and foe. Chares tossed the long hair back from his eyes.

"Your friends came just in time," he said to Nathan, "but it would be ungrateful for us to let them fight alone. Forward, Clearchus!"

With the Athenian at his side, he swung his horse into the street and dashed upon the nearest of the Scyths, a giant whose voice had been bellowing encouragement to his companions. The lieutenant's gilded sword fell upon the knotted cords of the man's neck, and he went down like some great tree in his own northern forests. His long blade slipped from his hand, and the Theban, stooping from the back of his horse and holding by the mane, caught it up.

"Ha!" Chares cried, swinging the heavy weapon above his head, "now we can get at them."

The Arabs, headed by Nathan, had followed the Greeks and were fighting beside them in a compact body. The Jews outside the circle had come to close quarters and were hacking and thrusting with daggers and butchers' knives. Their charge had been so sudden that the Scyths were nearly broken, but they recovered themselves almost instantly. A species of madness seemed to possess them. They closed in like a pack of wolves, fighting with each other to get near enough to strike a blow.

News of the outbreak had spread far into the city. From every side, thousands drew toward the scene of the battle, driving in the crowds that were seeking to keep their distance. They pressed upon the Jews and forced them helplessly against the weapons of their enemies. The number of the Scyths was momentarily increased by the arrival of their friends.

Nathan saw that the fight was hopeless. The Israelites, badly armed and undisciplined, were melting away. The only chance of escape lay in regaining the angle in the wall where they had first taken refuge, and from which they might be able to enter one of the houses.

Chares was wielding the great Scythian sword with both hands. Whoever was thrust within its sweep went down. Its tempered edge shore through bone and metal, and no parry availed to turn it aside. Clearchus fought at his shoulder with his javelin, protecting him against attack in the rear.

"Back!" Nathan shouted to them. "We cannot face the odds. We must seek the wall!"

"You are right," Chares answered without turning his head. "We are coming. I wish Alexander were here!"

He cut down a negro who had succeeded in getting within the thrust of Clearchus' lance.

Clearchus made no reply, and Chares saw that his face was drawn and pale. It was clear that he was becoming exhausted. The Theban was filled with sudden alarm.

"To the wall!" he cried, wheeling his horse. "Bear up for a little yet, and we will show these beasts how Greeks can die!"

They recovered their position with difficulty, followed by the howling Scyths and negroes. Half the Arab escort had been killed, and Nathan was bleeding from a wound in the thigh, though he still fought gallantly. Chares alone was both unwearied and unscathed. He seemed endowed with the strength of ten men as he faced the fierce onset. His aspect as he turned at bay with uplifted sword caused the Scyths for an instant to hesitate. Then they charged, clustering around the little band like a swarm of angry bees, pushing each other forward and striking over one another's shoulders. It was clear that the conflict could not last much longer. Nathan knew that, once they were down in that seething and raging mob, they would meet a frightful death. His flesh shuddered at the thought of what was to come.

Clearchus glanced at the sea of distorted faces, white, yellow, and black, and saw thousands of eyes glaring hungrily at them. A strange indifference took possession of him. Why should he strive? What mattered it now whether the God of Nathan was mightier than the Gods of Greece? Not even the Gods could save them. If Artemisia were dead, he would meet her presently in the Elysian Fields. If she were living, sooner or later she would join him in the land of shades beyond Styx. There he would tell her how his heart had suffered. It was easier to die than to live, since now he must die.

"Not until I get this one!" Chares replied grimly, nodding toward a man who crouched before him just beyond the reach of his sword.

The squat figure was bent for a spring. The man wore a leopard skin across his muscular shoulders and his little green eyes were fastened ferociously upon the Theban, watching for an opening. Clearchus thought he had never seen anything more repulsive than the flat, broad face, with its strong, yellow teeth showing like fangs. As he looked he heard Nathan's voice beside him.

"O Lord, my God, save now Thy servant, if such be Thy will; for without Thee, I perish!" cried the Israelite, in an accent of despair.

The figure of the crouching Scyth bounded forward, and his bright sword, keen as a razor, flashed in the air.

"I have him!" Chares cried exultingly. His long blade hissed downward as he spoke, and the ugly round head rolled in the dirt. The stroke was followed by a roar of rage from the Scyths, among whom the man had evidently been a leader of importance.

The challenge seemed to goad them to desperation. They came with a rush in which they threw aside all caution. The remnant of the little troop was hurled violently backward. Chares' sword rose and fell without a pause; Nathan and the men who remained to him cut and thrust at the faces of their foes; and even Clearchus, roused by the instinct of self-preservation, plied his javelin. The end had come, and nothing remained but to die bravely.

It seemed to Clearchus that they would be able to hold out for only a moment longer, when without apparent, reason the attack suddenly slackened. The Scyths drew back, leaving a circle of dead and wounded under the wall. The mass of humanity that blocked the street swayed and gave way with a roar of warning and of fear. The mob was all in motion. It seemed to be fleeing before some danger, the nature of which the objects of its attack were unable to guess. It rushed past the angle in the wall where Nathan and his prisoners had taken refuge, carrying the struggling Scyths along with it.

Nathan was too nearly exhausted to reply. He shook his head as a sign that he did not know, but the answer was not long delayed.

The beat of trampling hoofs and the thunder of rolling wheels was mingled with the roar of panic, and in an instant the street was filled from side to side with close ranks of wild-looking horsemen.

"Way for Bessus! Make way for the noble viceroy!" they shouted, striking right and left with their rawhide whips.

They rode into the mob with reckless indifference, and all who were unfortunate enough to be unable to get out of their way were trampled under the hoofs of the galloping horses.

From their sheltering angle, the Greeks watched the horsemen go past. Every man seemed an athlete, and the riders sat upon the backs of their horses as though they had grown there. Behind them, after a brief interval, rumbled a heavy war chariot drawn by four black steeds. In this ponderous vehicle, beside the charioteer, stood a corpulent man, with an enormously thick neck and a heavy jaw that gave an aspect of sternness to his dark face. He paid no heed to the lifeless forms over which the wheels of his chariot rolled, and he seemed deaf to the cries of pain uttered by the wretches who had been maimed beneath the hoofs of his guard. Clearchus' eyes for a moment met those of the viceroy and he felt a chill strike through him, as though he had touched some monstrous reptile unawares.

The passage of the Bactrians effectually cleared the street, but Nathan deemed it wise to fall in behind them lest the attack should be renewed. As they were about to start, a thought occurred to Chares.

The body of the young man lay a little apart from the rest, with the paint still on its cheeks and a gaping wound in its chest.

"Come, then," Nathan replied, and behind the chariot of Bessus, they arrived at the gates which gave entrance to the enclosure in which stood the royal palace.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE GREAT KING IS ANGRY

At the approach of Bessus the great bronze gates in the palace wall swung wide, and he rode through them, followed by his Bactrians. Nathan halted at the entrance, which he found in charge of a guard of his own race. The gray-haired captain in command rushed forward with a cry of joy.

"Where hast thou been?" he cried, embracing Nathan as he dismounted. "Art thou sound and whole?"

"Nearly so," Nathan replied, showing the cut on his thigh, which fortunately was not deep and had ceased to bleed. "How is it with Israel?"

They walked apart, talking in low tones. The Arabs and the two prisoners threw themselves on the turf inside the gate and waited. Through the swaying branches of the trees they could catch glimpses of the massive walls of many buildings standing in stately magnificence amid the verdure. At a distance, above roof and tree-top, rose the famous Hanging Gardens of the Great King, built in terraces, gay with wonderful flowers and strange plants brought from the ends of the world. Crystal streams flashed in waterfalls from the summit, following winding artificial channels, beside which stood statues of marble.

The two Greeks noticed that Nathan and the captain glanced at them from time to time as they talked, and they felt that they were the subjects of the conference. Finally Nathan came toward them, bringing the captain with him.

"This is Ezra," he said. "He knows what I know. Obey him in all things. When the time comes, I shall be near; but now I must leave you."

He offered his hand and the two Greeks shook it warmly. Then with a word to his Arabs, who followed him with their horses, he led the way down a side path and vanished in the thickets.

"To the barracks," Ezra replied. "Darius keeps a guard here of ten thousand men, who are known as the Immortals, because their ranks are always full."

"The palace is almost a city," Clearchus said, looking about him with curiosity. "We have many cities at home that are smaller."

"It has need to be," Ezra replied. "The Great King usually has fifteen thousand guests at his table, and the number now is greater because he is preparing for war."

"He is mustering his army," the captain answered, "and he will lead it to battle. The result is in the hands of God."

"I could tell thee, Jew, what the result will be," Chares said dryly. "By Dionysus, what a place to plunder! Where are you going to take us?"

"I shall deliver you to Boupares, governor of the palace, who has charge of the prisoners and of the hostages," Ezra said. "So long as you make no attempt to escape, you will have a considerable amount of freedom. There are some of our people among the guards, and one especially named Joel, who will tell you of what is being done. Of yourselves you can accomplish nothing; but we can do much. You are to leave everything to us. Joel you may trust, but it will be your part to wait in patience."

"Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps a month from now, and possibly not at all," Ezra replied. "It is never known in advance what he will do."

So the two friends passed into their captivity in the palace of Darius. As Ezra had said, their confinement did not prove a hardship to them. They were placed with hundreds of others in a remote wing near the river wall. They had baths, a large court for games and exercise, and abundance of slaves to provide for their wants. The Israelites among their guards supplied them privately with the news of the court. The winter months passed pleasantly enough, considering their situation. Clearchus, whose mind was filled with doubt concerning the fate of Artemisia, had his days of gloom and despair; but there was nothing to be done, and the light-hearted resignation of Chares saved him from utter despondency.

Of the numerous company held by Boupares to await the pleasure of the Great King, many knew not why they had been brought thither. Some of them had been there for years. Others received the royal summons on the morrow of their arrival and did not return. There were princes from the distant East, who had been suspected of a desire to throw off the Persian yoke; there were adventurers from Athens, merchants from Sicily, dusky chieftains from the sources of the Nile—a strange mixture of tongues and races, in, which every part of the huge, unwieldy empire was represented.

"I feel as though we were in the cave of Polyphemus," Clearchus said. "Who can tell whose turn will come next?"

"At any rate, the king is not a Cyclops—he cannot eat us," Chares replied. "Here comes Joel; now we shall get the latest news."

The young man approached them with the affectation of carelessness that it was necessary to assume to disarm suspicion. The palace swarmed with the Eyes and Ears of the king, spies and informers whose identity was unknown even to the most trusted of the courtiers. He must be cunning indeed who could frame and bring to fruition a plot that could escape their observation. A word from one of them, even though founded upon suspicion, often brought death.

"Well?" Chares said, when Joel reached at last the spot where they were standing, out of hearing of the others. "Repeat for us the murmurs of this whispering gallery."

"It is in fact a gallery in which every whisper is heard," the Hebrew said, smiling. "But there is great news to-day; Pharnaces has been condemned to death, and all his family must die with him."

"What has he done?" Clearchus asked. "Is he not one of the most powerful of the nobles and a favorite with the king?"

"Yes," Joel replied, "and why the sentence was passed no one knows excepting the king himself."

"But will he have no trial?" Clearchus persisted. "Will they not tell him what charge is laid against him?"

Joel shrugged his shoulders. "The sentence has been passed," he said, "and not even the Great King, who made it, can change it now. We have been trying to discover what the accusation was. Pharnaces wanted to be viceroy of Bactria, and he had been gathering evidence with which to destroy Bessus. It must be that Bessus managed to reach the king first; but what means he had of accomplishing this, we do not know. Perhaps he bribed one of the king's Eyes. It must have cost him something, but Bessus could do it if any one. If he did not work through the spies, he may have persuaded the Magi to discover some treason in the stars and then to accuse Pharnaces. Bessus is on good terms with the Medean priests, for he lets them do what they like in his province."

"Only because he has force and daring," Joel replied. "He does what every other man would like to do. There is not a satrap or viceroy in the empire who does not desire his neighbor's ruin. It has been worse since these fire-worshipping priests began to get back into favor again. Our wise men say that it was an evil day for the kings of this land when they allowed these men to wean their minds from Ormazd and set up their idols in Babylon. But now there is no God too false to obtain worship here. Even Baal and Astarte have their temples, and they are beginning to bring in the Egyptian brood of deities. The cup is filling fast, and they must drink it when Jehovah wills."

The young man's voice sank to a tone of awe as he pronounced the dreadful name, and he glanced about him as though he half expected a thunderbolt to fall. It did not escape the Athenian perception of Clearchus that the Jew seemed to regard the terrible presence as real and actual. His earnestness formed a striking contrast with his usual affectation of the easy and cynical manner of the court.

"We laugh and jest here in the palace," he went on, "but each man's hand is against his neighbor. Faith and honor are lost. Servants betray their masters and sons lead their parents to death. What knows the Great King of all this? He lives behind a screen, where thieves and rascals make him their tool. These plotters play upon him as they do upon Sisygambis, the queen mother, who has almost as much power as her son; or upon Statira, his queen, the most beautiful of women. The gynæceum is a nest of intrigues. His stewards and keepers and cup-bearers have each their price, and they do not scruple to take it. A whisper or a look may send a man to his death. Give me a chance with a sword in my hand and let me see the man who strikes me! I hate this treacherous game in the dark!"

"Well spoken, my lad!" Chares said. "But what about this queen, Statira—is she so very beautiful?"

"They say she is the fairest woman in the world," Joel answered, "and that the Great King is the handsomest of men. I have never seen her, or I would not be here now. It is death to look upon the face of one of the king's women, even by accident."

"I dare say they have their reasons," Joel said. "But I have not told you all the news. The king has had a dream, and he believes that the Gods have promised him the victory over Alexander. The Chaldeans have told him so."

"It was proclaimed this morning," Joel said. "Darius dreamed that when he had come within sight of the Macedonians, their army suddenly burst into flame and all the troops were consumed, so that nothing but their ashes remained where they had been. And then he thought he saw Alexander, dressed like one of the lords of the household, standing ready to serve him. But when he went into the Temple of Baal, Alexander vanished utterly and was seen no more. From this the learned men of the Chaldeans say that Baal will give the battle to Darius and will remove Alexander from his way. So the king has ordered sacrifices to Baal and has promised him a great temple of stone after the victory."

"Wait," Joel went on eagerly, noticing their concern. "I have told you the interpretation of the Chaldeans. Our wise men have also considered the dream, and they read it differently. They say that the army on fire means that the Macedonians shall win great glory, and that the appearance of Alexander as a lord of the household, in the same dress that Darius wore before he became king, signifies that he will gain victories, as Darius did. This is the interpretation of the priests of our race, to whom are revealed the things that are to be."

"Nathan bade me tell you to have no fear," Joel said confidently. "He also wished me to tell you that Phradates the Tyrian has come to court."

"Phradates here!" Chares exclaimed. "Why did you not say so before? There will be trouble for us."

"Nathan talked with the Phœnician and learned much," Joel continued. "Halicarnassus has fallen and Memnon is dead. Phradates is seeking command of the fleet for Azemilcus, the Tyrian king."

"Did Nathan say nothing of Artemisia and Thais?" Clearchus inquired, in a trembling voice.

"Oh, yes," said Joel, "I had forgotten. He told me to say that Phradates had carried them by force to Tyre in his galley after the fall of Halicarnassus and that he is in love with Thais. This he learned from one of our people who was with the Tyrian; and he learned further that as yet no harm has befallen the young women."

"We must go!" Clearchus exclaimed. "Tell Nathan so at once. Tell him that if he cannot release us, we will release ourselves. We must be on our way to Tyre to-morrow."

"Quietly," Chares said, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Not so loud. You forget!"

"Did you not hear what he said?" Clearchus demanded impatiently. "Artemisia is in Tyre and in the power of Phradates!"

"So is Thais, and she is in the greater danger," Chares said, "if what Joel tells us is true; but we shall never see either of them again unless we are discreet."

There was a stir in the great hall of the building as the inmates gathered from the various smaller apartments. "The king has sent a summons!" Joel said, hastening away.

Chares and Clearchus joined the main body of prisoners, who were assembled in the hall. They found there Boupares himself, with scribes bearing the register of the inmates of the place. The governor scrutinized the lists with care, selecting from among them the names of prisoners, who were called by a crier. Each man, as he heard his name, stepped forward to await the directions of Boupares.

"Amyntas of Macedon!" shouted the crier, and a small, thin man with a sallow face stood out from the rest.

"That is all," Boupares said, handing the lists to the scribes. "Follow me to the audience chamber."

Through the long, pillared courts and vast halls of the palace he conducted the prisoners. On every side were evidences of the expenditure of limitless wealth and measureless labor. Row after row of polished columns sprang a hundred feet to the echoing roof. Great sculptures adorned the walls. The floors were inlaid with mosaics of variegated pattern. Thousands of attendants came and went among the crowds of courtiers.

At last they arrived at the audience chamber and were admitted. Here the talk and laughter ceased and voices sank to a whisper. They were in the presence of the Great King, the most powerful and absolute of all monarchs. The walls of the lofty apartment were covered with plates of gold for half their height, and above these were paintings in which the king was depicted slaying lions in hand-to-hand combat, or driving his enemies before him in his war chariot. Between the pillars hung rich curtains of crimson, green, and violet, and the floor was hidden beneath silken carpets.

At the end of the room, under a purple canopy, stood a throne of gold and ivory, inlaid with precious stones. The perfume of myrrh and frankincense filled the air.

Standing before the throne, from which he had just arisen, the Greeks beheld Darius, the last of the Archæmenian kings. His tall, well-built figure was clad in a long Medean robe of rich silk, purple, embroidered with gold, and confined at the waist by a broad girdle of gold, from which hung his dagger in its sheath of lapis lazuli. His feet were shod in yellow shoes with long points. On his head he wore the citaris, which he alone might wear, with the royal diadem of blue and white. Jewels flashed in his ears, and about his neck hung a heavy collar of great rubies and pearls.

Never, Clearchus thought, had he seen a face more handsome and haughty than that of Darius, as he stood before his throne, with his blue eyes and light brown beard, carefully trimmed. He looked like what he was—the master of the world. His expression, although full of dignity, was slightly weary as he listened to the petition of a man who knelt before him, with bowed head, in the attitude of a suppliant.

With a scarcely perceptible movement of his hand, the king dismissed the petitioner, who rose to his feet and walked backward, with his head still bowed, to a group of officials who stood at one side of the apartment. Chares gripped Clearchus by the arm.

It was indeed the Phœnician, who had doubtless been pressing the suit of Azemilcus for command of the Ægean fleet. His proud face was humbled, and drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. The king turned his eyes slowly to the Greeks and made a sign to Boupares to advance. The nobles who were ranged on either side of the throne, the king's fan and cup bearers, his generals and the master of his household, remained with stolid faces.

Some of the prisoners prostrated themselves before the king as they had seen Boupares do. Others remained standing, and among these were Clearchus and Chares. Darius looked at them, and a slight frown appeared upon his brow.

The governor designated each of the captives by name, adding a few particulars by way of identification.

"Clearchus, an Athenian, and Chares, a Theban," he said. "They have served in the army of the Macedonian, and they were sent to the king from Halicarnassus by Memnon."

"Why have they been permitted to live?" Darius demanded, his face darkening at the name of the lost city.

"Because Memnon believed they could give the king information," Boupares answered humbly, "and when captured they had left the army of Alexander."

"What manner of man is this Alexander?" Darius asked, turning his face to the Greeks.

These answers made an evident impression on Darius, whose face lost its listless expression. Many questions he put to the Greeks, who made no attempt to conceal anything from him, knowing that others could give him the information that he desired if they refused, and that refusal would mean immediate death. Finally the king could think of nothing more to ask.

"I am about to march against thy Alexander," he said. "Who will win the victory?"

"Victory is the gift of the Gods, O king," Clearchus said quickly. "Dost thou wish flattery, or a frank reply, without concealment?"

"Then, unless thou canst make thy army equal to his in discipline and spirit, thy numbers will not avail," the Athenian said.

Phradates had been watching the face of Darius. He had recognized his enemies as soon as they entered the audience chamber and had resolved to deal them a blow if the chance presented itself. When he saw the frown on the brow of the king and caught the gleam of anger in his eye, he believed he might safely act. He stepped forward and again prostrated himself at the steps of the throne.

"My lord, I know these men for spies," he said. "I was in Halicarnassus when they were captured just before I received the wound that so nearly cost me my life. Memnon, for reasons that I do not presume to guess, wished to save them. They mock at thee and seek to create doubt of the promise that the Gods have given thee by spreading fear of the result among thy men. Every Greek well knows that Alexander cannot stand against thee and that he will never dare to meet thee in battle."

Phradates had cunningly formed his speech so as to assign a motive to the adverse predictions of the Greeks which would save the pride of the king, and yet, if he accepted it, would leave only one course open to him. Darius did not hesitate.

"They are spies!" he said angrily to Boupares. "Why did you bring them to me? Take them away and let them be questioned under the torture. Perhaps then they will tell the truth."

Darius turned, and Phradates shot a look of triumph at the two friends. Chares shook off the hand of the guard and was about to speak when Clearchus checked him.

Chares controlled himself with an effort, and the guards, under the direction of the crestfallen Boupares, led them away. Instead of conducting them to their former quarters, Boupares ordered that they be confined in the dungeons that lay beyond. These were built in a structure of massive masonry and consisted of cells with heavily barred doors at which sentries were stationed. Into one of the darkest of the cells they were thrust, and the grating was bolted behind them.

CHAPTER XXVII

NATHAN KEEPS HIS WORD

Clearchus and Chares shivered in the chill of the dungeon. By the glimmer of light that entered through a narrow opening above their heads, they saw that the place was quite bare. There was nothing but the stone floor under their feet and the four stone walls that shut them in.

"What think you, Chares?" Clearchus said, with the shadow of a smile. "Nathan will never be able to rescue us from here."

He made a careful examination of the walls, finding everywhere the solid stone unbroken. The only openings in the cell were the tiny window and the door. The window was out of reach and so narrow that not even a cat could have squeezed through. Chares halted at the door and examined the bars. They were of hammered iron, as thick as the shaft of a lance, and rendered stronger by two cross-bars, welded from side to side. The Theban tested them gently with his hands and shook his head.

At that moment they heard the step of the sentry outside in the passageway. The man carried at his girdle a bunch of great keys that rattled as he walked. He was armed with a short spear with a long, keen blade. He halted at the door of the cell.

"No need to be angry, my friend," Chares returned good-naturedly, falling back from the door. "What are you going to do to us?"

The jailer's brutish face assumed an expression of pleasure that was evidently unfeigned.

"You know you are to be tortured to-morrow," he said, "and we do those things thoroughly here. I shall help. They could not get along without me."

"My father taught me," the man replied proudly. "There is none in the empire better with the rack than I. And he showed me how to draw the band about a man's forehead until his eyes stick out of his head and his skull cracks like an egg, and all without killing him. Very few know the secret."

The jailer laughed harshly. "That would be too easy," he said. "Death by the boat has nothing to do with the water, as you will find. They will place you in the shallop with your head, arms, and feet outside. Then they will cover you with honey and place another boat upside down over you. This will leave your head and hands free through the holes. The ants and the flies are fond of honey. I have known men to live a week in their snug wooden jackets; but they usually go crazy after a few days, when the ants begin to eat them."

"That is very interesting," Chares remarked. "When will they begin the torture?"

"To-morrow morning," the man replied, "and I advise you to get a sound sleep; you will be able to stand the pain better."

He passed on down the corridor, humming to himself as though his mind were filled with pleasant thoughts.

"That is a nice prospect," Chares said, turning away from the grating. "I wonder what Nathan intends to do?"

"We can only wait," Clearchus replied. "I think we had better pretend that we are asleep, so that your friend the sentinel will at least let us alone."

They stretched themselves upon the stone floor and waited, talking in whispers. With nightfall, the prison grew utterly dark, excepting in the corridor, where the surly guard lighted oil lamps, set at intervals in niches in the wall. These made brief spaces of light in the gloomy passageway, through which the man went and came with monotonous tread. There was silence in that part of the prison where they were, indicating that the other condemned cells were vacant. For a time the sound of voices reached them faintly through the slit in the wall, but these gradually ceased as the night advanced.

One of the lamps had been set directly opposite their cell, but its feeble glimmer hardly extended to the bars of their cage, although it rendered objects in the corridor dimly distinct.

Hour followed hour, and each seemed like a week to the young Athenian. Chares, overcome by drowsiness, had fallen asleep at his side. Clearchus wondered at the careless nature of his friend that permitted him to close his eyes in the face of so horrible a death. He had no doubt that Nathan would seek to rescue them, but he knew not when nor how. Perhaps he would attempt intercession with Darius. Perhaps he would defer the trial until the morning. What if he should fail? Clearchus was far from being a coward, but his nerves shrank from the thought of the torture and the lingering agony that would follow before death came to set them free. The very idea of death, since now he knew that Artemisia was living and in need of him, filled his heart with anguish.

As he lay gazing into the corridor, with his head upon his hand, he recalled her face as it had appeared to him in the happy garden in Academe, with the sunlight on her hair and the color of the wild rose in her cheeks. He remembered how her blue eyes had looked into his with sweet wistfulness and how the tears dimmed them when she told him of the fears that had beset her. The tears rose to his own eyes at the remembrance, and he ground his teeth as he thought of his helplessness. Why had he not trusted the prevision of her finer perceptions, half ethereal as they were? Why had he not remained to defend her and to prevent the train of misfortunes which had followed?

The sentinel paused at the door of the cell for a moment in passing. He noted the deep breathing of Chares and resumed his march with a yawn. Clearchus listened, mechanically counting his steps until he should reach the spot where they were to turn. Suddenly a sound came to his ears that caused him to sit up and listen intently. There were other footfalls in the corridor. They were advancing in the track of the sentinel from the direction of the entrance.

The Athenian's pulses bounded. Help had come. He stretched out his hand to rouse Chares, but in an instant he reflected that there was evidently no effort at concealment on the part of the newcomer. The steps were careless and deliberate. Probably they were made by another guard, who had come to relieve the bloodthirsty wretch outside. His hope sank as suddenly as it had arisen and he let his hand fall.

Slowly the steps advanced. Clearchus crept to the door of the cell and peered out through the grating. A man's figure was approaching along the passage. It was Nathan. Clearchus rose quickly to his feet and shook Chares by the shoulder.

Nathan had reached the dim circle of light before their cell. His keen black eyes were glancing to the right and left at the dark gratings.

The Israelite turned his face toward them and smiled, trying to distinguish them in the darkness. In his hand he carried a roll of papyrus.

"Who are you?" the sentinel demanded, catching sight of Nathan for the first time.

Nathan halted close to the bars of the cell and awaited his approach without reply.

"I have an order for you," Nathan replied coolly, unrolling the papyrus as he spoke. "Read it."

The man took the papyrus in his hand and looked at it. Then he glanced cunningly at Nathan.

This was evidently a contingency that had not entered into Nathan's calculations.

"It is signed by Boupares—here, do you see!" he said, holding the writing under the jailer's nose.

"It is an order," Nathan continued. "You are to deliver the Greek prisoners to me immediately."

"Boupares desires to talk with them before they are examined," Nathan explained.

"I shall not give them up," the jailer replied, with the air of a man who has made up his mind. "If Boupares wishes to see them, let him come here. They were sent to me under the seal of the king himself, and this order of yours has no seal. Do you think I want to be boiled alive as my comrade was last month? I can hear his yells yet, for I helped to do it. You can tell Boupares what I have said, and now be off."

Like most ignorant men when they think, or pretend to think, that they are being imposed upon, the jailer raised his voice to a bullying shout. Nathan looked apprehensively over his shoulder toward the entrance of the prison. The harsh tone echoed between the narrow walls and might be easily heard at the gate, where several men were stationed.

"Give me your keys," he said quietly. "You know the penalty for disobeying an order."

The jailer stepped to the door of the cell and stood defiantly, with his back against the bars.

From within the cell the man's figure was outlined against the light of the lamp. Chares moved forward in the darkness behind him with noiseless tread, and his fingers closed suddenly around the jailer's throat. The wretch gasped once and threw up his chin, struggling convulsively to free himself from the iron clutch that encircled his neck. His struggles were in vain. The Theban drew him silently back against the bars. His feet scuffled on the stone floor, and his short spear clattered from his hand.

Nathan quickly detached the keys from the jailer's belt and unlocked the door of the cell. Clearchus slipped through the open door, picking up the jailer's spear as he went. Chares relaxed his hold, and the man's body slipped in a huddled heap to the floor.

What he said was true. From the direction of the entrance came the sound of voices and the flickering of a torch danced upon the walls.

He darted down the corridor into the darkness, with the two Greeks at his heels. At the end of a dozen yards they turned quickly to the left, up a flight of stairs, and then through other passageways, until they reached a second short stairway and emerged upon the roof.

They stood panting and listening beside the head of the stair. Above them the wide arch of the sky was sown with stars. From the black opening at their feet came a confused sound of cries and shouting.

"They have found the jailer's body," Nathan said. "I fear we are lost. It shall be as Jehovah wills!"

"No other way," Nathan replied; "but how can we hope to hold this against them?"

The Athenian looked about him. The roof was built of huge slabs of stone, fitted together without mortar, and there was nothing that might serve as even a temporary barricade.

He thrust his fingers under the stone and set his feet wide apart. The muscles of his back and arms rose in ridges. The veins of his neck swelled like knotted cords. The great stone stirred in its bed.

Clearchus and Nathan dropped their weapons and bent eagerly to assist him. The ponderous mass heaved slowly upward, tilting toward the opening that led to the stairway. From the sound of the voices within they knew that their pursuers were close at hand.

"Life or death!" groaned Chares, the sweat streaming from his body like rain. "Now!"

The mighty stone rose inch by inch upon its edge, standing higher than the heads of the three men, who were now behind and beneath it. Their pursuers had evidently halted on the stairs, expecting the opening to the roof to be defended. Puzzled by the silence, they seemed to be concerting a plan of attack. Suddenly they sprang upward with a shout, thrusting forward their spears and crowding for the aperture.

The great slab stood upright, balancing on its lower end. While a man might draw breath, it hung motionless, and then it toppled over upon the opening from the stairs.

The foremost of the pursuers saw it and with inarticulate cries sought to retreat. They were too late. The heavy mass crashed down upon their heads and covered the opening. Nathan and Clearchus fell forward with it and lay gasping. Chares swayed upon his feet and his head reeled. The blood dripped from the ends of his fingers, where it had burst from beneath his nails. Faintly from under the stone issued cries of agony, as though some of the guard had been caught there and held fast by mangled limbs.

Nathan staggered to his feet and groped for his sword. "Now for the wall," he cried. "We may yet escape!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY

As Clearchus lay upon the broad slab, the voices of his friends seemed to him faint and far away. He tried to rise, but a strange languor weighed him down. Chares seized him and dragged him to his feet.

Clearchus gathered his senses with an effort of will, and the two Greeks followed Nathan across the roof toward the great wall, against which the prison was built.

Nathan led them straight to the foot of a narrow flight of steps, roughly hewn in the masonry and scarcely discernible a few yards away. Up these he climbed with the agility of a cat. Clearchus, still faint and dizzy, hesitated for a moment, gazing at the sheer height that towered above his head.

Clearchus set his feet in the narrow steps and followed Nathan, carrying the jailer's spear in his left hand and clinging to each projection with his right. More than once his feet slipped and Chares saved him from falling. The steps wound upward almost perpendicularly, and it was evident that they were rarely used, for in places the soft brick had crumbled, leaving wide gaps.

"Look up!" Chares cried desperately, as Clearchus halted at one of these dangerous points. "Look up—and remember Artemisia, whom thou alone canst save!"

He had touched the right chord at last. The Athenian's brain cleared at the mention of Artemisia's peril, and he forgot his own. The wall no longer seemed to waver before his eyes. All doubt of his ability to pass where Nathan had passed before him vanished from his mind, and he gained the top with an even pulse.

They paused for a moment to get their bearings. Far beneath them they saw the starlight trembling on the broad sweep of the Euphrates, beyond which for miles lay a level country, dotted with trees and fields. Behind them spread the sleeping city, an endless succession of roofs and towers. Here and there a torch glimmered like a firefly. The crest of the wall, upon which they stood and where four chariots might have been driven abreast without crowding, was apparently deserted.

The sound of shouting rose from the direction of the prison. They saw a cluster of torches issue from the main entrance and scatter in every direction.

"They are giving the alarm," Nathan said, "but I think we shall have time to disappoint them. There is a rope waiting for us where the river touches the wall, and at its lower end we shall find a boat."

The river was several hundred yards distant from the spot where they stood. Before they could reach the place where the rope was concealed, they must traverse nearly a quarter of a mile. Between them and safety stood one of the guard-houses built for the sentries whose duty it was to patrol the wall night and day. Still worse, they must pass the entrance of a broad flight of steps that led downward into the city and formed the usual means of ascent to the top of the wall.

It had been Nathan's plan to come up by these steps and gain the rope without passing the guard-house. The obstinacy of the jailer had disarranged everything. It was of the first importance that they should reach the rope before the sentinels on the wall could learn what had happened, or the guards from below could mount.

Like shadows they sped along the top of the wall, holding as near as possible to the outer edge so as not to be seen from the city. Outside the guard-house a sentry stood, craning his neck to see what was going on beneath him to cause all the shouting. They stole by behind his back without arousing his attention.

They had fled past the head of the stairway and were congratulating themselves on their good fortune when they came suddenly face to face with a returning sentry, slowly pacing his beat. The man was as much surprised as they and seemed in doubt as to whether they were friends or foes. Before he could make up his mind, Chares gripped him by the throat and the broad blade of the jailer's spear buried itself in his heart. He had uttered no cry. Chares dragged the body under the parapet that had been built where the wall overhung the river to protect the defenders from the archers who might be sent to attack the city from ships.

Crouching in the shadow of this elevation, they went on at a slackened pace, expecting every moment to come upon the rope. It was nowhere to be found. The shouting from the city now came clearly up from the staircase as the guards ascended. Finally Nathan paused and looked doubtfully about him.

"Then there is nothing for it but to take as many of them with us as we can," Chares said, rising to his full height. "Zeus, how my back aches! I hate this skulking."

Apparently the sentinel at the guard-house whom they had passed understood at last what was the matter. He roused the rest of the guard. Clearchus and Nathan pulled Chares down into the shadow. They were so near that they could hear what was said.

"Captives have escaped! They are coming up by the prison stairway!" the man told his companions in an excited voice. "They are asking us to stop them. Boupares himself is on his way up."

The men came tumbling out of the guard-house and ran to the inner edge of the wall, shouting down with much gesticulation that they would meet the fugitives. Then they hastened back toward the prison.

"No," Clearchus answered with firmness. "It is my turn to guard the rear. I shall not stir until you are over the wall."

He vaulted upon the parapet and looked down. The rope had been attached to a bar of iron driven firmly into the bricks near the coping, and it dangled from between his feet into the gulf beneath him. The cord seemed slender to sustain his weight, but there was no time in which to test it. Swinging himself over the edge, he grasped the bar and then the rope, letting himself down hand over hand, with his feet against the rough surface of the wall. From the twitching of the cord in his hands, he knew that Nathan had not yet reached the bottom. He wondered how long it would be before the rope would break and send him headlong into the dark abyss.

Clearchus, left alone behind the parapet, flattened his body in the shadow and waited. He had seen Chares begin his descent, and he knew that the rope would not sustain the weight of all three at the same time. He resolved to allow Chares an opportunity to reach the foot of the wall before he himself started down. He counted upon the mistake that the sentries had made, in going back to the prison staircase in their search, to give him time.

Hardly had Chares disappeared before a company of soldiers, with torches in their hands, emerged from the head of the great stairway. The glare searched every corner on top of the wall, and the Athenian saw that concealment was no longer possible.

He knew that he must act promptly. The faces of the new arrivals were turned toward the sentinels, who were still engaged in searching about the prison stairway. It could be only a few moments before the futility of further effort in that direction must become evident to them, and the hunt would turn toward where he lay.

Should he attempt to gain the great staircase and slip into the city, where the Israelites might hide him, at least for a time? It would be impossible to evade the soldiers who were still coming up. He dismissed the idea from his mind.

Possibly he could escape along the southern stretch of wall. Beyond him at a distance there seemed to be a bridge, or causeway, connecting the wall with the enormous mass of earth and bricks that upheld the Hanging Gardens. The groves of palms and the tangle of shrubbery that crowned the Gardens might conceal him, even though the place was within the precincts of the palace itself.

He was about to try this plan and had already partly risen to put it into execution, when he saw the guard turning out at a station between him and the causeway. His chance of flight in that direction was cut off.

He could hear the chafing of the rope against the bricks on the other side of the parapet. Chares was still lowering himself toward the river. To try the rope now would be not only to endanger the lives of his two friends by overstraining the cord, but to reveal their mode of escape and expose them to certain death, since the guard would lose no time in cutting it.

Clearchus felt that he had been caught in a trap from which there was no outlet. He thought of the words the jailer had used in describing the death allotted to them. He thought of Artemisia, defenceless in Tyre. A vision of the life he had hoped to lead in the pleasant city of his birth, with her at his side, flitted through his mind. The Gods had bestowed upon him the hope of happiness that was not to be fulfilled. Chares would tell Artemisia how he died. At least she would know that he had given his life for his friend.

So ran the young man's thoughts as he lay awaiting the moment of discovery. His mind was made up. They would never take him back to the prison. Perhaps his friends might recover his body and give it burial amid the groves beyond the river.

Although the time seemed long, in reality only a few minutes passed before the portly form of Boupares, supported on either side by a stalwart soldier, appeared upon the platform at the head of the broad stair. The governor was out of breath and also out of patience. The knowledge that he would find it difficult to account for the loss of the prisoners weighed upon his mind.

The guards crowded about him with explanations and excuses. No trace could be found of the fugitives, they told him. It was certain they had not reached the top of the wall. If they had, they must have wings, since they had disappeared, leaving no trace.

"Search, you dogs!" Boupares gasped. "A thousand darics to the man who finds them!"

The moment was at hand. Clearchus unclasped the fibula that fastened the chiton upon his shoulder and drew his feet out of his sandals.

There was a cry from one of the guards. He had found the body of the sentinel. A group gathered about it to see. It was proof that the fugitives had passed along the wall, and all eyes were directed toward the Athenian's hiding-place.

Clearchus let fall his garments and with a bound gained the top of the parapet. The red light of the torches shone full upon his naked figure, gleaming against the dark sky, as perfect in every line as the form of Phœbus Apollo. For an instant the soldiers were dumb with astonishment and superstitious dread. The shape had appeared where there had been nothing a moment before. It seemed to them that it must be that of a God. Then one of them caught sight of the abandoned chiton and the spell was broken.

Clearchus turned his back upon them and gave a single glance at the wide sweep of water that eddied and gurgled at the foot of the great wall, how far below him he dared not guess. A javelin hissed past him and was swallowed by the darkness. With muscles as firm as steel, he took two steps forward and shot out from the dizzy height.

He heard the cry of astonishment and involuntary alarm from the soldiers behind him. The light of the torches flashed in his eyes, and then fled suddenly upward.

He looked down upon the wrinkled surface of the river. The impetus of his leap had carried him out beyond the slope of the wall, and he saw that he would strike the water as he had planned, instead of being dashed to pieces.

The rushing air blinded him like a mighty wind. He heard its roar in his ears. Mechanically he pressed the palms of his hands together below his head, and stiffened and straightened his body so that it might offer no surface of resistance in the plunge. Then he knew no more.

Faintly the cry of the guards floated downward. Their torches twinkled over the parapet. Chares, who, with aching arms, was clinging to the last few fathoms of the rope, looked upward. So did Nathan, pausing in his task of fitting a pair of oars to the rowlocks of a small boat that he had pushed out from the wall.

They saw the form of Clearchus as it shot downward from the sky. They saw it strike the water not twenty feet from them, leaving a circle of foam, with hardly a splash to mark where it had fallen, so straight and true was its descent.

Chares let the end of the rope slip through his hands and leaped into the boat. With a few rapid strokes Nathan brought the little craft to the centre of the widening ripple, where the bubbles were still rising. Both leaned over the gunwale, straining their eyes for sight of the body in the dark water.

A minute passed, and another, while they held their breath. Then Nathan uttered a cry.

It was only a glimmer of white under the ripple, which showed for an instant and was gone; but Chares plunged from the boat and disappeared beneath the surface. When he rose, he held the body of his friend across his arm, hanging limp and apparently lifeless. Nathan drew it into the boat and then helped Chares to his place in the stern.

"Is he dead, think you?" the Theban asked, taking the form across his knees as though it were that of a child.

"There is no mark on him; he may be only stunned," Nathan replied, resuming his oars.

Chares gazed at the pale face, with the dripping hair streaming back from its temples, and, bending forward, placed his ear over the heart.

Arrows and javelins struck the water around the boat, but there was little danger from the marksmen above, unless some missile should find them by chance. The craft was almost indistinguishable from the top of the wall.

Nathan worked hard at the oars, while Chares rolled the body of Clearchus on his knees. Then he rubbed the pale limbs briskly and by no means gently until the blood began to circulate again. At last Clearchus opened his eyes and drew a deep breath.

"Not yet," Chares replied, with a laugh. "Your time has not yet come. You are dreaming."

Clearchus turned his head and saw the precipice of the mighty wall, rising black toward the stars and crowned with the red glow of the torches.

"It is no dream," Chares replied, "but a deed that will be told throughout the army for the Companions to envy. Give me the oars, Nathan; I need exercise."

Nathan yielded the oars, and the tough blades bent as the Theban threw his weight upon them. The boat sped through the water toward a grove of trees that stood like a patch of darker shadow on the other shore. From behind they could hear the clank of levers, and they knew the river-gate was being opened. Boupares had ordered pursuit; but they were a mile away before the first of the biremes shot out from the portal. A few minutes more and they had reached the friendly grove and entered the mouth of one of the numerous canals which formed a network through the plain as complicated as the Cretan labyrinth.

"Now let them search," said Nathan. "I would not stand in Boupares' shoes to-morrow!"

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SLUICE GATE

Cautiously and in silence they threaded their way from one branch of the canal to another, through the fields of grain and vegetables that spread like a vast garden for miles across the low country. Here and there along the banks were farmers' huts, and occasionally they passed through the estate of a Persian landowner who followed agriculture as the noblest pursuit in which a man could engage, according to the teachings of his religion. In many places the canal was shut in on both sides by reeds which reached a height of ten, or even fifteen, feet.

They had proceeded for perhaps two hours and had made so many turns that the Greeks had long ago lost all idea of direction, when they reached a cluster of date-palms. Nathan guided the boat to a landing-place, and they stepped ashore.

"I am here," replied a guarded voice, and from among the trees stood forth the figure of an old man. "Pull your boat ashore and follow me," he said briefly.

They lifted the boat out of the canal and concealed it carefully among the rushes. The old man conducted them along a narrow path which brought them to a group of farm buildings, among which stood a large country house. They entered by the rear and passed through several dark passages until they came to a door, before which Jonathan halted and knocked. A deep voice from within bade them enter. They found themselves in a large, dimly lighted room, the walls of which were lined with cases filled with rolls of papyrus. On a long table stood a shaded lamp among scattered papyri, half unrolled, and the materials for writing.

A man of venerable appearance, with a spreading white beard, which reached his girdle, rose from the table to greet them.

"This is Nehemiah, whose ancestor was Daniel the prophet, viceroy of Babylon," Nathan said. "These are the Greeks, Clearchus of Athens and Chares of Thebes, concerning whom I wrote thee," he added, turning to the old man.

"You are welcome in this house," Nehemiah said gravely. "Jonathan, bring food and wine."

He gathered the manuscripts tenderly from the table and laid them away, setting chairs for his guests. While the refreshment was being prepared Nathan related the adventures of their escape, to which the old man listened with close attention.

"Thou hast done well," Nehemiah said, when Nathan came to the end. "I have been considering that which thou told me, of the vision of the viceroy in the third year of Belshazzar, at Susa, by the River Ulai, and verily do I believe that thou art right. The rough he-goat is come out of the West, and for the kingdom of Persia, the time of its end is at hand. I have examined the writings of Daniel, in which, as Gabriel ordered him, he shut up the vision two hundred years ago. The kingdom of Israel is bound to the Archæmenian line; but if thou canst win for thy people the favor of the he-goat, thou mayst be the means of saving them."

"Thou wilt understand," Nehemiah continued, addressing himself to Clearchus, "that if I am to aid you, it must be done in secret. It is evident that you are in need of rest," he added, glancing at Chares, who was nodding over the golden goblet that he had emptied. "A hue and cry will be raised for you, but I think I can keep you safe until you have gained strength for your long journey."

Having dismissed Jonathan, he took up the lamp and led them to a hidden chamber in the upper part of the house, where he left them. They fell asleep at daybreak and woke at nightfall. After they had eaten, Nehemiah provided them with fresh garments and with horses of the Nisæan breed, the fleetest in his stable, and gave them weapons. He also furnished them with money for their flight.

"My men have brought me word from the city of your escape," he said, "and the Great King is filled with wrath. Ten of the guard were crucified this morning at the gates; but Boupares so far has not been arrested. All the court is talking about Clearchus' plunge from the wall. It is thought that Beltis herself must have borne him up, and it is even said that the Goddess was seen in the air beside him. Her priests will make the most of it, and, should you be taken, this may be turned to account."

"They have sent out a thousand horsemen to search the plain on this side of the river," the old man replied. "Thou wilt use caution and hold to the unfrequented ways until the chase slackens. For the rest, put thy trust in the Most High. He will save thee out of their hands if He so wills it. Farewell."

They rode into the night under the stars, bearing away from the river, and keeping to paths known to Nathan among the reeds and groves. At frequent intervals they came upon one or another of the canals which intersected the plain in all directions. Chares and Clearchus were filled with wonder at the enormous amount of labor that had been expended in digging the great ditches which carried the water of the river for irrigating the plain, and at the system of reservoirs by which it was stored for the dry season. Some of these formed lakes of considerable size, dammed by great gates built of timber that could be raised or lowered by means of levers.

As they proceeded westward toward the desert which lay between them and the land of Israel, the level country was broken by low ridges and hills, between which wound the canals. Vegetation became less luxuriant and the houses less frequent.

Twice at the beginning of their ride they heard parties of horsemen near them, whom they took to be detachments of the searchers. Once they turned aside into a crossroad just in time to avoid a meeting. But as they approached nearer to the border between the waste and the cultivated bottom lands, no sounds reached their ears excepting the trampling of their own horses, and they began to hope that they had left their pursuers behind.

"Tell me, Clearchus," Chares said, after a period of reflection, "is there any truth in what they say about you?"

"I thought you had more confidence in me," the Theban continued reproachfully. "If you think I shall say anything about it when we reach Tyre, you are mistaken. I hope I know enough to hold my tongue about such delicate matters. Is she as handsome as they say she is?"

The others came to a halt. They had been riding up a shallow valley along one of the canals. Beside them rose a low ridge which separated them from the next depression. Beyond this ridge they could hear the beating of hoofs and the jingling of bridles. From the sound they judged that twenty or thirty horsemen were advancing in a direction parallel to their own.

"The roads join half a mile farther on," Nathan whispered. "It is more than likely that they will turn back along this one."

"Then we must make a dash for it and get there first," Chares said. "Come on, I feel as though a race would do me good!"

"Don't spoil sport; and besides, they would surely see us," Chares replied. "Forward! Is not thy Beltis with us?"

Without waiting for a reply he struck in his spurs and darted forward, with the others thundering at his heels. The party beyond the ridge, hearing the hoof-beats, also broke into a gallop, evidently being acquainted with the fact that the roads converged. Their horses, however, were no match for the Nisæans. Neck and neck, with long, even strides, they raced up the road and swept past the meeting point while the pursuers were still a hundred yards away.

Nathan looked back and recognized the uniform of the palace guard. The detachment consisted of men who, he knew, were both brave and skilful, and who would not relinquish the chase while a chance of success remained. Their numbers made it impossible to think of facing them. There was nothing for it but to keep on.

Beyond the point where the roads joined the ridges became higher and steeper, drawing together until there was barely room for the track beside the canal. It was no longer practicable to leave the valley, because to climb the acclivity that shut them in on either side would have been difficult work for a footman, and it was out of the question for horses. The gorge turned and twisted between the hills. Although Nathan had never travelled this road before, he drew comfort from the fact that the canal still flowed sluggishly beside them. It must lead them eventually, he believed, to more open country.

They had ridden a little more than a mile through this defile, which seemed once to have been the bed of a stream, when Chares, who was in the lead, drew up with a cry of dismay. Further progress was barred by a steep dam of earth and stone. In the middle of the dam was the usual gate, built of heavy timbers and planks. The water spurted through the cracks into the bed of the canal.

"It looks as though we should have to make a stand here," the Theban cried. "We cannot surmount this."

"Are you anxious to die?" Clearchus said. "They would get above us on the banks and spear us like so many frogs."

Nathan had thrown himself from his horse. He ran to the gate. As he had expected, he found a narrow foot-path leading upward beside it.

Down the valley behind them they could hear the shouting of the guards, racing with each other in the narrow road in their eagerness to claim the great reward that Boupares had offered for the capture of the fugitives.

Clearchus and Chares dismounted and scrambled after Nathan up the path. Their horses, deserted by their riders in the darkness, neighed shrilly and strove to follow, digging their hoofs into the sand and gravel, which fell in showers into the canal.

At the top of the path a large reservoir spread placidly far to the right and left in a basin surrounded by low hills.

Nathan ran to the gate and knocked out the wooden pins that held it in place. It rose a few inches, and the water began to gush and gurgle beneath it. The Israelite seized a lever and thrust it into its notch, calling to Clearchus and Chares to do the same on the other side.

The pursuit had almost reached the foot of the gate when the leader of the detachment, a young man with a handsome face, saw that his horse was splashing through the rising water and realized the danger that threatened them. He gave a sharp command to halt. He glanced quickly forward, and then back along the way they had come, as though considering what course to take.

No time was allowed him for decision. Nathan, Clearchus, and Chares strained at the levers.

With a sharp creak the heavy gate was loosened, and the flood that rushed beneath it helped to force it upward.

Roaring angrily, the water foamed into the gorge, filling it from side to side with a torrent ten feet deep that dashed impatiently against the walls of the tortuous channel.

The guardsmen had no chance to escape. Like men of straw, they were lifted, horse and rider together, whirled over and over, and swept down the valley on the crest of the yellow wave. Their cries were choked in the rush of the water.

Nathan and Clearchus dropped their levers and stood gazing at the surface of the turbid stream. Chares joined them.

"It is a pity," he said regretfully. "They deserved a better death. I wish we could have had a bout with them; but it may be all for the best. Let them go as a sacrifice to My Lady Beltis. By Dionysus, she has given us back our horses, too! Look here!"

One of the Nisæans had gained the top of the dam and another was close behind him. The third had been overtaken by the flood and was struggling piteously for a foothold with his fore feet. Chares caught him by the bit and dragged him up to safety. They mounted and struck off at random among the hills, seeking to get as far away as possible before daylight should break.

This was the only direct encounter that they had with the soldiers of the pursuit. Skirting the desert, they made their way northward and westward until all danger of capture had passed. Once, in seeking to cross an arm of the sandy waste, they went astray and nearly perished from thirst. On another occasion they were surrounded by a band of robbers, from whom they barely escaped. This last adventure took place on the eastern slope of Mount Amanus on the borders of Cilicia, where they arrived after a month of wandering. It was here that they began once more to hear the name of Alexander and to feel the currents of the mighty storm that was gathering on the flank of the empire of Darius.

CHAPTER XXX

LEONIDAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION

Down from the Phrygian plateau, through a land that glowed with the touch of autumn, marched the Macedonian host, with Alexander at its head. On a clear October night the army halted at the foot of the rugged and forbidding crags of the Taurus. Leonidas with his cavalry troop followed the young king in the attack upon the Cilician Gates, which scattered the guard stationed there and opened the way into the satrapy of Cilicia.

From one of the captives taken at the pass, Alexander learned that the satrap Arsames had planned to plunder the city of Tarsus and retreat into Syria with his spoil. While the main body of the troops was still filing through the pass, he gathered a chosen body of cavalry and light infantry and swooped like a falcon upon the town. The Spartan rode that day at the head of his squadron for fifty miles; and Arsames, abandoning all thought of plunder, deemed himself fortunate to escape with his garrison.

It was here that Alexander fell ill from bathing in the icy waters of the Cydnus, and the rumor spread through the army that his life was in danger. Grief and anxiety pervaded the camp. The toughest of the veterans, with tears in their eyes, gathered before the house in which he lay, demanding news of his condition. The physicians came and went with grave faces and in silence.

Although his fever ran high, Alexander insisted upon receiving his friends as usual and attending to his affairs. One day came a letter from Parmenio, who had been sent forward with a strong detachment to secure the southern pass into Syria through the Amanic range. The young king read it thoughtfully, and Leonidas noticed that he thrust it under his pillow without discussing its contents as his custom was.

A conference of the physicians was being held to consider the king's malady, for it was evident that some decisive measure must be taken if the fever was to be checked. In this consultation a dispute arose between Philip of Acarnania and the other physicians. Philip maintained that a strong remedy should be given, but when he named the potion that he proposed to administer, his colleagues declared that they would have no part in it, holding the opinion that the drugs would surely kill the patient.

Hearing the voices raised in controversy, Alexander demanded the reason. He called the doctors before him and listened to all they had to say.

"Will this draught of which you speak enable me to ride Bucephalus in three days?" he asked of Philip.

"Compound it, then, for me," the young king said. "When it is ready, I will take it."

He turned his face away and the physicians left him. During the interval of waiting he talked with Clitus, Philotas, Leonidas, and others of his Companions concerning the Trojan war, but, noting their evident anxiety, he broke off to rally them upon it.

"Do not think," he said, laughing, "that we have come so far and endured so much to stop here. There is many a campaign yet before us."

When Philip came, bringing an earthen bowl containing a liquid which steamed with an odor of spices, he raised himself on his couch and drew Parmenio's letter from under his pillow. As he took the bowl from the physician, he handed him the letter.

With his eyes on Philip he slowly drank the medicine. The physician glanced at the letter and grew pale, but he returned Alexander's gaze without flinching.

"Drink and be of good cheer," he said. "I tell thee this after having read this charge against me."

"I have drunk already," Alexander replied; and then, turning to Clitus, he bade him read what Parmenio had written.

"Beware of Philip, your physician," the letter ran. "I am informed that he hath been bribed by the Great King with the promise of a thousand talents and the hand of his daughter to poison thee. I beg of thee to take nothing that he may offer."

Scowling brows were turned toward the physician, who was busying himself unconcernedly in heaping fresh coverings upon his patient.

"Let no man interfere," Alexander said sternly. "Where I have placed my trust, no other shall doubt."

This warning was sufficient to restrain the Companions, even when they saw their leader lying like a dead man beneath the blankets, with closed lids and a pulse that was scarcely perceptible. But Philip never moved his watchful eyes from the pale face, and when he saw drops of perspiration rolling down the forehead a slight smile of satisfaction appeared upon his lips. His confidence and the faith that the young king had placed in him had been justified; for an hour later Alexander came out of his faintness, and, although weak, the fever had left him. He was able next day to show himself to the soldiers, and a few days later to lead them against the bandits who infested the southern part of the province, routing them from their fastnesses and scattering to the four corners of the earth those who escaped the sword. On his return he received news that Ptolemy and Astander had defeated Orontobates and captured the Salmacis and the Royal Citadel of Halicarnassus. He celebrated this victory and his recovery with sacrifice and games after the ancient manner.

Suddenly across the country like wildfire spread the news that Darius was approaching with an army so great that none might count its numbers. When inquiry was made, no man could tell whence the story had come. Alexander questioned many who were brought before him, but all gave him the same answer.

"The Great King is coming," they said. "Where he is we know not, nor when he will be here. All that we can say is that he is on the way, for the Syrians told us, and they learned it from the travellers and traders of the South."

Then came a shape of man who had once been a Corinthian. His tongue had been cut out and his ears and nose shaved away. He could only nod his head and weep when they asked him of the approach of the Persian monarch.

Alexander sent for Leonidas. The Spartan came with an impassive face, and stood awaiting his orders.

"They say Darius is on the march," he said. "Where he is and of what his army consists, no one can tell me. Choose what men you like and go to Parmenio at the Syrian Gates, where I purpose to join him with the army as soon as the march can be made. Find the Persian and bring me word there of the things that I should know."

On the evening of the fourth day after the order had been given, Leonidas, with fifteen men of his troop, whose courage had been tested in the campaign against the Pisidians, took leave of Parmenio and rode out upon the rolling plains beyond the Syrian Gates. He had learned that Darius was at Sochi, two days' march away, but when he arrived there, he found only hills and fields from which the harvests had been stripped as if by locusts, and a city where starvation reigned.

Here he learned much of the numbers and character of the host that had left such a track of desolation. From Sochi he bore away toward the left and the mountains, and on the third day overtook the Persian horde, whose camp-fires stretched for miles across the plain.

Although thousands of camp followers and women had been left behind in Damascus in charge of Cophenes, together with the greater part of the luxurious equipage of the courtiers, and of the treasure in gold and silver, which six hundred mules and three hundred camels could scarcely carry, there still remained an enormous train in the rear of the army.

Leonidas soon ascertained everything concerning the army of Darius and its composition that it was necessary for him to know; but he was astonished to find that the Great King had passed beyond the Syrian Gates, near which Alexander had expected to find him, and that he was still marching northward. This march puzzled the Spartan. It carried the Persian army each day farther from its base of supplies at Damascus, and apparently did not give the Great King a better battle ground than the one he had left behind at Sochi. He determined to keep the army in sight, at least until he had reached the Amanic Gates. There was the only other entrance from Syria into Cilicia, and through them Leonidas planned to carry the information that he had gathered to Alexander, who would be awaiting him in the southern pass. As the Persian horde advanced, he found that he was being pressed toward the wooded slopes of the mountain range. At last, as the enemy showed no intention of halting, he resolved to strike for the Amanic Gates, not daring to delay his report longer.

He soon became entangled among the rocky spurs and ravines. At last he believed that he had reached the pass, and advanced far into the mountains before some shepherds told him of his mistake. Following their directions, he crossed a lofty ridge and descended into the true pass on the evening of the second day after his departure from the Persian army. Darkness overtook him, and he was forced to encamp halfway up the precipitous slope of the valley. Before sunrise next day he roused his men and led them down toward the broad road below, which followed a watercourse.

In their descent, Leonidas and his men entered a belt of timber that for a short time hid the road from their view. They burst their way through the undergrowth, to find themselves face to face with a troop of horsemen whom Leonidas recognized at once as belonging to the army of Darius.

"The Persians have entered the pass," was the thought that flashed through his mind before he considered his own danger. That Darius would seek to enter Cilicia instead of accepting battle upon the Syrian plains was a possibility that had never even been discussed in the Macedonian councils. Leonidas realized that if Alexander had carried out his plan of marching to the Syrian Gates, far to the southward, the Persian army was about to place itself between him and the territory that he had conquered, cutting off his line of retreat. The safety of the Macedonians might depend upon his reaching Alexander in time to give him warning.

He gave a rapid glance at the Persians who confronted him. There were thirty or forty of them. Far below he caught a glimpse of the plain, where miles of troops, horse and foot, were crawling like ants toward the pass. The enemy gave him no time to see more. They raised an exultant shout and dashed upon him with lowered lances. Although Leonidas and his men fought with desperation, the Spartan realized that they were not strong enough to hold their ground. The mere weight of their opponents forced them back, inch by inch, until their horses were struggling on the brink of the slope to the bed of the stream.

"Let us die where we stand!" Leonidas shouted. "Remember that we are Greeks! Forward, forward!"

He plunged in among the Persians, thrusting at their faces, and his men were enabled to gain a few feet in the space that he had cleared. The relief was only momentary, for the Persians surrounded them on three sides and the chasm was in their rear.

The captain of the Persian troop had not mingled in the contest. Hovering in the background, he urged on his men, taking care to keep out of danger. Leonidas saw him as he wheeled, raising his arm to give a command. The sun flashed upon the glittering links of his gilded corselet. The Spartan hurled his lance at the mark with all the strength in his body. Straight flew the point of steel and split the brazen links, like a bolt from a catapult. The captain toppled from his horse and lay with his face in the dust. It was a final effort. A few moments more and all would be over.

Suddenly from the glen out of which Leonidas and his men had emerged rode a man upon a powerful black charger. In his hand he carried a lance of unusual length. His yellow hair tossed about his shoulders, and his blue eyes turned eagerly toward the righting.

Their coming turned the tide of the conflict. The Persians, ignorant of how many more might be following them, turned and fled down the pass before the new arrivals could strike a blow.

Leonidas embraced his friends. Of the Greeks who had fallen, only one, a young man of Caria, who had been stunned by a blow from a mace, was still alive. Clearchus caught his horse, and they lifted him upon its back.

He pointed over the tree-tops on the lower slopes at the innumerable host that was creeping toward the mountain side.

"The Persians are about to cross the pass," he said. "Alexander and the army are in danger of being cut off, and we alone can save them."

"If Darius crosses the pass, it will be in our footsteps," Chares said. "Let us be off."

Of the men who had followed Leonidas down the mountain at daybreak, only four remained.

The Spartan turned his horse's head up the pass and the others fell in behind him. They rode unchallenged, for the defile had not yet been occupied by the Persian force. From every new elevation they could see the endless lines of infantry and cavalry slowly drawing together far below them, until they passed at noon through a narrow way between lofty and beetling cliffs, and saw Cilicia lying before them, with the blue horizon of the sea in the distant southwest.

CHAPTER XXXI

ALEXANDER IS SURPRISED

In the second watch of the night, the Macedonian outposts challenged four men whose horses were flecked with foam. The strangers came from the direction of Issus, along the narrow and rugged road that led southward through the Syrian Gates, between the mountains and the sea. Alexander had led his army that day through the pass, and it was encamped at Myriandrus. In the moonlight the sentinels saw that the strangers were grimy with dust and that their faces were grim and gray with fatigue.

"I am Leonidas, of the Companions," said one of the riders who seemed to be the leader. "Lead me to the general in charge."

They were conducted to Ptolemy, son of Lagus, who immediately recognized Leonidas. He greeted Chares and Clearchus with surprise. The Spartan led him aside.

He led the way through the sleeping camp to Alexander's tent, in which a lamp was burning. A sentinel stood before it in full armor.

"The king left orders that he must not be disturbed. Wait until the morning," the man said calmly.

"What is this?" Alexander inquired, raising the curtain of the tent. He held in his hand a copy of the Iliad, in which he had been reading. "Is it you, Ptolemy—and Leonidas? Enter."

They followed him into the tent, which contained nothing save his weapons and a couch spread upon the ground.

"Clearchus and Chares back again!" the young king cried in a tone of satisfaction. "You have much to tell me; but first I must hear what Leonidas brings."

"Darius and his army have passed the Amanic Gates and are now at Issus," Leonidas said briefly.

"Five hundred thousand, of whom thirty thousand are mercenaries of Greek blood," Leonidas answered.

"They are in our rear," Alexander said, half to himself. He began to pace backward and forward, with his hands behind his back and his head inclined slightly toward his left shoulder. Although the startling news brought to him by the Spartan had taken him wholly by surprise, his decision was swift. Before he had made three turnings, his entire plan of campaign had been changed.

"The Gods have delivered them into our hands!" he said in a tone of conviction. "I dared not expect such good fortune. In the narrow plain of Issus, their army will defeat itself. The victory is ours."

His face was radiant and he spoke joyously, like a man whose mind has been relieved of a great anxiety; but his eyes were fastened upon the face of Ptolemy. Alexander had not failed to note the expression of apprehension that his lieutenant wore. He saw it vanish before the warmth of his own confidence. He felt that he would be able to avert any feeling of panic that might arise in the army at the unexpected turn of events.

"This is good news you bring," he said to Leonidas, "and I am repaid for waiting."

He glanced sharply at the sunken eyes and bloodless lips of the Spartan and spoke to the sentinel.

The Israelite had been standing in the background, watching Alexander's face with a gaze of peculiar intensity.

"This is Nathan, who led us captive from Halicarnassus," Clearchus replied. "He saved us when we were condemned to death in Babylon, and his aid enabled us to assist Leonidas in escaping from the Persians so as to bring you his news. He wishes to take service under you, and at your leisure to tell you of certain prophecies concerning you that were inspired by the God of Israel."

"It is well," Alexander said. "He will serve with you and Chares in the squadron that Leonidas commands. Ptolemy, send a thousand of your men to hold the pass behind us, until we come."

Alexander insisted that the young men should eat the food that was brought into the tent in obedience to his order. While they were satisfying their hunger, he plied them with questions concerning Darius and his army, the character of his men and their commanders, and the formation and resources of the country about Babylon. It was late when he finally permitted them to retire.

In the morning Alexander called a general council of his leaders to impart to them the information that Leonidas had brought. He gave it without comment, foreseeing that its first effect would be to arouse uncertainty and dismay that must be overcome before the men would be fit for battle.

The council was held in the open air in front of Alexander's tent. There came the captains of the Companions and of the phalanx and the generals of the allies. About them pressed the rank and file of the army, curious to learn the cause of the summons. Parmenio stood beside Alexander, his furrowed face grave with thought.

All eyes were turned upon the countenance of the young king, glowing with confidence and enthusiasm.

"Darius and his army are behind you, at Issus," he announced. "I have called you together to learn your opinions as to what we should do. Let each speak freely."

For a moment the soldiers stood in silence, looking doubtfully at each other. Then a murmur of uneasiness rose among them. They had expected to find the enemy on the Syrian plains, and behold, he was in their rear.

"We must fight," the old general replied, carefully and slowly. "The Persians are between us and our homes. They can enslave the Greek cities of the coast that we have set free. But they are so many that they cannot wait. Hunger will force them to attack us on our own ground. Let us wait until that time comes and then give them battle."

His words caused a brief stir of approval, but the great mass of men remained silent.

"It is true that Darius is in our rear," Ptolemy responded, "but it is also true that we are between him and his empire, that we have come to conquer. Let us march upon Babylon and take the city. The road lies open before us."

A shout arose and a clashing of swords upon shields. It was evident that Ptolemy's rashness found more favor than Parmenio's caution.

One after another the generals and captains gave their opinions, some agreeing with the older leader and some with the younger. When all had spoken Alexander seemed to meditate for a moment.

"O men of Hellas!" he cried, raising his head and looking into their eyes, "we came to avenge the ancient wrongs that these barbarians inflicted upon our fathers. Remember Darius, son of Hystaspes; how he brought his ships to your coasts and was defeated at Marathon. Remember Xerxes and the victory of Salamis. Never in the memory of man have we been free from Persian attack; and when they no longer dared to face us, they have sent their gold to corrupt our leaders and turn us one against the other. For these insults and injuries, their empire is forfeit; for the Gods have grown weary of their treachery.

"What has happened when we met them, sword in hand? In the long list of their attacks upon us, they have had nothing but defeat. Did not the Ten Thousand march to the very gates of Babylon?

"I say to you that the Gods have wearied of the barbarian. We were marching to meet Darius upon the plain, where the vast number of his army might have encompassed us. We were willing to allow him to choose his own ground, but the Gods would not have it so. They have blinded his eyes and led him to us almost as a sacrifice. Nothing remains but to strike the blow.

"O men of Macedon, my friends and companions, liberators of Greece, the hour of our triumph is near. At the Granicus we overthrew the army of a viceroy; now we are to meet the army of the Great King himself.

"It is Persia that awaits our onset at Issus. There have the Gods assembled the might and power of the empire and it stands like corn ripe for the reaper. The sheaves of this harvest shall be of gold that the barbarians have gathered for us as bees gather honey.

"Heroes of Hellas! from your iron hands none can wrest victory unless you will it! For yourselves and your children you are about to win fame that shall endure through the ages. I have never led you to defeat, and now I promise you the victory!"

Dead silence reigned while Alexander artfully made his appeal to the immemorial hatred of Persia, pointed out the advantage that Darius had given them, and raised the hope of fame and spoil. As he finished, a cry rent the air that showed he knew his men.

With swelling hearts, the generals and captains pressed forward to grasp his hand and swear to lay down their lives for him. He greeted them each by name, reminding them of their bravest deeds and making each man feel that the result of the battle might depend upon him alone. The council broke up, spreading its enthusiasm through the camp. On all sides the soldiers fell to polishing their weapons and boasting of what they would do when they faced the army of Darius.

That day was devoted to preparation. Alexander had sent a scouting party of picked men to sail up the coast and learn the disposition of the enemy's force. This expedition returned at nightfall and reported that the wounded and invalid soldiers who had been left in Issus had been cruelly slain by order of Darius and their bodies impaled along the shore. Rage filled the army at this news and hardened the resolve of the men to die rather than forego their victory and revenge.

The trumpets sounded at the first flush of dawn, and by sunrise the army was flowing back through the Syrian Gates to the field where the fate of the world was to be decided.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE WORLD AT STAKE

With the sea on their left and the mountain cliffs on their right, Clearchus and Nathan rode on either side of Chares in the front rank of the squadron of Companion cavalry commanded by Leonidas. The crisp November air and the excitement of the coming battle made their blood tingle and raised their spirits to a pitch of reckless gayety. The Spartan rode in advance, without turning his head or moving a muscle under the fire of jokes that Chares directed at him.

Presently the cliffs ended and the mountain barrier curved away inland, leaving a plain of greensward and shingle, flooded with sunlight.

Straight before them, perhaps three miles away, they saw a confused mass of gleaming banners and the glint of countless spears. The shallow Pinarus, flowing down from the mountains, rippled across the level, and on its further bank, where the ground was high, the Great King had taken his stand. For a mile and a half, from the hills to the sea, the plain was blocked by a living rampart, gay with the pomp of Oriental splendor.

As the squadrons of Macedonian cavalry emerged from the pass, they wheeled to the right and formed their line close to the lower slopes of the mountain.

Their plumes fluttering in the breeze, the Thessalian horse poured out of the pass and ranged themselves behind the Companions.

Then the phalanx appeared, marching rank after rank, with the precision of a machine. The lancers under Protomachus and Aristo's Pæonians, who had been thrown forward in advance of the cavalry, raised a shout as the scarred veterans, each holding his long sarissa erect and bearing his heavy shield across his shoulder, followed the proud Agema.

While the phalanx was forming on the left of the cavalry there was a movement among the Persians.

Clearchus and Nathan saw a large body of horse and foot advance across the river. Although in numbers they exceeded the entire Macedonian army, their departure from the main body of the Persians seemed to make no diminution in its size. They halted as soon as they had crossed the stream and from the host beyond came the bray of trumpets and the hoarse murmur of many voices.

His conjecture proved correct, for in half an hour the troops that had advanced fell back again across the river through openings that had been left for them in the wings of the main force, and the glittering front of the Persian army was revealed, drawn up in battle array.

The Macedonians had continued to advance slowly across the plain, forming as they went, so that only half a mile now separated them from the Persians. Nathan's eyes sought the centre of the enemy's line.

Clearchus followed the direction he indicated and saw a blotch of variegated color, above which fluttered many standards.

"Darius," Nathan replied. "You can see his Medean robe of purple—there, just beneath that golden banner."

"They are the princes and the nobles of the court," the Israelite answered. "Oxathres, the Great King's brother commands them."

"There, in front of Darius, are his Greek mercenaries," Nathan continued. "Leonidas told the truth when he said there were thirty thousand of them. Those heavy-armed troops on each side of the centre are the Cardaces. And, look, there is the cavalry, there on the beach. That is the flower of the Persian army. Nabazarnes leads it."

"We met some of those blossoms at the Granicus," Chares remarked. "It did not take them long to wither; but there is a whole garden of them yonder, and our line seems rather slender compared with theirs."

The Persian horse was massed on the smooth, hard beach in an enormous wedge which looked as though it might be able, by weight alone, to scatter the squadrons of Greek cavalry under Parmenio which were opposing it on the left wing of the Macedonian army. Evidently this discrepancy had struck the attention of Alexander, for, while Chares spoke, the Thessalians quietly left their places in the line and trotted around behind the phalanx to reënforce the allies.

"There goes the sickle that will reap the roses of Darius," Chares said, gazing after them longingly. "Phœbus! I wish I were with them!"

"You will find plenty to do here," Clearchus said. "There are a few men over there on the hill who will have to be cared for."

He pointed to the slope on the right, where some twenty thousand of the Cardaces were drawn up, far in advance of the Persian line, near the foot of the mountain.

"They intend to try our flank when we advance," the Theban observed. "I didn't know the Persians had so much sense."

"They are going to get a little exercise first," Clearchus said as the flare of trumpets sounded down the line.

Immediately a body of light-armed foot-soldiers and cavalry detached itself from the right wing and advanced up the hill toward the Cardaces. The eyes of both armies were upon them and a cheer ran along the Macedonian ranks, from the hillside to the sea.

The Cardaces wavered slightly. They had evidently not expected so prompt an attack. The leaders of the Macedonian force could be seen riding or running in advance of the various divisions, and the men followed as steadily as though the charge were merely an exercise drill. They paused to send a flight of arrows and stones among the Cardaces, who, being armed only with lances and swords, had no means of replying. To charge down the hill meant that they would be annihilated by the Macedonian army. To remain where they were was to be slain piecemeal by the darts and arrows. They began to retire slowly upward out of the zone of fire.

Their retreat was greeted from the Macedonian lines by a roar that sounded like the booming of the surf upon the rocks. The peltasts and archers continued to press them until they had been forced into a position where they were no longer a menace to the rear of the army. The light-armed troops were then recalled, leaving two squadrons of Companions, containing about three hundred men, to hold the twenty thousand in check if they should attempt a charge. They performed the task imposed upon them. Nothing more was heard of the isolated Cardaces that day.

As the detachment returned down the hill and resumed its place in the ranks, the commotion in the long, thin line that stretched away to the sea gradually ceased. The soldiers stood motionless behind their captains.

Alexander, riding Bucephalus, gave his final commands to Parmenio on the beach where the Thessalians waited with the allied cavalry to meet the attack of the Persian horse. Then he turned and came slowly up along the line, drawing rein here and there to speak a word of confidence and encouragement. His double white plume floated over his shoulders, and the sunlight flashed upon his coat of mail.

When he reached the right wing he addressed the Companions with his familiar smile.

"Do not forget," he said, "that a part of your accustomed duty is to set an example to the rest. I shall lead the Agema. Keep near me, for I may need you. Whether we win or lose, let it be with glory."

He turned his face toward the Persians and scanned with care the dense masses of troops who stood waiting beyond the Pinarus, in lines so deep that he could not see their rear. His eyes lingered upon the centre, where Darius, his rival for the mastery of the world, was standing. On the left of the Great King, the course of the stream bent backward, and the formation of the Persian army followed its course. The left of the Greek mercenaries, upon whom Darius relied to win the battle, rested in this elbow of the river.

"There is the vital spot," Alexander said. "If we can gain a foothold on that bank, have no fear of what may happen elsewhere. It will be easier than it was at the Granicus."

Alexander turned and saw the gayly caparisoned squadrons of the Persian right dashing into the river. The foam splashed about the knees of the horses and a forest of lances waved and tossed in the air.

"There is work for Parmenio," the young king remarked as the head of the column gained the shore.

He glanced once more along the Persian front, but the movement on the beach did not extend to the main force. It was clear that Darius intended to compel him to begin the infantry battle.

Alexander cantered down to the right of the phalanx, where he dismounted and placed himself at the head of the Agema. On the beach the Thessalians met the shock of the tremendous body of cavalry that had been launched against them. The impact bore them back, but even that rushing avalanche of horses and men could not break them. It dashed against their wall of steel, recoiled, and rolled on again, in successive waves, continually strengthened from the rear as fresh squadrons crossed the stream.

The Macedonian line quivered with eagerness. A page darted from Alexander's side along the front of the phalanx and spoke a word to Ptolemy, son of Lagus. Another sped to the Companions.

"Here we go!" cried Chares, clapping Nathan on the back with a blow that nearly hurled him from his horse. "Stick to Leonidas! He will find the best of the fighting for us, or we will drown him in the river!"

A dull throbbing beat through the air and the heavy centre started slowly forward, each man touching the arm of his neighbor and keeping step in parade order. The cadence of voices began to mingle with the drum beat and the wild music of the trumpets.

As they advanced, Clearchus gazed eagerly at the Persian line, every nerve stretched to the point of physical pain. He saw in the centre the ranks of the Greek mercenaries, ten times as deep as those of the phalanx, standing grim and motionless, in strange contrast with the restless flutter of the heterogeneous masses that surrounded them on three sides. He blushed to think that, when Persia stood at bay, Greeks could be found to range themselves with her against their own country. The thought passed through his mind that Alexander was right after all, and that Demosthenes and those who aided him to fan the flame of hostility to Macedon at home were really acting the part of traitors, not only to Athens, but to all Greece.

He turned his eyes to Alexander, whose plumes shone in the front rank of the Agema. This had now almost reached the Pinarus. Suddenly from the phalanx rose the deep-toned pæan, summoning the Gods of Hellas to protect their own. The mighty chant drowned the throbbing of the drums and the uproar of the battle on the beach. As it rose and swelled, it filled the plain and rolled back in echoes from the mountain sides. There was something in it stern and inflexible, that thrilled Clearchus' heart and lifted him to the plane of self-forgetfulness.

The Agema reached the river. The pæan gave way to a wild shout as the slow advance of the phalanx changed to a rush, and the Macedonian line dashed into the rain of javelins, darts, and arrows that was poured upon it from the Persian side of the stream.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CHESTNUT MARE

The phalanx swept into the shallow bed of the river. The Greek mercenaries who confronted it on the western bank, nerved by the hope of gaining the immense reward promised by the Great King, and knowing that his eyes were upon them, met its shock with courage. Clearchus heard the fierce shouts with which they closed and saw the line of the phalanx bend and sway as it pressed upward to gain a foothold.

"Hot work," cried Chares, who was galloping beside him. "By Zeus, the king leads!"

Alexander, surrounded by young men whose hearts were as high as his own, struck the left of the stubborn mercenary line where the curve in the river half exposed its flank. The Agema split its way in between the files, tearing asunder everything before it.

"Follow the Whirlwind!" shouted Clearchus; but his voice was lost in the wild cry of the charge.

Clearchus was conscious of being carried swiftly forward without guidance or volition of his own. The water of the Pinarus splashed in his face. A blaze of color spread confusedly before his eyes where the Persians stood awaiting the charge on the terrace above. An arrow struck his breast and rebounded from his armor. Javelins fell all around him.

"Now!" he heard the voice of Chares shouting. "Now for it!" and his horse began scrambling up the bank with the others.

On his right and left the Companions rushed upward like a torrent. He grasped his lance more firmly, but he had no occasion to use it. The Persians gave way, crumpling back upon each other in a disordered mob. Behind them in vain their captains plied the terrible knotted whips with which they sought to hold the men to their work.

Showers of darts and arrows continued to fall from the rear, striking friend and foe without distinction, but the Persian troops who were directly exposed to the Macedonian attack huddled together like sheep. They were prevented from fleeing only by the fact that they were hemmed in by the dense ranks of their own host. Through them the Companions raged at will, clearing a space into which the archers and slingers pressed with shouts of triumph.

Above the turmoil the Macedonian trumpets rang out high and clear, and, in obedience to their command, the Companions swerved to the left, leaving the light-armed troops to hold what they had gained. Clearchus saw that their charge had torn away the support from the left of the Greek mercenary cohorts, leaving them wholly unprotected. He caught sight of the Agema and the other hypaspists, struggling hand to hand with the mercenaries, and beyond them the phalanx, which he was surprised to find had not yet succeeded in gaining a lodgement on the west bank of the river.

"There's something worth fighting," Chares cried to Nathan, waving his lance at the mercenaries. "They are Greeks," he added proudly. "Come on, and we will show you what a real battle is like."

The Companions had partially regained the order which they had lost in the charge. They now faced the mercenary flank at right angles to the front of both armies. Again the trumpet notes launched them forward. Again the wild cheer arose, ending in a grinding shock. The momentum of the charge carried the Companions far into the exposed flank of the mercenaries; but this time no panic and no yielding followed. Although hard pressed in front by the furious and unremitting onslaught of the Agema and the hypaspists, where Clearchus again caught the gleam of Alexander's floating plumes, the hirelings stood their ground until death overcame them. Facing half about, they met as well as they could the attack of the Companions to which the cowardice of their allies had laid them open. But not even their courage could save them, unsupported and without generalship as they were, from the impetuous determination of Alexander.

Into the living wall the Macedonians hewed their way, foot by foot. Alexander raged like a tiger, knowing that here the battle was to be lost or won. The phalanx was all but broken. Away on the beach the Thessalians had been borne back by the impenetrable masses of the Persian cavalry and were holding the enemy in check only by a series of desperate and reckless charges. At that moment Darius was triumphant everywhere excepting at the bloody curve in the river where Alexander led in person.

It seemed to Clearchus that for hours they were locked in that desperate struggle without being able to advance. His lance was broken and the hand in which he held his sword was numb. Beside him he saw the broad shoulders of Chares heave and fall as he delivered his blows. The lust of battle seemed to flame in the Theban's veins like a fever. Again and again the mercenaries leaped upon him to pull him down. His sword was everywhere.

Nathan fought beside him, cool and wary, parrying and thrusting with sinews of steel. His eyes glowed with excitement held in check, and a flush tinged the sunburned olive of his cheek.

Little by little, the Companions worked their way toward the hypaspists, until at last the cavalry and the foot fought side by side, with Alexander at their head. So fierce was the conflict that flesh and blood could not long sustain it. The flank attack finally threw the left of the mercenaries into confusion, which gradually extended until the ranks that opposed the phalanx began to waver. A mighty quiver ran through the hireling force. Its resistance weakened and it gave ground.

With a wild shout the phalanx rushed up the river bank. The mercenary lines were hurled backward. The wall was broken.

Among the swirling eddies of men and plunging horses, Clearchus found himself close to Alexander. He saw the young king, sword in hand, his armor dimmed with dust and blood, pause for a moment with heaving breast to note the final charge of the phalanx. As soon as he saw the straightened lines and caught sight of the sarissas rising above the river bank, followed by the grim faces of his veterans, he turned and directed his gaze in the opposite direction, toward Darius.

The Great King had not shifted his ground since the beginning of the battle. He still stood, erect and proud, in the golden chariot with its four white steeds, whose jewelled bridles were held by slaves. His long robe, in folds of lustrous purple, floated from his shoulders. In his hand he held an idle bow, inlaid with pearl. He looked unmoved upon the slaughter that was going on before his eyes, but when the mercenary line gave way, he turned to his brother Oxathres.

"They are dogs," he replied. "Wait until the Macedonian has spent his strength upon them, and we will show him what it is to meet Persian steel. Look yonder, O king!"

He waved his hand toward the sea beach, where the Persian cavalry had pushed Parmenio and the Thessalians back from the river's mouth.

A cupbearer brought Darius a goblet, gleaming with precious stones and filled with the wine that only the royal lips might taste. The Great King drank it deliberately and turned again to the battle.

"They are called the Companion cavalry," Oxathres answered. "They are said to be brave men."

"Alexander, who wears the white plumes," his brother replied. "He is mounting. They are about to charge."

"Grant, O Beltis, that he may!" Oxathres said fervently. "Then we shall have him at our mercy."

"O king, may you live forever!" Oxathres exclaimed. "Many have fallen this day. Crucify him beside his fellow-robbers on the shore as a warning to all the world."

"Thou couldst treat him so, for he is no true king," Oxathres urged. "Thou knowest the stories of his birth."

At that moment the steward of the king's household forced his way through the nobles and prostrated himself, kissing the dust before the chariot.

"O king of kings!" the man said, "Sisygambis, thy mother, and the Queen Statira sent me to know if thou wert safe, and to ask when thou wilt return to them."

"Tell them to have no fear," Darius said confidently. "Let them make ready to attend the banquet in my pavilion at the going down of the sun."

Darius glanced again at the Companions, who were forming for the charge under cover of the advancing phalanx, and let his eyes sweep slowly over his own forces. Around him stood princes and governors of provinces, satraps, viceroys, and generals. His personal guard of ten thousand horse was drawn up on either side, while in front of him, so disposed as not to obstruct his view of the battle, were ranged the Immortals, ten thousand of the bravest soldiers of his empire.

In an open space behind his chariot stood a group of white-robed priests around a massive altar of silver from which rose the pale blue perfumed smoke of the eternal fire. Mithra, Darius believed, would never forsake his votaries or permit his fire to be extinguished.

"They are coming," the Great King said tranquilly, having completed his inspection. "Look, Oxathres, Baal has stricken them with madness!"

He leaned forward in his chariot, fixing his eyes upon the white plumes that his brother had said distinguished his rival. Between him and the Macedonians stood a solid barrier of men, every one of whom was ready to die if by so doing he could save his master so much as a scratch.

The Companions tore their way through the remnant of the mercenary line. Onward they came, trampling and scattering a squadron of Scyths as if their weapons had been the toys of children. They reached the Immortals. Darius drew a breath of relief. There they must stop at last.

But no! The white plumes still advanced, and behind them came a widening stream of horses and men. It seemed as though nothing could stand against them. The Immortals were scattered like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Oxathres changed color. He turned and spoke to his trumpeter. The brazen note that followed warned the nobles to make ready for a charge. The heart of many a silk-robed courtier who had been boasting all day of the deeds he would do when his chance came grew sick at the sound. The time had come.

Darius hastily dismounted from his heavy chariot, leaving his mantle behind him, and took his place in another chariot, drawn by two horses only and more easily manageable. At a sign from Oxathres, a groom advanced, leading a beautiful chestnut mare, who tossed her head with distended nostrils, neighing for her foal, which had purposely been left behind beyond the Amanic Gates in Syria. The groom took his place in silence beside the chariot.

"Thy servants beg of thee not to deprive them of the glory that awaits them," Oxathres replied.

Darius waved his hand in assent. Already the nobles in the outer circle of the royal guard were struggling for their lives with the Companions. The charge had been delayed too long and there was no time now to make it. Nothing was left but defence.

Darius saw the white plume tossing like a fleck of foam on the crest of an advancing wave. He fitted an arrow to his bow and drew it to the head. The loosened shaft struck the satrap Arsames and passed through his body.

Princes and nobles fought breast to breast with the sons of Macedonian herdsmen. There was no longer question of rank or power, of birth or riches, but only of who had the braver heart and the stronger arm. The eminence on which the Great King had posted himself to witness the punishment of the invaders at his leisure was clothed in slaughter. His favorites were rolling in the dust under the feet of their maddened horses. For the first time in his life, the monarch looked in the face of peril, and his spirit quailed before the test.

Out of the struggle Oxathres came galloping, breathless and with blood upon his armor.

"Save thyself, brother!" he cried, forgetting the royal titles in his haste. "The battle is lost! Mount and fly while there is yet time!"

Darius sprang from his chariot and threw himself upon the back of the chestnut mare, whose silken flanks trembled with excitement. A bound and she was beside the smoking altar, from which the priests had already fled. In her ears rang the anxious call of her foal, and the brute instinct of her mother-love saved that day the King of Kings, who was leaving his own wife and children and the queen his mother to the mercy of his enemies.

Straight as an arrow, leaping every obstacle that came in her way, the mare darted through the confused squadrons of the reserves toward the Amanic Gates. Behind her thundered prince and satrap, each intent upon saving himself at whatever cost.

"The king flees! The king flees!" The cry rose in a hundred tongues throughout the Persian host. The tens of thousands of troops who had not been called upon to strike a blow because there had been no room for them in the fighting line melted away as if by magic. The plain was filled with men streaming toward the mountains or the sea, seeking some place of refuge. Here a body of Scyths, clad in shuggy skins, retreated sullenly; there a band of dark-skinned Libyans ran like a herd of frightened cattle, casting away their clubs and stone-tipped spears; Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Assyrians, fled in panic, each man seeking to place his neighbor behind him. Collisions were frequent, and more than one unfortunate was hacked down because he stood in the way of some savage comrade in arms.

The men who were actually engaged in fighting did not at first perceive that they were being left to their fate. As soon as they discovered the desertion of the reserves, many of them threw down their weapons and sued for mercy. A portion of the Greek mercenaries alone maintained a semblance of discipline, though broken into several bodies. They fell back, still facing their enemies, toward the seashore, in search of ships to carry them away.

To the Persian cavalry, that had borne back Parmenio, the news of defeat came last of all. They alone still held an advantage, and it was bitter for them to be forced to abandon it. But without support they were powerless. The phalanx wheeled in upon them, threatening to drive them into the sea. Finally they too relinquished hope and joined the rout.

Then through all the plain and up the mountain slopes rode squadrons of Macedonian horse, cutting down the fugitives. The Thessalians there took merciless revenge for their losses. The earth was encumbered with corpses.

When the trumpets at nightfall recalled the scattered and weary bands of executioners, nothing of the vast army of Darius remained on the plain excepting the spoil and the dead, over whom the jackals snarled and howled. And down the Syrian slope of the pass, bathed in sweat, galloped the fleet-limbed chestnut mare, with Darius upon her back.

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN THE PAVILION OF THE QUEENS

On the night after the battle, rough soldiers of the phalanx slept in garments of fine wool wrought with gold, clasping in their hands necklaces of jewels in which the glow of the camp-fires danced and flashed. Chares had decked himself in a long cloak of scarlet, upon which strange patterns were worked in silver. A collar of emeralds encircled his arm, and bracelets of gold gleamed upon his wrists.

"These are for Thais," he said proudly, opening a strip of linen and displaying to Clearchus a collection of gems that sparkled with varying hues.

"You are a barbarian at heart," the Athenian said. "Come, let us join the king. Leonidas waits for us."

Alexander sat upon his foam-streaked horse in the golden glow of the sunset. He had removed his white-plumed helmet, and the cool air bathed his temples. There was a new flash of pride in his eyes as he gazed upon the field of his triumph. The last orders had been given, the wounded had been cared for, and Parmenio had been despatched to Damascus, with a swift body of horse, to take possession of the Persian stores and treasure before they could be removed.

"Now let Demosthenes put on mourning!" Alexander exclaimed. "Come, let us see what provision Darius has made for us."

Followed by his Table Companions, he led the way toward the great pavilion, which none had dared to enter before him. At the entrance stood the chariot from which the Great King had looked upon the wreck of his hopes.

"Here is the royal mantle," Alexander remarked, spreading out the purple robe, stiff with gold. He tossed it back into the chariot, which he ordered to be removed.

Like a troop of boys, the Macedonians entered the great pavilion. Light from a hundred lamps filled the tent. Rich carpets had been spread upon the ground, and embroidered hangings divided the interior into a succession of rooms destined for the use of the Great King. From one to another Alexander led the way, making no attempt to conceal his wonder at the evidences of luxury that he there encountered for the first time.

In the first apartment, they found a wardrobe consisting of suits of armor inlaid with gold and silver; garments of silk and linen; helmets, shoes, parasols, mirrors, and a litter of utensils the uses of which were unknown to the Companions.

"I wonder what my old governor, Leonidas, would say to this?" Alexander cried. "He would never allow me clothing enough to keep me warm in winter."

Next they entered the treasure-chamber, filled with chests of cedar, bound with iron and brass. Several of these chests had been forced open, apparently by faithless slaves; but the rapidity of the Macedonian victory had not allowed them to carry away more than a very small part of the treasure. The boxes contained golden coins bearing the stamp of Darius, and evidently fresh from the mint.

"Here is balm for the wounded," Alexander said, lifting a handful of the coins and permitting them to fall back in a glittering stream.

Beyond this, they found the bed upon which Darius was to have reposed from the fatigues of the day. It was a mass of down, covered with silk and linen of the finest texture, and hung with silken curtains, fringed with gold. Adjoining the bedchamber was the scented bath in an enormous vessel of solid gold. Near it stood rows of crystal vases and jars of Phœnician glass, containing unguents and rare perfumes, compounded of priceless ingredients after formulæ known only to the body-servants of the Persian kings.

"This is what gave us the battle," Alexander said, pointing to the enervating array.

He pushed aside the last curtain and stood in the banquet room. Along its sides tables had been spread, flanked by rich couches and covered with dishes of massive gold and silver. At one side of the room was a canopied couch, higher and more magnificent than the others. The tables had been prepared before the flight of the attendants. Royal wine sparkled in goblets of crystal and beakers of gold. Hephæstion found the kitchen and reported that all the materials for the feast were in readiness.

"Let our cooks take charge of them," Alexander said. "I bid you all to sup with me here to-night."

This idea was received with eager applause and in an hour the preparations had been made. The Macedonians, wearing garlands of oak leaves, stretched themselves upon the gorgeous couches and partook of the strange dishes that were set before them by the pages. Goblets were filled and emptied and beakers were drained. Each man began to relate the deeds of valor he had performed on the battle-field, explaining in great detail how, but for him, the day would have been lost. Alexander alone, who had led them to victory, had nothing to say of himself, though he talked with Ptolemy, son of Lagus, Perdiccas, and Philotas of the mistakes that Darius had made.

Aching muscles and smarting wounds were forgotten under the influence of the wine and in the vainglorious rehearsal of the battle. The Macedonians began to feel that the world lay at their feet, and their minds were uplifted by dreams of endless conquest. The pavilion rang with laughter and was filled with the babel of tongues.

Suddenly, amid the jesting, the voices of women raised in lamentation penetrated the tent. The merriment was hushed, and every head was turned toward the sounds. Alexander despatched a page to learn the cause and the lad breathlessly brought word that Sisygambis, the Great King's mother, and Statira, his wife, were bewailing his death.

"Come, Hephæstion," Alexander said gravely, rising from the royal couch. "Let us reassure them."

Looks of intelligence and furtive smiles were exchanged as the two young men left the pavilion; but none dared venture upon open comment. From the beginning of war, the women of the vanquished had been counted as part of the victor's spoil.

Following the direction of the sorrowful sounds, Alexander discovered a smaller pavilion in the rear of the first. At its doorway stood a dark and stalwart figure, erect and motionless as a statue.

Upon the approach of the young king, the silent guardian fell with his face to the earth and remained motionless.

"Why didst thou not save thyself when thy master fled?" the young king inquired.

Alexander reflected for a moment. "Rise!" he said at last. "Had thy master possessed more servants like thee, he would not have lost his empire. Thou art chief eunuch. Keep thy charge, and if any molest thee, make thy complaint to me. Go now and ask if Alexander may be admitted."

Tireus had risen, but instead of obeying, he fell again upon his knees, stretching his hands toward Alexander in supplication that he dared not put into words.

Tireus went, returning in a moment to draw aside the curtain so that the young king might enter. The wailing had ceased.

Alexander and Hephæstion found themselves under a silken canopy of crimson. The floor of the pavilion was covered with thick carpets, woven in bright colors and laid one upon another. Silver lamps suspended from above diffused a soft light.

Huddled together in the middle of the tent upon heaps of cushions lay a crowd of women in attitudes of despair. Their white arms and shoulders gleamed through their dishevelled hair. Their eyes were heavy with weeping. They seemed like a flock of doves that had been caught in a snare and were awaiting with palpitating breasts the coming of the fowler.

A woman of mature years rose from the group and threw herself at the feet of Hephæstion, mistaking him for the king, because he was taller than Alexander and still wore his armor. She was Sisygambis, the queen mother.

"Mercy!" she cried, with streaming eyes. "Thou hast slain my son. Have pity upon his mother and his innocent wife."

"I am blinded by my sorrow!" Sisygambis replied, turning to Alexander in confusion. "Pardon me, I pray thee, in the name of thy own mother, Olympias!"

"Thy son lives," he said. "Be not alarmed that you mistook my friend for me, for Hephæstion is also an Alexander."

"Is Darius still alive?" she asked beseechingly. "Is it true? I am his mother. Do not deceive me!"

With a cry of joy, Statira rose from among her women, clasping in her hand the chubby fist of her child. The heavy masses of her dark hair framed a face of pure oval. The color flooded her cheeks, and her eyes shone in fathomless depths of mystery and life. As his glance met hers, Alexander was conscious of a thrill such as he had never felt before. His pulses were disturbed, and he felt his face flush. With an effort he mastered the unaccustomed emotion.

"Alexander does not make war upon women," he said quietly. "For your own sakes, I must carry you with me; but you are as safe as though you were still in your palace in Babylon. Your household shall remain with you. Command as freely as you did yesterday, and fear nothing."

The infant son of Darius looked at him with round eyes of wonder. Alexander took the child in his arms and kissed him.

"Come, Hephæstion," he said, turning to go. The Macedonian, whose gaze had been fixed upon Statira with an intensity that rendered him oblivious to everything else, roused himself and followed. As they passed from the pavilion, they heard a murmur of women's voices in silvery notes of astonishment and admiration.

Alexander was silent and thoughtful when he resumed his place at the head of the banquet table. The Companions were impatient to learn the details of his visit.

The young king frowned slightly, and the hand in which he held his goblet trembled.

"Whoever in future speaks to me of the beauty of Statira, wife of Darius," he said, "that man is no longer my friend. Let it be known to the army that she is to be treated with all the respect due to a queen. He who forgets shall be punished."

He glanced at Hephæstion, who flushed and looked another way. For a moment there was silence in the tent, and then the laughter and talk flowed on as though nothing had occurred to interrupt them.

CHAPTER XXXV

PHRADATES MAKES A WAGER

Phradates stood on the broad stone wharf in the Sidonian Harbor of Tyre, amid a group of young men whose costly garments and jewelled fingers showed them to belong to the rich families of the richest city in the world. Upon the edge of the wharf were gathered a score of older men, clad in sombre robes, over which spread their silvery beards. They wore close-fitting caps and heavy golden chains. Each carried a short rod of ebony and ivory as a token of authority. They were the elders, members of the council of King Azemilcus, who was absent with the fleet of Autophradates, the Persian admiral.

The basin of the harbor formed a deep bay, shut in on the seaward side by lofty walls, built of huge blocks of squared stone laid in gypsum. On the right, facing north, was a narrow opening in the barrier, forming a passage flanked by long breakwaters. The circumference of the harbor was ringed by a succession of stone wharves, where hundreds of merchant vessels were moored, their sails furled against their masts. They were discharging their cargoes or taking on lading for new voyages. Lines of men, half naked, ran backward and forward between the ships and the great warehouses, carrying bales upon their heads. The sailors, chanting monotonous songs, were emptying the holds of the ships or storing away the fresh cargoes.

"There's an old tub that looks as though she had seen service," cried one of the young men. "Let us see where she has been."

They strolled across to a vessel whose weather-beaten sides and patched sails told of rough usage.

"Whence came you?" demanded the youth, addressing the brown-faced master, who stood at the gangway, superintending the discharge of his cargo.

"Where are they?" the youth asked, gazing at the bright ingots of tin that the sailors were dragging to the deck.

"They are in the western seas," the master answered, "so far that Carthage seems but a stone's throw away. Three months we were beaten northward by storms, and the waves of the great ocean ran higher than the walls of the city. At last we came to the land of long days, where the men have yellow hair and blue eyes and the women are more beautiful than light. By the favor of Baal, we were enabled to obtain a store of amber that is created there by the sun, in exchange for beads of glass. This we dedicated to the God, and after we had got our tin on board, he brought us back under his protection."

The young men listened, open-mouthed. From their boyhood, they had been accustomed to drink in such tales of mystery and wonder along the wharves of the city, nursing the bold spirit of adventure that was born in every Phœnician. They plied the master with questions. What monsters of the sea had he seen? What were the customs of the men of the North? Was it true that they devoured strangers who fell into their hands? The mariner told them of enormous water snakes and dragons, but his marvellous tales were interrupted by a cry from the walls, where lookouts were always posted to scan the sea. The state trireme had been sighted. She was returning from Sidon, bringing Prince Hur and the ambassadors whom the council had despatched to Alexander. The council was now awaiting their return.

At the signal from the walls, work was suspended throughout the city and the population crowded to the harbor. Merchants with their tablets clasped in their hands, dyers with their arms stained to the elbow, metal workers, artisans, laborers, and soldiers of the garrison, thronged to the water front by thousands to learn the answer of the Macedonian. A vast murmur of expectation and speculation rose from the people.

Presently, through the entrance of the harbor, the trireme could be seen, making for the opening between the sea-walls, over which the waves were dashing in spurts of white spray. Urged by its three banks of oars, rising and falling in unison, the vessel ran swiftly into the harbor.

Headed by Prince Hur, the son of Azemilcus, the ambassadors were standing grave and silent upon the deck. At sight of their anxious faces a hush fell upon the crowd. The pilot gave a sharp command, the oars churned backward in the water, and the long trireme swung into her mooring. The ambassadors descended to the wharf and spoke in low tones to the elders of the council.

Was it peace or war? War! The news ran through the crowd and into the city as ripples spread across the face of a pool when a stone falls. Turmoil and confusion followed. What had Alexander said? Would the other Phœnician cities join with Tyre to repel him?

They had deserted her. Tyre must stand alone. Strato, son of Gerostratus, king of Adradus, had surrendered. Byblos had capitulated. Sidon had opened her gates to the Macedonians.

"We offered submission according to our instructions," said the chief of the ambassadors, to the council. "Alexander accepted it and bade us tell you it was his purpose to offer sacrifice in the temple of Melkarth, who, he says, is really Heracles, and his ancestor. We replied that Tyre could not admit strangers within her walls, but that Melkarth had an older temple on the mainland, where he might offer sacrifice. 'Tell your council,' he said, 'that I and my army will offer sacrifice to Melkarth upon his altar within the walls of New Tyre. Bid them make ready the temple. It is for them to say what the victims shall be.' That was all."

They walked in slow and silent procession to the palace of the king in the southern quarter of the town and disappeared within its gates.

The city continued to seethe like a huge caldron. Its unwonted stir attracted the attention of Thais and Artemisia, on the housetop, where they had gone as usual to take the air after midday. The two young women stood side by side, close to the parapet of the roof, looking down into the narrow streets, where men came and went like ants whose nest has been disturbed. The strong sea-breeze blew out Thais' crimson robe into gleaming folds, and the sun glistened upon the burnished copper of her hair. Rich color glowed in her cheeks and in her scarlet lips. The immortal vitality of the salt breeze and of the crisply curling waves seemed in her. She laughed aloud.

"I wonder what is the matter?" she said. "These Phœnicians are afraid of their own shadows."

Artemisia smiled. Her chiton of fine white wool, edged with purple, outlining her figure, indicated that it had lost some of its roundness. Her face was pale; blue veins showed through the transparent skin of her temples.

"I hope it means something good for us," she said, slipping her arm around her sister's waist. "When shall we get away from this hateful city?"

"The time will come, child," Thais said soothingly. "You shall see him again; I know it."

It was a conversation that had been repeated many times. Artemisia drew a sigh that caught in her throat in a little sob.

"Oh, Thais, if I could feel his strong arms around me only once," she said, "I think I could die in thankfulness."

"Do not talk of dying," Thais replied reprovingly. "See, the world is beautiful!"

They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the scene, which was indeed beautiful, as Thais had said. On three sides the sea flashed and sparkled with white-capped waves before the southwest wind. On the east a channel, half a mile in width, divided the mainland from the island upon which the new city was built. Beyond the strait lay the city of Old Tyre, with its wide circle of walls. There, as in the new town, thousands of pieces of cloth—linen, woollen, cotton, and silk—fresh from the vats of the dyers, were hung to dry in the sun. The juice of the shell-fish had lent them rich hues of blue, violet, crimson, scarlet, and the peculiar shade of purple known as "royal" that for ages had made the city famous. Hundreds of fishing and trading vessels were drawn up along the wharves or upon the beach.

Behind the old city, three miles from the beach, rose Mount Lebanon, clothed to its snow-clad summits with the foliage of pine, cedar, oak, and sumach. Its mighty barrier stretched north and south into the misty distance, leaving always between its base and the shore a narrow strip of level land that was given up to tillage.

From the elevation where they stood, the young women looked upon other roofs, filling the space inside the walls, which rose from the sea for one hundred and fifty feet, with towers at every curve and angle. They could see the Sidonian Harbor on their right and the Egyptian Harbor opposite to it on their left, both crowded with masts and connected by a canal spanned by movable bridges.

Before them rose the towers and cupolas of the Temple of Melkarth, and near it the wide Eurychorus, or market-place. Farther south was the huge dome of the Temple of Baal, and there, too, was the royal palace, with its many terraces crowned by a lofty citadel. Agenor's Temple was on the north, overlooking the Sidonian Harbor. Near the western wall was an oasis of verdure which marked the gardens attached to the voluptuous Temple of Astarte, where, through the foliage of palm and rhododendron, shone the marble columns of her habitation.

Phradates had caused a striped awning to be erected upon the roof. Beneath this was spread a gay Babylonian carpet, with couches and silken cushions. Shrubs and flowering plants stood in great vases of stone, screening the enclosure from the eyes of the curious. All the other housetops of the quarter were occupied in a similar manner, thus enabling the population to escape the heat of the lower levels, from which the breeze was excluded by the height of the walls. The space inside the city was so crowded that the houses rose many stories, and, excepting those belonging to wealthy persons, each sheltered scores of families.

She shivered as she spoke. Thais beckoned to one of the women, who stood at a respectful distance, talking in low tones with a slender, dark-skinned man, whose cunning eyes gleamed like those of a rat. He was Mena the Egyptian.

"Something tells me that our captivity will soon be over," Thais said. "Things cannot last much longer as they are."

There was a meaning in her words that Artemisia did not grasp. Since the flight from Halicarnassus, they had been confined in the house of Phradates, whose passion for Thais had increased until it burned like fever in his veins. The end must have come long ago had it not been for the frequent absences that had been forced upon the young man by the needs of the city and the commands of the Great King. As matters stood, even Thais' resources had been taxed to hold him in check. Hitherto she had fed him with hopes, playing upon his weaknesses and keeping him in a state of subjection from which she knew surrender would set him free. She made a gesture of impatience and began walking up and down between rows of young orange trees.

"I don't know what has come over me," she said. "I am as restless as one of the sea-gulls yonder."

"Find out what is causing all this excitement in the city and bring me word," Thais said.

"Why should my lady be interested?" Mena replied coolly, with a smile that showed his white teeth.

Thais wheeled as though she had been stung. She looked at the Egyptian with head erect, and there was something in her eyes that caused his to fall before them.

"Mena," she said softly, "do not think that, because you are set to watch me, you are my master. Go, or I swear by Astoreth that you shall be flayed alive from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet."

He turned and went. Thais grasped a branch of the shrubbery and tore it away, crumpling the leaves in her hands and scattering them in a bruised shower at her feet.

"How long must I put up with the insolence of this slave and his master?" she exclaimed. The opalescent animal light gleamed in her eyes as she turned them northward, and she paced backward and forward with impatient strides like a captive lioness. "I hate them!" she cried. "How many times have I been tempted to end it!"

She thrust her hand into her bosom and drew out her tiny dagger, whose hilt was studded with rubies that sparkled like drops of blood.

Thais quickly hid the dagger and turned to greet Phradates. He came forward with a smile, and the smile with which she met him had no trace in it of the anger that had so shaken her but a moment before.

"Tell us," Thais said. "We are dying to hear all about it. You know we have had no news since the battle of Issus, where the Great King, as you call him, was beaten by one who seems to be greater."

"Yes, through the treachery of the Greeks," he replied, frowning. "Darius will depend upon his own people next time, and you will see then what will happen."

"He might have advanced upon Babylon with nobody to oppose him," Phradates said. "Of course, he would not have been able to capture the city, but at least he will never have a better chance to try it. He was afraid to make the attempt. He has been marching down the coast instead, and there has been no more fighting, because all the northern cities have surrendered to him."

"In the absence of King Azemilcus," the Phœnician continued, "the council deemed it best to offer terms for the present. They sent an embassy, accompanied by the prince, to tell Alexander that he had nothing to fear from Tyre so long as he did not interfere with us."

"What do you suppose?" Phradates said. "He had the impudence to announce that Melkarth was the same as your Heracles, and that as Heracles was of his family, he proposed to offer sacrifice in the temple here. The embassy told him flatly that Tyre had never admitted the Persians, and that we should not admit him. Everybody knows that if we should let him in here, he would do what he did in Ephesus when he took possession of the city under pretence of offering sacrifice to Artemis."

"He is in Babylon," said Phradates. "He sent a letter to Alexander after the battle of Issus, asking freedom for his wife and family. He wrote as one king to another, proposing peace and alliance; but your Alexander, to his sorrow, refused the terms. He pretends that he has already conquered all Asia, and he had the boldness to tell the Great King that he would liberate Statira and her children if Darius would come as a suppliant to ask it."

"The Gods fight with him," Thais said, after a pause. "It would be better for Tyre to open her gates."

"The walls of Tyre will crumble and fall into the sea before he offers his sacrifice," he exclaimed. "I will wager anything I possess against your looking-glass that he will weary of his task before a stone has been loosened."

"Thais," the young man said earnestly, "I will wager what is more precious to me than gold. Thou knowest that I love thee."

"You have been for months in my power," he went on, "and I have not sought to force your inclination. Let us now abide by the result of the siege that Alexander is threatening. On the day that he gives over his attempt to enter Tyre, thou shalt be mine. Until that day comes I shall ask nothing of thee. Is it a bargain?"

"You will not keep your promise," Thais said doubtfully. Her reluctance made the young man more eager.

When the Egyptian returned, Phradates said to Thais, "See, I am ready to bind myself by oath if thou wilt do likewise."

The sacrifice was made and the mutual bond was completed. As the blood of the doves trickled upon the stones, Phradates called Astarte to witness his covenant. Thais drew a breath of relief, for she knew that no Phœnician, even the most depraved, would dare to disregard such an oath.

The sun went down in crimson splendor, and lamps began to twinkle in the city. Still the council prolonged its deliberations, and still the anxious merchants waited outside the doors of the palace to learn its decision.

CHAPTER XXXVI

TYRE ACCEPTS THE CHALLENGE

The entire population of Tyre was at work before dawn on the day following the return of the ambassadors. The council had decided to accept Alexander's challenge. As the first measure of preparation, it ordered the abandonment of the Old City on the mainland and the removal of its residents to the New City. In order to make room for them, a fleet was to be sent to Carthage, carrying women and children. This fleet was to return with such aid as the strong colony of the West might be willing to give.

Huge flatboats and a multitude of smaller craft plied backward and forward between the harbors and the mainland. The brilliant stuffs that had been hanging in the sun were gathered into bales. Here was a boat laden with the contents of a glass factory: huge amphoræ, delicate vases, cylinders, scarabs, beads, and amulets of a hundred iridescent hues. Beside it came another vessel, carrying a freight of iron, bronze, and copper, wrought into armor and household furnishings. Other ships brought Syrian cotton and embroideries; white wool and wine of Helbon; corn, honey, balm, and oil from Israel; ivory, ebony, spices, and perfumes from Arabia; lead and tin from the mines of Spain; cedar chests filled with Babylonian embroideries; elephant, lion, leopard, and deer skins from Africa. These precious commodities were stored in the warehouses.

All the public granaries were filled to overflowing, and what grain could not be brought away was destroyed. At the close of the second day, the ancient parent city, from which had sprung such a brood of flourishing daughters, and which more than once had defied the might of the great empire beyond the mountain, lay deserted. Silence and foreboding pervaded the New City as the Tyrians looked across the strait at the empty houses in which many of them had been cradled.

There was little time for despondency. The labor of preparation had been only begun, and the task of making ready the vessels destined for Carthage went forward briskly.

A swift galley was sent to King Azemilcus, who immediately deserted the Persian fleet with all his ships and returned to take charge of the defence of the city. His arrival was the signal for great rejoicing, for his warships would insure command of the sea to Tyre, since Alexander had none with which to oppose them.

At last the departure of the fleet destined for Carthage could be delayed no longer. The scouting ships brought word that the Macedonian army had left Sidon and taken up its march southward. Thousands of women and children, accompanied by the aged and infirm, crowded aboard the merchant vessels that had been pressed into service. Husbands said farewell to their wives, and fathers took their children in their arms for perhaps the last time. One by one the ships were towed out of the harbor and spread their sails for their long flight to the West. The streets were filled with weeping.

Not all the women and children were sent away, even of the better class; for, in spite of the precautions taken by the council, no Tyrian believed that the city was really in danger. Its possession of the sea would prevent famine, and even if Alexander should succeed in reaching its walls, he would never be able to break through them.

While the slanting sails of the departing fleet still glimmered on the horizon, the watchers on the walls of Tyre saw the sun glinting from the armor of the Macedonian array. Presently bands of horsemen dashed up to the walls of the Old City, circled around them, and rode boldly through the open gates. They seemed astonished to find the place deserted. The Phœnicians hurled shouts of derision at them from the walls across the water, scornfully inviting them to try the strait.

Thais' lip curled as she watched this demonstration. She stood motionless among the whispering leaves which hedged the roof of Phradates' house, gazing intently at the advancing army.

The troop made a brave showing as it advanced toward the Old City with flying pennants, the manes of the horses tossing free.

The lines emerged, rank after rank, from the dust-clouds. Behind them came more cavalry and then the light-armed troops, followed by wagons and a long train of pack animals. The streets of the Old City became animated again, though not with Phœnicians. The soldiers swarmed through the houses, choosing their quarters and freeing themselves from their burdens. Smoke began to curl up from the chimneys.

A group of men came down to the water front and made a long survey of the walls of the New City. Thais fixed her eyes upon them, leaning over the parapet. Suddenly she caught Artemisia's arm.

"Chares!" Thais replied. "Do you see that crimson cloak and his yellow hair? O my hero!"

"If that is Chares, then Clearchus must be there too," she faltered. "Oh, Thais, are you sure?"

She strove to look, but the tears that dimmed her eyes prevented her from seeing anything clearly.

"I am certain," Thais replied. "Who else could it be? There is no other in the army so strong and handsome as he. Look! he is signalling to us."

The figure in crimson stood forward from the rest, his cloak, inflated by the wind, swelling back from his shoulders. He waved his hand toward the city. Thais tore off her saffron shawl and waved it in return, forgetting that, while he stood alone, to him she was one of thousands who were moving on the walls and the house-tops.

"I suppose you would bring them over if you could!" sneered a voice behind her. It was Phradates, who had approached unnoticed.

Thais saw that he was angry and she leaned toward him until he felt her warm breath upon his cheek.

"I would not be too sure of that," she replied, with a blush, giving him a sidelong glance under her lashes.

Phradates could not understand why he had not long ago given free rein to his passion. More than once he had called himself a fool for his forbearance and resolved in his own mind to end it; but when the time came for putting his plans into execution, he found them halted by an indefinable barrier that he could not break. It surprised him that this could have happened. All his life it had never occurred to him to restrain himself. He was master of one of the greatest fortunes in Tyre, and with him to wish was to have. Moreover, he had learned Thais' history, so far as it was generally known, and it seemed to him ridiculous that an Athenian dancing girl should succeed so long in holding him at arm's length. But now he must keep his oath.

Next day, and for many days thereafter, Tyre sat and watched the slow development of the scheme that had been laid for her destruction. She saw the Macedonian army tear down the walls of the Old City and convey them, block by block, to the water front, where they were cast into the sea. Soon the beginning of a broad causeway began to jut out from the shore, pointing like a huge finger at the angle of the city wall, midway between the two harbors, which was nearest to the mainland. Detachments of soldiers brought in squads of men from the surrounding country, who were set at work with the army upon the mole. Piles of cedar were driven into the sand. Earth was brought in baskets and poured over the stones. When the waves washed it away, trees were dragged from the mountain side and thrown in with their leaves and branches to hold it in place. Acres of rushes were cut and laid upon the soil to bind it. Foot by foot the causeway lengthened. On the shore could be seen men building towers and battering rams, catapults, and ballistæ.

Alexander's figure became so familiar to the Tyrians that even the children could point him out. He was seen everywhere, overlooking and superintending the work in all its details. One day he was missed, and the next, smoke was observed drifting up from the rocky fastnesses of Lebanon, which the Tyrians knew had been held for centuries by untamed robber bands, who had exacted toll from their caravans and even from the convoys of the Great King. Their spies on shore brought them word that the robbers had attacked Alexander's scouting parties and he had gone to punish them. Tyre laughed at the idea that he could take the impregnable strongholds among the crags, but the columns of smoke continued to rise farther and farther back among the mountains; and when Alexander reappeared on the mole, at the end of a week, the news came that the robbers had been harried and hunted out of their caves until not a vestige of them remained. Tyre wondered, and a vague uneasiness crept into the city.

The mole had advanced almost within bow-shot of the wall when the city woke from its lethargy of contempt and began to bestir itself. Towers were erected on the wall opposite the causeway, and the wall itself was raised. The engineers and their workmen, whose skill was famed throughout the world, fashioned new machines for repelling the expected attack.

When the Macedonians had covered more than half the distance between the shore and the wall, the Phœnicians began to resist their advance. The catapults were brought into play. These were great bows of tough wood, set in a solid framework. The strings of twisted gut were drawn back by a windlass, and huge arrows, made of iron and weighing two or three hundred pounds, were fitted to the groove prepared for them. The string was released by drawing a trigger as in a cross-bow, and the missile sped to the mark.

The catapults were reënforced by the ballistæ. In a frame of heavy beams an arm was set, with a great spoon at one end, while the other was held firmly in twisted cords. By means of a rope wound about a roller the arm was drawn back, and a stone or a ball of metal was placed in the spoon. Suddenly freed, the arm flew up until it was halted by a cross-beam of the framework, when the missile left it and hurtled through the air toward the mole.

While darts and stones were showered upon the causeway from the walls, vessels attacked it from both harbors, filled with archers and slingers, who drove the workmen back. Tyre was jubilant. Alexander, she thought, must now surely abandon his foolish enterprise.

Work on the causeway was indeed halted for a time, but only long enough to permit the Macedonians to contrive means of defence. Two great towers were built and pushed out to the end of the mole. These were tall enough to dominate the wall. They were provided with catapults and ballistæ, with which to answer and silence those of the Tyrians, and were manned by soldiers, who from their height were able to reach the decks of the triremes that were sent to annoy them. For further protection, palisades of timber and movable breastworks were constructed on the mole, and pushed forward as it advanced.

Work was resumed, and the long causeway crept nearer and nearer to the city. By order of the council, under cover of night, sponge and pearl divers were sent to the mole in small vessels. With cords in their hands they plunged into the water and fastened them to the foundation stones of the mole, which the crews on board the boats pulled away.

Still the Tyrians remained confident. The council hit upon a plan to destroy the towers, and when all was ready the people flocked to the walls to witness its execution. Artemisia and Thais watched from the roof, where, day after day, for weeks, they had counted the inches of progress made on the mole and calculated how long it would be before the structure could reach the wall.

An old transport, that had been used for carrying horses, emerged clumsily from the Sidonian Harbor, towed between two triremes. The wide deck was heaped with dry wood, which had been saturated with bitumen and intermixed with straw. From the yards of the masts caldrons filled with sulphur, naphtha, and oil were suspended by chains. Upon the deck stood rows of naked men, each holding in his hand a blazing torch.

Slowly and laboriously the ship was guided through the choppy sea to a point directly to windward of the end of the mole. A strong northwest breeze sang through her rigging, and her stern had been filled with ballast until her bow stood almost out of the water. Sailors went aloft and set two small sails to give her headway. The triremes cast off, and she swam straight for the northern tower.

The two women had watched the preparations with the most intense excitement. As the fire-ship neared the mole, gathering speed as she went, they saw a volley of huge stones shoot from the towers in her direction.

Some of the stones struck the ship, scattering her load of combustibles; but they failed to check her approach. The best marksmen in the army strove to pick off her crew. The divers raised shields, from which the arrows harmlessly rebounded.

When the ship had come within a few fathoms of the mole, the men on board of her scattered blazing oil into the caldrons swinging from her yards and thrust their torches into the heaps of material that lay upon her deck. Then they plunged into the sea and swam back to the city. The steersman followed, and the next instant the transport, sending before her a roaring banner of flame, ran high upon the mole at the foot of the northern tower.

A mighty shout arose from the walls of Tyre as the spectators saw the flames wrap themselves around the tower, shrivelling up the green skins of cattle that had been hung to protect it. The soldiers swarmed down through the smoke and fire like rats, leaping from the lower stories in their haste. In a moment the lofty structure was sending out red tongues from every loophole and window. A great cloud of black smoke rolled from the end of the mole toward the shore.

Thais and Artemisia saw the Greeks driven back from the towers and from the defences which had protected the work. Presently the fire attacked these and ran across to the second tower. The transport still lay with her nose in the rocks, belching flames that were streaked with green and blue and white as they fed upon the various substances which had been stored in her hull.

Dashing down from the windward side, the Tyrian vessels tore away such of the work as had escaped the conflagration, while the bowmen on their decks sent flights of arrows upon the huddled workmen who had been forced back by the heat and smoke. The towers fell one after the other with a crash into the sea, which hissed into steam as the glowing timbers sank. In an hour nothing was left at the end of the causeway but the blackened ruin and part of the transport, through whose ribs the waves washed.

"Not yet," she exclaimed, smiling. "The siege has only begun. I told you you did not know Alexander."

Nevertheless, secretly her heart was full of misgivings, and the slave women who waited upon her that night found her hard to please.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE JEST OF KING AZEMILCUS

Tyre was delirious with joy over the success of the attack on the towers, for the city was convinced that now, at last, the Macedonians would depart. Feasts were given in the great houses, processions wound through the streets, and sacrifices of thanksgiving were offered in all the temples. In order to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy, twenty Macedonian prisoners were put to death upon the walls with lingering tortures, and their mangled bodies were cast into the sea. Hourly the Tyrians expected to see the besieging army evacuate Old Tyre and march away.

Their rage knew no bounds when a boat bearing two heralds put out from the shore and entered the Sidonian Harbor. The young men whom it contained, Galas and Cleanor, pages of Alexander and members of distinguished Macedonian families, were greeted with jeers by the people. They were escorted by a strong guard to the royal palace, where King Azemilcus and the council awaited them.

They bore themselves calmly and proudly under the insults of the mob and the hostile scrutiny of the council. They met without fear the gaze of the Tyrian king, who sat upon his throne in the chamber of state. The light fell upon the old man's cunning and wrinkled face and touched the heads of the councillors, some silvery white and others showing hardly a trace of gray. Their eyes, in which cruelty lurked like a coiled snake, were fixed upon the heralds. The king opened his thin lips.

"Alexander, lord of Asia, sends his greeting to King Azemilcus and the people of Tyre," Galas began in a clear voice. "He calls upon you to surrender your city into his hands."

A murmur rose like a growl from the council. King Azemilcus stroked his chin gently with his jewelled fingers, as if to hide the smile that played about his mouth.

"If ye do not this," Galas continued, raising his head, "Alexander, lord of Asia, bids me say that for thy walls, they shall become as the walls of Thebes, thy city shall be given to plunder, and the sea-gull shall build his nest in thy harbors. If ye would find mercy for your wives and your children, for yourselves and your possessions, ye must seek it now."

He ceased and stood awaiting their answer. There was dead silence in the chamber. Azemilcus continued to stroke his chin, glancing at the youths and then at his advisers with an amused expression in his eyes.

"You may retire," he said at last, "while we consider what reply we shall send."

The youths were conducted to an anteroom, while the lean king laid before the council the jest that he had been revolving in his mind. It was received with approbation, and the reply to Alexander was written upon parchment in two copies, one for each of the heralds. When all was in readiness the council rose.

"Come with us," Azemilcus said to the heralds. "We desire to show you our city before we send you back to Alexander."

Talking pleasantly, he led the way through the citadel to the top of the wall, pointing out the temples and the various objects of interest as they went. The boys looked down with wonder from the dizzy height upon the sea, crawling and lapping far below them. They examined the engines of war and the piles of ammunition that had been assembled upon the landward side of the defences. Upon the mainland they could see their comrades and the gangs of laborers at work upon the mole.

They scarcely noticed that soldiers and citizens were gathering about them, occupying every point of vantage and pressing forward with nods and winks as if to a spectacle where a humorous surprise was in store.

"And now," Azemilcus said, smiling pleasantly upon the two heralds, "you shall hear our answer to the king."

He beckoned to a scribe, who stepped forward and read from a parchment so that all might hear.

"King Azemilcus and the people of Tyre greet Alexander the Pretender," read the scribe. "If he be lord of Asia, Tyre is his. Let him come and take it."

The two boys looked blankly at the king, and a great shout of laughter went up from the multitude upon the wall. At another sign from Azemilcus, two soldiers roughly seized each of the heralds.

"Be not angry," Azemilcus replied, still with his soft smile. "We have wasted so much time in sight-seeing that no doubt Alexander is growing impatient. We will send you back to him more quickly than you came, so that his anger may be turned from us."

Amid shouts of delight from the crowd, the heralds were bound hand and foot with cords. Their knees were drawn up to their chests and lashed there so as to make their bodies as compact as possible. Finally a copy of the reply to Alexander was attached to their right hands.

"King of Tyre!" Galas said, when the soldiers had done their work, "you have broken the faith of nations. For our death, if for nothing else, shall your city fall and become an evil memory among men. Even your Gods shall withdraw from you. Farewell!"

Neither of the lads had uttered a cry as the rawhide thongs, drawn too tightly, cut into their flesh. Galas turned his head as well as he could and spoke to his younger companion.

"Cleanor, we have been friends," he said. "Now we are about to die. Be brave for the honor of Macedon! I go with you."

"Do not fear, Galas; I promise," the other replied, and no more words passed between them.

The soldiers were busily preparing two of the immense ballistæ. Inserting levers in holes in the ends of the rollers, they turned the wooden cylinders backward, slowly winding up the rope that was attached to the casting arm and drawing it back into a horizontal position. The tough rope strained and the framework of beams creaked as the great arms were forced into place.

When the wide spoons of wrought iron were ready, the boys were lifted and placed in them. The spectators, irritated because the victims did not beg for mercy, howled threats and insults at them. This abuse brought no response, and fearful lest the courage of the lads might create a bad impression, Azemilcus ended the sport by ordering the ballistæ to be discharged.

Throwing their weight suddenly upon the cords that drew the triggers, the soldiers released the arms of the machines, which sprang upward and crashed against the cross-beams. The bodies of the heralds, hurled with frightful velocity into the air, shot outward and upward. Galas fell upon the end of the mole. Cleanor was dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks beside him.

A savage outcry rang from the wall across to the Macedonian camp. Soldiers ran forward and took up the two bodies, bearing them tenderly to the shore.

"Alexander has his answer!" Azemilcus said, with a chuckle. "Let us go to dinner."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

MENA REVEALS A SECRET

On the night after the slaughter of the heralds, the galleys sent to Carthage returned with a courteous message that it would be impossible for the colony to send assistance. Ambassadors who had been despatched to other Phœnician towns, demanding aid, were equally unsuccessful. Tyre must stand or fall alone. Her brood turned its back upon her.

This indifference created a disagreeable feeling in the city. The joy over the destruction of the Macedonian works was transformed into uneasiness. Instead of abandoning the siege, the army of Alexander had begun a new mole, twice as wide as the first, and so directed that the wash of the waves, which before had been a serious obstacle, was rendered harmless. It was apparent that the young king intended to keep his word.

Several of the inhabitants of the city reported that in dreams they had seen the great bronze image of Melkarth rise from its seat in his temple and stretch its hands over the walls toward the Macedonian camp, calling upon Alexander to enter. There was a consultation of the priests. The enormous statue was bound with chains to the pillars of the temple and huge spikes were driven through its feet into the floor. Nevertheless, the Tyrians were apprehensive and spoke of Melkarth as "the Alexandrine." The ominous words of the herald, Galas, when he declared that the Gods of Tyre would desert her, were remembered and repeated. The people began to think that perhaps they had gone too far.

Time failed to remove this impression. The new mole continued to advance, and one hazy afternoon the watchmen on the walls caught sight of a fleet of warships approaching from the north. The flag of Sidon fluttered from their masts and the beleaguered city concluded that at last reinforcements had been sent. But instead of entering the Sidonian Harbor, the vessels sheered off and came to anchor in front of the Macedonian camp.

The gloom of the city deepened when Enylus, king of Byblos, and Gerostratus, king of Adradus, added their fleets to that of Sidon. All three were Phœnician cities. Rhodes sent ten ships and Cyprus later added one hundred and twenty, under command of Prytagoras.

For every Tyrian ship, Alexander now had three; and among them were vessels of the largest size, some with four banks of oars and some even with five. They were manned by sailors of Phœnician stock, whose skill upon the water equalled that of the Tyrians themselves. As soon as the fleet had gathered, it sailed in battle order toward the mouth of the Sidonian Harbor, from which the Tyrian navy came out to meet it. But when Azemilcus saw the overwhelming force opposed to him, his heart failed, and he gave the order to retreat into the harbor, the entrance of which he caused to be blocked with huge chains behind which were moored as many Tyrian vessels as would lie in the passage side by side.

Tyre was no longer mistress of the sea. She stood forsaken amid the waters, gray and deserted, like a lioness in her last refuge, encompassed by the hunters. The mole crept ever nearer to the wall, and Macedonian captains, cruising around the city, gazed hungrily at the battlements.

The inhabitants understood that nothing but a miracle could save the city. They turned to their Gods. In ancient times they had never failed in the observance of their worship, but as they waxed strong and gained knowledge of the world, scepticism had found a lodgement in their hearts. The ceremonials had been neglected by many who either did not believe or had grown careless. The offerings diminished. More than once the sacrifice of the first-born to Baal-Moloch had been omitted. The worship of Astoreth, it is true, had been maintained; but it was clear that the Goddess was not powerful enough to rescue them. Baal was angry and must be propitiated.

Phradates became more and more downcast and sullen as misfortune gathered about the city. The cruelty that was a part of his Phœnician heritage rose to the surface. His slaves were lashed for the slightest fault, or even for no fault at all. Some of them he ordered put to death. Terror filled the great house, with its spacious rooms hung with embroideries, beautiful with paintings and statues, its rare glass, and its treasures of gold and of amber.

One evening, when a languid southern breeze stirred the silken curtains, the young Phœnician entered the apartments occupied by Artemisia and Thais. Artemisia sat by the window, gazing at the brilliant stars that seemed so near and yet so immeasurably far away. The two young women had been talking of Chares and Clearchus; but a silence had fallen between them. Thais lay on a couch of cedar, burying her fingers in the thick fur of a Persian cat, which purred with half-shut eyes under her caress.

Phradates threw himself into a chair in an attitude of weariness and dejection. Thais shot a glance at him and went on stroking the cat.

"I cannot tell you," she replied slowly, as though searching for a reason. "I have always believed in them and I have passed through many dangers unharmed. I think Artemis has protected me, for I love her. I have no fear, since I am in her hands."

"We do not worship her," Phradates said. "With us, the moon belongs to Astoreth, who is the same as your Aphrodite, and she has lost her power."

"Except?" Thais suggested, looking into his eyes and leaning forward on her arm so that the necklace of pearls slid across her bosom, half revealed under the folds of her robe.

Phradates stared at her for a moment as though he half believed it, and then, rising abruptly, left the room. His brain seemed obscured. He could think of nothing but his love for her. The emotion that possessed him mastered every faculty, and even the approaching ruin of the city seemed trivial in comparison with it. Yet there was his oath!

"They have decided to offer sacrifice to Baal-Moloch," Mena continued, following him into the apartment.

"They should have thought of that before," said Phradates. "Where will they find children now fit for an offering? They have all been sent to Carthage. No wonder Moloch is angry."

"This has been considered by the council," Mena continued. "Esmun, the chief priest, has told them that there are still enough of the first-born left among the Jews, who, as you know, refused to send their families away."

"But the Jews will not give them as a willing sacrifice, and without that it will be of no avail," Phradates replied impatiently. "Why do you tell me all this?"

"The council intends to find means of forcing them to make the sacrifice willingly," Mena persisted; "but Esmun declares that this will not be enough to calm the God. Baal demands a virgin of noble birth to be given to him before he will aid the city."

"She must be pure and beautiful," Mena continued. "It is announced that he who will bring such an offering will do the city a great service."

"What do you mean? Speak out, dog!" Phradates exclaimed, catching an undertone of significance in the Egyptian's voice.

"Thais!" the young man cried. "Never. The city may perish first! Have you dared to suggest this?"

He drew his dagger and made a step toward Mena, who cowered before him with hand uplifted.

"No, no; not Thais," he hastened to say. "Think, master, how could she meet the conditions? Not Thais!"

"Wait until you have heard me?" the slave continued, in a whining voice. "It was not Thais, but the Athenian maiden, who was in my thoughts."

"Consider for a moment," Mena urged insinuatingly, watching the young man's face with cunning eyes. "Hast thou not been generous toward these captives?"

"And they have betrayed thee by entrapping thee into an oath," Mena said. "I would not have thee break it; but what will not the Lady Astoreth grant to him who saves her shrine from pollution and destruction? She will release thee from thy vow."

He paused to note the effect of his words. Phradates remained silent and thoughtful.

"It is not for me, a slave, to tell thee what thou shouldst do," Mena went on, "but it has seemed to me that there has lately been a spell upon thy mind. Thou art not now what thou wast a month ago. What the cause is and what must be the cure, thou knowest; but thou art bound by thy oath."

"Master, thou canst not win thy wager," he said. "Tyre is lost. It may be next week, and it may not be until next year; but the Macedonian is too deeply engaged here to withdraw. There is no hope excepting through the Gods alone, who might send a pestilence upon our enemies if they so willed it. Thou knowest that the battering rams are pounding upon the wall, and that they have already weakened it. On the southern side it cannot stand much longer unless something happens to put an end to the attack. Obtain release from thy vow before it is too late. Our time may be short."

"I think Thais really loves thee," the Egyptian continued artfully. "It is the presence of the other that restrains her, because she is ashamed to show her love before her. If Artemisia were away, she would grieve, it is true, but she would recover. It is not needful that thou shouldst give her up. The priests take whom they will for sacrifice. Thou mightest even defend her, which would commend thee to Thais and earn her gratitude."

Mena fled noiselessly down the stairs and out of the house. Once in the street, he clapped his hands together and laughed.

He made his way through the narrow streets and across the canal to the southern part of the city, beyond the Temple of Baal. The slow and regular beat of the great rams, at work upon the massive wall, throbbed in the air. Mena plunged into a network of lanes, in which the houses had a meaner look than in the quarter he had left behind. He proceeded cautiously, halting from time to time as though he feared that he might be followed. Finally, under the shadow of the wall, he reached a low house within which lights were burning. He pushed open the door and entered. The room in which he found himself was filled with men, young and old, who sat at tables upon which stood flagons of red wine. Some of the company were engaged in earnest discussion across the tables. In one corner a sea captain was relating the strange adventures of a distant voyage. Elsewhere men exchanged jests and laughter over their wine. While the occupants of the room bore a general resemblance in feature to the Phœnicians, a glance was sufficient to show that they were not of Phœnician blood, and the language they spoke was Hebrew.

There was a momentary hush when Mena appeared, but apparently he was known, for the interrupted talk immediately flowed on again. A man of middle age, whose black, crisp beard was streaked with gray, came forward to welcome the Egyptian.

"Which wine will you have to-night?" he asked, conducting him to a table where already a younger man was sitting.

"The wine of Cyprus," Mena cried. "You are as gay here to-night, Simon, as though there were no such place in the world as Macedon."

Simon shrugged his shoulders. "Would our tears mend the walls?" he asked. "What is to be, will be."

"Where have you been, Joel?" he asked. "I have not seen you for a week. One would say that you had been on shore, if it were possible to get there."

He directed his shrewd glance at the young man. Joel laughed, and his dark eyes rested upon those of the Egyptian. He had an easy distinction of manner, acquired at the court of Darius. After the escape of Nathan, Chares, and Clearchus, his company had marched with the Great King; but it had been detailed to help guard the women and the treasure left behind at Damascus while the army went on to destruction at Issus. After the defeat, he visited Jerusalem and then came to Tyre, where he had relatives.

"Perhaps I know already," the cunning Egyptian replied. "Why is it that the Jews are so indifferent to the siege? Why do they expect to escape the sword or the slave-market when the walls fall? Tell me that."

Simon returned with the wine, which he set before Mena. While the Jews knew him to be a slave, they did not disdain to associate with him, because his influence over Phradates was so great that he was a bondman only in name. Besides, he had more than once given them information of value, and they were not accustomed to neglect any means of defence.

"Perhaps it is because we are under the protection of Jehovah," he replied at last. "If He does not save us, nothing can."

"I thought you Jews knew everything," the Egyptian said. "Have you not heard what Esmun told the council? He has warned them that nothing but a sacrifice can save the city, and the council has authorized it. Where can they find children excepting here?"

Joel rose from the table and whispered to Simon, who ran to the chief priest. Messengers were sent to verify the news. They brought confirmation and the additional intelligence that the sacrifice would take place on the second day. Meantime Joel had returned to his place, where Mena, as usual, had begun to grow garrulous with his wine.

"You know those two Greek girls my fool of a master holds in his house?" he asked.

"What are they called—Thais and Artemisia? You told me of them," Joel responded. "What of them?"

"So I am going to have Artemisia included in the sacrifice to Moloch," the slave said coolly.

"Thais loves her," Mena explained. "No doubt she will be glad to see her in Moloch's arms!"

"Why, I told you of the oath that Thais got from Phradates," Mena said. "Well, I have convinced him that the only way in which he can win Thais and at the same time obtain release from his oath is by having Artemisia burned."

The Egyptian laughed at his own cleverness. Joel sat making rings on the table with the foot of his wine-glass.

"And what do you think?" Mena continued, recovering himself. "The fool threatened to stab me for it. But he'll do it, never fear. There is a long score between him and me. Unless I am mistaken, the time is at hand when we shall have the reckoning. There is one house in Tyre where the Macedonians, when they come, will get little plunder. Come then to Memphis, and you will find Mena, with slaves of his own—and I would not be surprised if Thais was among them. Flayed alive, indeed!"

"Let us have wine!" Joel cried, making an almost imperceptible sign to Simon that meant the substitution of a stronger vintage. The wine was brought, glowing like liquid amber in the flagon. In half an hour Mena was incoherently trying to explain that he knew the Jews were in correspondence with Alexander's camp, although he could not tell how, and begging Joel not to forget him when the city fell. A little longer, and two servants carried him to the house of Phradates.

CHAPTER XXXIX

JOEL BRINGS BAD NEWS

"I must go ashore to-night," he said. "The women are in danger, and if anything is to be done to save them, it must be done now."

Simon made no further remonstrance. He took up a lamp and led the way down a flight of stone stairs to the cellar, where great amphoræ of wine, covered with dust and cobwebs, stood in the darkness. Picking his way between them, he advanced to the end of the cellar, where he gave the lamp to Joel while he rolled aside one of the jars. Then, with some difficulty, he raised the slab upon which it had stood, revealing a narrow opening in the floor and another flight of steps. Down these they passed to a small chamber hewn in the rock. Around its sides ran a stone platform not more than three feet in width, and the remainder of the floor space was occupied by a pool of water.

When the wall of the city was built, its base had been laid in such a manner as to bridge a natural fissure in the rock below the water line. Why this opening had been left, Simon did not know. Possibly it had been the intention of the architects to make it the outlet of a sewer. If so, the plan had been abandoned, but the opening had been allowed to remain.

Standing on the ledge of stone, Joel stripped off his clothing and removed his sandals. Simon took from a niche a small jar of oil and rubbed him with the contents from head to foot, at the same time instructing him how to proceed.

"To-night, if I can," Joel replied. "If not, then to-morrow night in the third watch. Farewell!"

"Farewell!" Simon replied, stepping back and raising his lamp so that its light fell upon the pool.

Joel drew in a long breath, clasped his hands, and plunged head-foremost into the water. Simon placed the young man's clothing in the niche, put away the oil jar, and ascended to the first cellar. He did not close the opening in the floor, but arranged the amphoræ so as to conceal it, and returned to the room above.

The impetus of Joel's plunge carried him the length of the pool and into the fissure under the wall. He struck out vigorously, mindful of Simon's instructions, and knowing that if his breath should fail while he was below the masonry, nothing could save him. With the tips of his fingers he could feel the sides of the passage, and presently he became aware of a motion in the water caused by the underwash of the waves outside. His head seemed bursting, and there was a ringing in his ears. He felt that he must suffocate unless he could get air. He began to swim upward through the water, dreading each moment to feel his head strike the stones. What if the passage had been closed? None had passed through it for years, and the defenders of the city were constantly throwing down blocks of stone outside the walls. Something grazed his back. He threw his arms upward, but his hands found no obstruction. He had cleared the entrance.

He lay on the surface of the water filling his lungs again and again, and gazing up at the stars above the gray height of the wall against whose grim base the swell lazily washed. Half an hour later one of the watch on a quinquereme that lay off the mouth of the Egyptian Harbor to prevent the escape of any of the Tyrian vessels heard a voice under the stern and saw the white gleam of Joel's shoulders in the water.

There was no sound in the Macedonian camp save the monotonous cries of the sentinels when the young Israelite stepped from a small boat and climbed the southern slope of the mole. He looked back and saw Tyre, standing in the sea like an island raised upon cliffs of stone and crowned with a circle of light.

He made his way into the Old City, now hardly more than a bare ruin since houses and temples had been tumbled into the strait to lengthen the causeway. He had been provided with the pass-word, and with the assistance of the sentries he had little difficulty in finding the tent that he sought. He lifted the flap and entered. Inside he could hear the breathing of sleeping men, dominated by a tremendous snore that sounded as though it must come from the throat of a giant.

"Peace be unto thee!" Joel cried, stumbling over the legs of one of the sleepers.

He slipped out of the tent and returned in a moment, blowing upon a brand from a smouldering camp-fire. With this he lighted an oil lamp that swung from the central pole of the tent. Then he threw his arms around the young man and embraced him heartily.

Joel saw Clearchus and the lazy bulk of Chares, who looked at him sleepily with his head propped on his elbow. There was another man in the tent whom he did not know—a man with firm shoulders and a square jaw, who stood glowering at him with a sword in his hand.

"Put it away, Leonidas," Clearchus said, laughing. "This is no Tyrian, but our little jailer in Babylon. How came you here?"

"I shall return with you at once," Clearchus announced, and began to belt on his sword.

"You are mad, Clearchus," Leonidas said, raising the flap of the tent. "Dawn is breaking. It would be broad daylight before you could reach the walls."

"I am going, nevertheless," Clearchus answered calmly, continuing his preparations.

"Do you think we are going to let you go alone?" Chares roared. "No, by Zeus; I am going, too! I have something I wish to say to Thais."

He proceeded to arm himself, adjusting with care a breastplate inlaid with gold.

"Wait!" cried Nathan. "I have a better plan. When does this sacrifice take place?"

"Then we have another night before us," Nathan said. "Do you think my people in Tyre will surrender their first-born to Moloch? Not while Jehovah reigns will they do that, nor will Jehovah permit the sacrifice. It would be folly to think of entering the city now. We should be discovered, and all would be ruined. We can enter at nightfall, if need be, and my people will join us to save their own. Let us consult Alexander. It may be that he will order the attack and that Jehovah will give Tyre into his hands to-day. At any rate, if it is a question of dying, we can die to-morrow as well as now."

CHAPTER XL

THE GAP OF DEATH

Alexander listened to Joel's story and questioned him closely regarding the disposition of affairs in the city. He learned that supplies were running low and that already the garrison was on half rations. Joel assured him that the feeling of discouragement and despair was universal in the city.

"We will attack to-day," Alexander said to Clearchus, who stood waiting in a fever of anxiety. "If we can break the walls, Baal-Moloch will be cheated of his sacrifice, but Melkarth will have his fill."

The fleet put forth from both sides of the mole, the oars of the rowers flashing in the sun. The great towers on the end of the mole, which now extended to the wall of the city, were filled with men who showered arrows and javelins upon the garrison so as to protect the huge battering rams at work below. These engines consisted of heavy beams, one hundred feet long, ending in great rams' heads of bronze. They were suspended by chains from a framework that permitted them to swing freely. As many men as could grasp the short cords attached to the sides of a beam labored to keep it oscillating with a regular motion. With each downward swing, the bronze head, with its twisted horns, dashed against the wall. The impact ground the stones to powder, but the wall was so thick and so strongly built that its joints remained firm.

Alexander was reluctant to admit that the mole which he had constructed with so much expenditure of time and labor was useless, and he therefore kept the towers in action and the rams at work; but his real hope of taking the city now lay elsewhere. The wall on the seaward side, where no attack had been deemed possible, was less solid than toward the land. Tests made by floating rams had shown that a breach was practicable on the southwest and it was to this spot that the attack was directed.

The Cyprian ships hovered about the northern side of the city. Some threatened the mouth of the Sidonian Harbor, while others sent flights of arrows over the walls. The fortress was encircled by a menacing ring of vessels, which kept the attention of the garrison occupied, while Alexander prepared for the assault, which was to be made at a point where the masonry already showed cracks, and some of the stones had been pushed out of place.

Towed by quinqueremes, the floating forts that the Macedonians had built were brought slowly around to the southern wall. Some carried ballistæ and catapults and stores of darts and stones. Others had rams, scaling ladders, iron hooks, and siege implements of all kinds. All were provided with shields to protect the men from missiles from the walls.

One by one they swung into position and came to anchor. The catapults and ballistæ were placed two hundred yards from the wall, so as to afford space for the flight of their projectiles. The ships of war moved backward and forward, while the archers and slingers swept the towers and ramparts with a hissing hail of lead and steel.

Under cover of this protection, the rams and siege vessels pushed forward. Their crews made them fast to projections in the wall, and soon the regular throbbing crash of the rams was heard, pounding on the masonry. The vessels with the ladders and scaling implements lay waiting, with the bravest men in the army ready to spring to the assault as soon as a breach should be opened.

The July sun lay warm on the heaving sea, and the heat rose in shimmering waves from the wall. Around and within the city the shouting of men, the thudding of the rams, the creaking of the machines, and the crash of stones cast by the ballistæ filled the air.

The garrison brought its engines along the broad parapet within range of the ships, and hurled great blocks of stone at the besieging fleet. Several of the smaller vessels were sunk. Sometimes the stones met in the air and burst into fragments. The attack upon the wall was not relaxed. Finally a block was sufficiently exposed to permit the grappling-irons to be fastened to its inner angles. Strong ropes were attached to it and carried out to a quinquereme. The rowers bent to their work, and the ropes lifted, dripping, from the water. The block held fast for a moment, and then came out of its bed like a cork out of a bottle, rolling with a splash into the sea.

Amid the triumphant shouts of the Macedonians, a flatboat was pushed forward and a hundred men attacked the weakened wall with levers and bars of irons. Some of them were crushed by the rocks toppled down upon them from above, others were pierced by arrows; but when they withdrew, a wide cavity yawned where they had been, exposing the inner courses of masonry.

After them came the largest and heaviest of the rams. Under its tremendous blows the cavity deepened and widened until the wall above it began to tremble. It swayed, crumbled, and at last with a mighty roar it fell, burying the ram and half the men who had been working it under tons of broken stone. The Macedonians, gazing through the gap that was opened, saw the Temple of Baal-Moloch, with its dome and towers, rising gloomily among the cypress trees that surrounded it.

With one impulse, the vessels carrying the shield-bearing guards and the veterans of the Agema rushed in toward the breach. The soldiers leaped ashore. Order was impossible upon such an insecure footing as the tumbled blocks afforded. Every man clung where he could, advancing step by step, and protecting himself by holding his shield above his head.

The Tyrians from the ends of the broken wall and from the top of the slope where the gap had been made sent down flights of darts and arrows. In order to repel the storming party, they even loosened portions of the wall that still held firm and hurled them down upon the enemy.

Still the Macedonians pressed upward in the hope of winning the breach, and holding it until reinforcements could arrive. Ptolemy, son of Lagus, and Black Clitus fought in the foremost ranks. Beside them Leonidas plied his sword, and with him were Clearchus and Chares.

"Ho, comrades! Beware the stone!" the Theban shouted, as a loosened block rushed toward them down the slope.

Leonidas started aside, but his foot slipped and he fell to his knees. Chares caught his arm and dragged him away. The fragment grazed him as it hurtled past.

A breathless cheer from the struggling ranks behind him told him that the soldiers were doing their best. The stones of the fallen wall, slippery with blood, rocked beneath their feet. Some of the men were caught in crevices between the blocks and their lives were crushed out, or they were held there until a javelin put an end to their misery. But those who escaped this peril pressed upward like wolves when the quarry is in sight. The exasperation of all the long months of the siege, the accumulation of countless insults, and the joy of the battle filled their hearts.

Leaping upon a swaying stone that raised him above the heads of his companions, Chares held his shield aloft to deflect the darts and arrows that fell upon it as thickly as the drops of a shower.

Clearchus bounded up beside him, his face pale with eagerness, and stared into the city.

Chares laughed. "Did you expect she would be waiting for you at the top?" he asked. "You will have to wait until we get inside."

The Athenian gazed at the lofty buildings, whose walls were pierced by hundreds of windows. If he only knew where to look! From the housetops fluttered countless scarfs of yellow, blue, and red. Any one of them might be hers. He was bewildered.

The wall had fallen outward, leaving about twenty feet of its base standing on the side toward the city. Companies of Tyrian soldiers ran toward the breach. They placed ladders against the foot of the broken wall and scrambled up into the gap like a swarm of ants to meet the Macedonians. Ptolemy saw them coming and uttered a joyful cry.

A conflict without quarter began on the crest of the gap. The Tyrians fought with desperation, knowing that if the enemy once gained a lodgement in the city they were lost. But in vain they hurled themselves upon the head of the column, where Ptolemy and Clitus, Chares and Clearchus, and a hundred more received them with the deadly upward thrust of their swords, against which no armor was proof. There was no longer room for the Tyrians in the breach. Those who had ascended last were forced back, leaping or falling in their armor, the weight of which broke their bones. Mingled with the living, the dead began to drop back through the breach. The shouts of the victors carried panic into the streets.

Tyre lay at the mercy of Macedon. Looking down into the city, Ptolemy saw the Tyrians hastily constructing barricades of furniture, casks, litters, and such material as they were able to drag quickly together.

Clearchus leaned against a stone with great joy in his heart. Tyre had been won and Artemisia was saved. The sight of Moloch's dark temple no longer chilled his blood. Baal must look elsewhere for victims. The weary months of longing were at an end.

So desperate had been the struggle in the breach that the Macedonians had forgotten all else. It was not until the pause before the final charge into the city that they began to notice the rolling clouds of black smoke that were drawing together toward the gap along those portions of the wall that remained standing. It rose in dark masses against the sky, blotting out the sun as it spread seaward from the parapet. Under its gloomy canopy men were swarming in long processions upon the top of the wall toward the gap, bearing caldrons of iron and copper suspended from yokes across their shoulders.

A caldron rolled down into the gap, followed by another and another, scattering their blazing contents as they came. Wherever the bitumen fell it continued to burn, giving out smoke in stifling volumes. In a few minutes the gap was obscured by suffocating clouds in which the Macedonians groped blindly. Every stone was covered with a coating of the blazing substances. Showers of molten lead and burning oil descended from the walls. The bitumen ate into the flesh of the soldiers. The lead and oil burned out their eyes. Many of them fled like living torches down the slope and plunged into the sea. The gap had become untenable.

Ptolemy saw that it would be impossible for reënforcements to reach him. He shook his sword at the city through the drifting smoke. "Another day!" he shouted, and, turning, plunged down the blazing path.

"Cowards!" Clearchus cried, "why do you fly? Do you not see that Tyre is yours?"

He made a step toward the edge of the wall and would have leaped down into the city had not Chares caught him with an iron grasp.

"Here!" the voice of Leonidas replied, and he appeared through the smoke, smothering a patch of blazing pitch that had fallen upon his bare shoulder.

Leonidas calmly twisted the sword out of his hand and threw it aside. They lifted him between them, despite his struggles. Suddenly his muscles relaxed and his head fell backward.

He threw the limp form over his shoulder and strode after Leonidas into the black curtain, which had become so dense that it was impossible for sight to penetrate it in any direction. Sulphur and pepper had been mixed in the caldrons, giving the smoke a pungent, choking quality. Stumbling over jagged blocks of stone, and tripping upon the bodies of the dead, Chares, with Clearchus in his arms, followed Leonidas through that vale of death. Blinded and gasping, they staggered to the edge of the water. They were the last to come alive out of the smoke. They were drawn upon one of the siege boats, and lay there until the unwieldy vessel was towed out into the clear sunshine and safety.

CHAPTER XLI

PRINCE HUR'S COUNTERPLOT

Prince Hur, son of Azemilcus, sat in his house, which opened from the courtyard of the palace. In figure he was undersized, like his father, with a delicate face and thin white hands, on one of which glittered a great ruby. Instead of the mocking smile that the king was accustomed to wear, his expression was grave and serious.

With him were Esmun, chief priest of Baal-Moloch, on whose fat countenance, with its pendulous jowls, sloth struggled with greed, and Ariston, the Athenian. Ariston's thin form was thinner and his face more worn than on the day when he watched his nephew, Clearchus, ride out of Athens, leaving him guardian of his fortune. He had made free use of this wealth, as he had planned, to save the remnants of his own; but mischance had continued to follow him in everything he attempted. So heavy were his losses that he rejoiced when he learned that Clearchus had been sent to Babylon a prisoner. The young man's return to the army filled him with despair. Involved as he was, only one hope remained. He would dispose of his great dye-works in Tyre, and the proceeds of the sale would enable him to make a last attempt to save himself. While he was in Tyre, he also would collect the loan that he had been forced to make to Phradates, and that the Phœnician had never repaid. If this plan failed, he would have to choose between death and the punishment that would be visited upon the betrayal of his trust. Therefore he had come to Tyre, and there, by a final stroke of misfortune, he had been imprisoned by the siege.

"I fear there is not much hope for us," Prince Hur said. "Even though we succeed in beating off these attacks, as we did to-day, sooner or later we shall starve."

"Hast thou, too, lost faith in the power of Baal?" Esmun asked, in a tone of reproof.

"I may have deserved that reproach," the priest replied sadly. "To my shame, I confess it; but if I have allowed the name of Baal to be lightly spoken in my presence, it was not because I did not believe. I thought that he was able to defend himself, as indeed he is. I say to you now that I know his power. It has been shown over and over again. If it should please him to save Tyre in her extremity, he will do it. We shall know after the sacrifice."

Esmun stared at him open-mouthed, and Ariston started sharply. The Athenian was the first to recover himself.

"I sent for you because I am in need of your advice," the prince continued gravely. "You are both men of the world and fitted to aid me with your counsel; but what I am about to tell you must not be repeated, even to yourselves. Do you swear to keep the secret, no matter what my decision may be?"

"Azemilcus has resolved to deliver the city," the prince said, bending forward and speaking in a tone scarcely above a whisper.

For an instant both his hearers were silent. Ariston comprehended in a flash that surrender would mean his ruin, since it would involve the loss of his property. Esmun was too astonished to think.

"His life," Hur replied. "He knows well that the city must be destroyed, and that his people will be sold into slavery."

Esmun groaned. He saw himself torn from his life of ease, Baal-Moloch's temple in ruins, and nothing left for him but years of servitude.

"The king will order the fleets out of both harbors," the prince explained. "They will be destroyed, and care will be taken to leave the harbor entrances unguarded."

"Not yet," said the prince. "I am to go to him to-night with the chancellor to make him the offer."

"I was not asked to consent," the prince replied bitterly. "You know that the king is not in the habit of consulting me."

"Yet he proposes to take your inheritance from you!" Esmun exclaimed. "If Baal intervenes, the city will be saved and you will be its king."

"There is only one course open to you," Esmun declared, roused as he had not been since the long struggle that ended in raising him above his rivals and placing him in a position that gave him almost as much power as the king himself. "Go with the chancellor, since to refuse now would arouse suspicion. Get proof of the king's treachery and lay it at once before the council and the generals. Azemilcus will be dealt with according to their will, and you will be made king in his stead. That you may leave to me if you can obtain the proof; but it must be strong."

"There would be no difficulty concerning the proof," the prince said doubtfully. "We are to bring Macedonians back with us to act as a guard for the king. They will be concealed in the palace so that they will be able to insure his safety when the city falls. Their presence will be proof enough."

"Would it not be better to lay the whole affair before the council now?" Ariston suggested.

"No," said Esmun decisively. "The king would deny everything. He would accuse Hur of seeking his throne, and he would be believed. We must have the proof."

"Tyre is in danger," Esmun said solemnly. "It is your duty to save her if you can, and this duty comes before any tie of blood. It is I, chief servant of Baal, who tell you this."

The sun was setting before the three completed the details of their plan. When Ariston left the prince, he was so wrapped in thought that he did not recognize the brutal face of Syphax, who passed him with three or four others of his own kind.

"Do you see that man?" the broken freebooter exclaimed, directing the attention of his companions to the retreating form. "I have a settlement to make with him. It was he who scattered my crew and brought me to what I am. I have sought him far, and now the Fates have given him to me. He shall pay the reckoning!"

CHAPTER XLII

A TRAITOR IN PURPLE

Although they had been repulsed, the Macedonians returned to their camp, confident that Tyre could not much longer stand against them. Alexander ordered the sacrifice of a black bull to Phœbus. After a careful examination of the entrails, Aristander, the soothsayer, sought the king and spoke to him in private.

"Nevertheless, there can be no doubt," Aristander declared. "To-morrow thou wilt be in possession of the city."

The news soon spread through the camp. Some of the soldiers rejoiced as though the promise had already been fulfilled, while others refused to believe, declaring that the thing was impossible. In order to save the God from discredit, Alexander issued a proclamation extending the month three days beyond its accustomed term. With this the army was satisfied.

Clearchus gave way to an agony of disappointment when he regained consciousness to find himself on the siege boat with the walls of Tyre receding from him. Chares and Leonidas were obliged at first to prevent him by force from throwing himself into the sea. It was only when the Theban reminded him that it was still possible for them to enter the city that he became calmer. He was for seeking the passage through which Joel had emerged as soon as day ended, but the young Israelite convinced him that such an attempt would surely be frustrated. The breach in the wall was only a short distance from the passage and workmen would be engaged there, to say nothing of the guard that would certainly be established. He consented finally to yield to his friends and await the third watch of the night. This delay would permit them to get a few hours of rest.

The sun went down in flaming glory, casting the long shadow of the Tyrian walls across the Macedonian camp. The thin smoke of a thousand fires rose lazily in the quiet The soldiers ceased to recount their escapes in the dreadful breach and stretched themselves on the ground. Only in Alexander's tent a light continued to glow.

In the middle of the second watch, a small boat crept in from the purple shadows of the sea and grated on the sand. Two men stepped out and turned their faces toward the camp. By their features and dress they were Phœnicians. Of the first sentinel they met, they demanded to be led to Alexander, and the reasons they gave caused the captain of the guard to grant their request.

The captain emerged from the king's tent at the end of half an hour and hurried away in the darkness. He brought back with him Clearchus, Chares, Leonidas, Nathan, and Joel. The Theban was rubbing his eyes and yawning over his interrupted slumbers.

"What is all this about?" he grumbled. "Have we not done enough for one day? I wish this cursed city was in the bottom of the sea!"

They found Alexander stretched upon his couch and the two Phœnicians seated before him. From the expression of the king's eyes as they sought his, Clearchus knew that something of moment was in his mind, and his pale face brightened.

One of the strangers was Prince Hur, son of King Azemilcus. The young man seemed ill at ease, and his fingers played constantly with the golden chain that he wore as a member of the council. His companion was older and more composed. His lips were thin and his eyes were keen and penetrating.

"Comrades," Alexander said, using the term that endeared him to every soldier in his army, "I have a dangerous service to ask of you. King Azemilcus has dreamed that his city is about to fall, and we know that his dream is true. He has sent his son and his chancellor to us to ask his life, and it has been granted to him. But many things may happen when the blood is hot with fighting, and it is necessary that Macedonians be with him when we enter. Therefore I wish you to go to him and guard him when the time arrives. You may conduct him to the Temple of Melkarth, which will be set aside as a sanctuary.

"It has been promised that you shall pass unharmed into the city and remain there in the palace until I come. If this promise is not kept, Azemilcus and all his family are to be crucified upon the walls as a warning to those who may wish to break faith with Alexander."

The young king looked keenly at the Phœnicians. The prince lowered his eyes and moved uneasily.

"There is one thing more," Alexander continued. "If any of you have friends in the city whom you desire to protect, it is made a condition of the safety of Azemilcus that he shall aid you by every means in his power."

He glanced meaningly at Clearchus as he uttered these words, and the young man's heart bounded with renewed hope.

They left the tent in silence. The captain of the guard accompanied them to the boat.

"We shall save Artemisia and rescue Thais," Clearchus replied, gripping the arm of his friend.

They entered the boat and rowed silently to the Egyptian Harbor. The towering height of the wall swallowed the little craft in its shadow and no sentinel challenged them. They bent their heads as they glided under the great guard-chains that stretched across the entrance of the harbor, and threading their way among the shipping, they reached the landing and disembarked.

Keeping to the left, the chancellor led them toward the palace. More than once they were forced to step aside to avoid the heaps of ruins that told of the work done by the ballistæ. As they advanced, the great bulk of the palace rose before them above the wall, to which it was joined and of which it formed a part. As they advanced, the chancellor was careful to keep in the deepest shadow, and his hand shook as he fitted the key into a small door in the palace wall.

He turned abruptly into a lateral passage and disappeared. The chancellor seemed in doubt for a moment whether to call him back, but he decided to let him go.

They groped their way upward after him along a winding stair that seemed to be built into the city wall. This slow progress continued for many minutes without a glimmer of light until they reached what appeared to be a windowless chamber. There the chancellor left them, bidding them wait until he had notified the king of their arrival.

He was absent so long that Leonidas began to grow uneasy. He found the chamber destitute of furniture and without doors save that by which they had entered and that by which the chancellor had left them. Both were now secured. This had been accomplished without attracting their attention and it added to their uneasiness.

"Nonsense," Chares remarked. "They brought us here for a purpose and we are of more use to them alive than dead. Do you suppose that Azemilcus is anxious to be crucified?"

"Perhaps not," the Spartan replied, "but it maybe that he has changed his mind. If he does not send for us soon, I think we had better try the door."

Clearchus said nothing, but he paced impatiently back and forth across the narrow room, pausing at every sound. The night was passing and the hour for the sacrifice to Moloch was drawing nearer. Shut up in the palace, they would be powerless to save Artemisia. The moments seemed hours to him. At last he could bear the suspense no longer.

"We should never have permitted the chancellor to leave us!" he said, and, striding to the door, he began to beat upon it with the hilt of his sword until the metal of which it was composed rang like a bell.

There was no response. The others joined him, raising a tumult loud enough to be heard throughout the palace, but even then some time elapsed before the bars were removed and the door swung open. The chancellor had returned alone, his face white and scared in the flickering light of the lamp that he had set upon the stone floor while he worked at the bars.

"Silence, or we are all lost!" he whispered imploringly, taking up the lamp with a hand that trembled so that the oil spilled upon the floor. "Do you want to invite death?"

"Don't talk to us of silence!" bellowed Chares, threatening the old man with his sword. "What do you mean by shutting us up here? You have yet to learn that it is not wise to keep the soldiers of Alexander waiting. Take us to your king."

"Yes, yes!" muttered the chancellor with chattering teeth. "Follow me; but in the name of Baal keep silence! I fear they have heard you already."

"Little I care if they have, whoever they are," the Theban exclaimed, stalking after the chancellor, sword in hand. "If you try any more of your tricks, your head goes off like a chicken's."

They made several turns in the passage, ascended a last short flight of steps, and came to a second door, which their guide pushed open. They followed him into a large room, hung with woven tapestries, carpeted with silken rugs, and strewn with luxurious divans. It was on the southern side of the palace, with windows that looked out across the wall toward the sea. The light of the lamps was already yielding to the gray dawn which silvered the surface of the water.

With his back to the window stood Azemilcus, king of the doomed city. His thin white hair straggled from under a close-fitting cap to the diamond collar which encircled his wrinkled throat. A gorgeous robe of crimson hid his shrunken figure. He looked old and feeble, but his eyes were as bright as jewels set in the head of a mummy.

"Welcome, gentlemen!" he said quietly, stretching forth a wasted hand toward Chares, who was striding toward him with anger in his face. "I must ask your pardon for your detention; but we are prisoners here, like yourselves."

Astonishment halted the Theban, who stood staring at the king as though he had not heard aright. Clearchus stepped forward.

"The same one who helped to bring us here and who left us as soon as we entered the palace?" Clearchus demanded.

"Yes," Azemilcus answered, crossing his hands and hiding them in the wide sleeves of his robe. "He is not sharp-witted, my son; and it turns out that he still has hopes of saving Tyre so that he may reign here in my place. You see what they have been doing."

He stepped back and waved his hand toward the window. Beneath them was the breach that had been so desperately attacked and defended. The Tyrians had raised a new wall, nearly as thick and as high as the city wall itself. It formed a half-circle inside the gap, joining the main wall at either end, so that an attacking force, seeking to storm the breach, would be caught as in the bend of a bow. Swarms of men were still at work there by the light of torches.

The Athenian's heart sank. It seemed to him impossible that after the defeat of the preceding day, a second attack could succeed when the breach had been repaired. They were inside the city, it was true, but they were only five against forty thousand.

For a moment there was silence in the room. The bitter smile still rested on the thin lips of the old king. The chancellor stood nervously rubbing his knuckles, first with one hand and then with the other. Leonidas examined the wall and the new work with an eye that took in every detail. He turned to the king.

"You say that it is your son who has shut you up," Leonidas continued. "Why do you think so?"

"Because he alone, besides this man, knew that I had summoned you," the king said.

Leonidas looked at the chancellor, whose ashen face grew a shade paler under his scrutiny.

"You were about to betray your city and your son has betrayed you," the Spartan said.

"That is a harsh way to put it," Azemilcus answered. "The city was lost already."

"Yes," said the old king. "To-day, to-morrow, next month, it will fall. The Gods have deserted us. The boy told me they would."

"It is not surprising that the Gods have deserted you," the Spartan observed. "But your son, who has conspired against you, knows that we are here."

"And you kept us shut up while you were considering whether there was not some way of getting rid of us so that we might not be found and used as proof of your treachery," Leonidas continued. "You were ready to sacrifice us, who had come to save you, so that you might prove your son a liar and defeat his attempt."

Azemilcus made no reply, but the smile left his lips and he glanced furtively from side to side. Chares muttered some words in his throat that sounded like a curse.

"You are speaking to a king," Azemilcus said at last, drawing himself up with an assumption of dignity and trying to meet the eyes of his questioner.

"I am speaking to a fool!" Leonidas replied contemptuously. "In order to profit by his double perfidy, your son must have proof against you. Who will believe him unless we are found? It will be his first care to produce us, and if he can do this, there will be no hope left for you. Every moment that you kept us behind that door brought you nearer to death."

He paused, and Azemilcus made no reply; but his smile came back and his eyes wandered toward a table where a great flagon of wine had been set.

"There may yet be time to save ourselves and you," Leonidas continued. "If you can get rid of us for the present, you will have nothing to fear. You can deny your son's story and it will be attributed to a clumsy plot to overthrow you. Is there no way out of the palace that is not guarded?"

The chancellor uttered a clucking sound in his throat that seemed involuntary. Leonidas gripped him by the shoulder.

"Oh, my master, I took them!" the chancellor cried, with tears rolling down his cheeks. "Esmun made me do it. He said Moloch demanded them."

"My rubies," the king said musingly. "Well, never mind. We will talk of them hereafter."

"What is one piece of treachery, more or less, to you?" Leonidas said roughly. "Remain here. Should you escape your son, we will seek you, if we can, when those come whom you cannot escape. If we do not return, fly to the Temple of Melkarth and embrace his knees that you may be spared. Farewell!"

He dragged the chancellor to his feet. The man was shaking so that he could hardly stand. Below them in the palace they could hear the tramp of ascending footsteps and the sound of voices.

Leonidas snatched up the flagon of wine and hastily filled a golden cup that he offered to the chancellor.

Instead of taking the cup, the chancellor uttered a choking cry and pushed it from him.

He seemed indeed to have recovered from his weakness, for he stepped briskly toward the door by which they had entered. Leonidas looked at him and then at the wine spilled upon the floor.

"Poisoned!" he exclaimed, and such a blaze of wrath gleamed in his eye that the old king shrank back.

His grasp tightened about the hilt of his sword, and for an instant he hesitated; but the tramp of the soldiers was close at hand and he reflected that a dead king could not betray Tyre. He sheathed his sword and darted into the passage after his companions. Azemilcus made fast the door behind them and let the draperies fall over it. Then he turned with his mocking smile to face his accusers.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE KING TAKES HIS REVENGE

Azemilcus walked to the window and stood there leaning against the frame. Day was breaking, sullen and gray, in a wrack of flying clouds, and the uneasy moaning of the sea sounded in his ears.

There Hur and Esmun, panting from their long climb, found him standing. The prince carried a drawn sword in his hand and he glanced quickly from side to side as he burst into the room. Behind him came Ariston and a guard of twenty or thirty soldiers, headed by one of the generals of the garrison. Hur had expected to find the Greeks. He saw only his father, leaning wearily in the window. He stood abashed, looking at Esmun as if for advice.

The old king remained motionless until all had entered, and then he turned slowly and faced them. The lines of his countenance, deepened by months of anxiety, told of the strain he had passed through, and his shrunken frame seemed aged and feeble in its magnificent robe of state. His eyes met theirs steadily and frankly, yet with a look of sadness as he gave them his greeting.

"Welcome, my son and gentlemen," he said. "You come early to seek your king; but in these times I know that ceremony must be disregarded. What news do you bring?"

The authority in his tone and the dignity of his bearing, which most of the men who stood before him had been accustomed from boyhood to respect, had their effect. The soldiers, who knew nothing of the plot, stared wonderingly about them. Ariston had prudently halted near the door, and he now edged still farther into the background.

"Come, gentlemen!" the king said, finding that none replied to his question. "What is the news that brings you hither at this hour? Do not fear to tell me, since it is the lot of kings to share the dangers and sorrows of their people. Have I not done it for nearly fifty years?"

He smiled somewhat sadly and waved his thin hand with a gesture that seemed to dismiss all that he had done for the city as something for which he required no return of gratitude.

"Do not hesitate," he continued, "because you would spare me. It is true that in all that now threatens us I have more to lose than you. I am ready, as you know, to sacrifice even life itself if that would save the city. Is it concerning the offering to Baal-Moloch that you desire to consult me?"

He addressed himself to Esmun, recognizing in the priest the man from whom he had most to fear. He had scarcely glanced at his son, who stood helpless, raging inwardly to find himself presenting the appearance of a culprit caught in some fault, instead of the avenger that he had expected to be. Esmun looked at the prince and saw that nothing was to be expected from him. He took up the situation boldly, relying upon his sacred office to protect him.

"It is true that I wished to consult you concerning the sacrifice to Baal-Moloch, whom I serve," he said, "but we had still another reason for coming. We have been informed that a plot against your life has been conceived. It was told to us that certain Greeks had been brought into the city by the treachery of your enemies, and we made all haste to summon this guard to protect you in case of need. It is said that the assassins are even now in the palace. If anything should happen to your Highness, then, indeed, the city might despair. In guarding thy safety, we guard the safety of all."

The two men looked into each other's eyes. The king read the threat that lay behind Esmun's words and he took up the challenge.

"Why should they seek to destroy a man whose days are fast nearing their close?" he asked. "The death of one of these soldiers would profit them more, since it would leave one less dauntless heart for them to conquer. It seems to me that the alarm is needless, although I thank you for your care; and yet, I will not conceal from you that there may after all be some basis for the story you have heard. Within the week, the crown rubies have been stolen, and it is clear that I have some unfaithful servants. Perhaps they have brought in the Greeks to prevent detection and the punishment they deserve. Search the palace, and if the assassins are found, we will make an example of them."

Esmun's heavy face quivered when the king spoke of the rubies, for his words were accompanied by a look full of significance. He knew that the Greeks were in the city, but the willingness of the king to have the search made indicated that they were no longer in the palace. He racked his brains to think what had become of them.

Ariston slipped out of the door and stole softly down the stairs. The astute Athenian saw that the counterplot had collapsed.

"You, my son, and you, Esmun, will remain with me while the guard makes the search," the king said coolly, "and let us eat, for there is much to be done to-day."

He engaged the priest in talk regarding the details of the sacrifice to Baal while the soldiers dispersed through the palace and slaves brought food. To Hur he did not speak. The general in charge of the guard at last returned, saying that no trace of the presence of strangers in the palace could be discovered. He knew nothing of the secret passages, and the prince did not venture, in his father's presence, to reveal them. Esmun, with the theft of the rubies in his mind, dared not betray his knowledge of their existence.

"It is as I thought," the king said, dismissing the guard. "I thank you for your zeal."

The slaves had already withdrawn, since it was unlawful for any who had not been initiated to be present while the mysteries of the worship of Baal were being discussed.

"You seem downcast, my son!" the king said when he was left alone with Hur and the priest. He took his seat at the table, upon which the food had been placed, and motioned them to a seat opposite to him. "You will never be a king," he continued, "until you learn how to conquer failure. I have noted a certain nervousness in you of late. You should overcome it. Misfortune is half disarmed when you meet her in a cheerful spirit."

Hur let his eyes fall, but he made no reply. Esmun kept his gaze on the king's face.

"Come!" Azemilcus said in the same bantering tone, "you do not eat. You should leave the welfare of the city to me. You thought you knew, when you did not. You should remember that kings do not always reveal their purposes."

"To that I say amen," Esmun exclaimed, "and may the curse of Baal rest upon all who seek to betray her!"

The old king's eyes sparkled and he looked at them with the mocking smile that they knew so well.

"Drink, then!" he said, spilling a few drops from his cup upon the floor as a libation.

The others followed his example, Esmun with a muttered word of invocation, and both drank off what remained. The king was seized by a violent fit of coughing that shook his withered frame and forced him to set his cup down untasted. As he did so Esmun rose to his feet.

The face of the priest was convulsed and purple and his eyes seemed starting from his head. He raised his clenched hands and made a tottering step toward the king as though he would strike him with his fists. He struggled to speak, but no words issued from his throat. He reeled blindly and crashed down across the table like a slain bullock, overturning it in his fall. His eyes rolled up in his head and he lay motionless.

The prince did not rise from his chair, but his fingers gripped convulsively the carved arms of ebony and he writhed in agony.

Azemilcus drew the skirts of his robe around him and stepped carefully across the litter caused by the wreck of the table, with its linen cloth stained in the spilled wine that flowed from the shattered flagon. He walked quietly to the door and vanished between the crimson curtains, leaving the two dead men alone in the room.

CHAPTER XLIV

THE REVOLT OF THE ISRAELITES

While Azemilcus was dealing with his enemies in his own way, the wretched chancellor, shaking in every limb, conducted the Macedonians back through the secret passage by which he had brought them to the presence of the king. Descending the winding stairs, they reached the street level, where the old man opened a hidden door that led into a narrow subterranean gallery. They followed this for what seemed to them a long distance in a stagnant atmosphere, heavy with dampness. It brought them at last to a slab of stone, from which hung a ring of iron.

Chares was forced to exert all his strength to turn this stone upon its pivot. They emerged from the passage into a small room with walls of rough masonry and a door that was closed by a black curtain. At the request of the chancellor, the lamp was extinguished.

"In the Temple of Baal," the old man whispered. "This room is little used by the priests. They live on the other side."

The Spartan raised the curtain and looked into the gloomy interior of the temple. It was deserted and silent.

"What shall we do with this man?" he asked, turning to his companions, and indicating the chancellor.

"We have no further use for him," Chares replied, placing his hand suggestively upon his sword-hilt.

"Spare me!" the chancellor cried, falling upon his knees. "I will tell where the rubies are, and a great store of jewels besides. They are under the image of Baal. Do not take my life!"

"He might betray us if we let him go," Leonidas said, paying no attention to his supplications.

"I swear to you on the head of Baal that I will not," the old man cried piteously.

"If he should betray us," Clearchus observed, "his own life would be forfeit, because we should reveal the part he had in bringing us into the city."

The chancellor did not wait for further permission. He disappeared into the passage like an old gray rat escaped from a trap.

"I am half sorry we spared him after all," Leonidas said regretfully. "Let us see where we are."

They passed through the curtained door and into the temple. Twilight reigned beneath the lofty dome where the bats were still flitting. This semi-darkness was artfully preserved so that the fire, which was the essential feature of the worship of Baal-Moloch, might be visible and effective during the sacrifices.

The Greeks found themselves in a vast hall of oblong shape. They were standing upon a platform of stone, raised for the height of a man above the main floor, to which a flight of broad and shallow steps descended. A huge dark mass stood before them exactly under the dome, the sides of which were pierced by narrow slits that admitted the light of day. This mass was the misshapen idol of Baal. The God was represented by a hollow statue of iron and bronze, sitting upon a throne. Its long arms terminated in hands that rested with palms upturned beside its knees. Its enormous head was inclined slightly forward, and the expression upon its face was so cruel and malignant that Clearchus felt his blood chilled as he gazed upon it and thought of the hecatombs of innocent victims whose lives had been sacrificed to its ferocity.

There were larger and more splendid images of Baal in other Phœnician cities, but none that was so venerated. It had been brought from the Temple of Baal-Moloch in the Old City on the mainland, where for centuries it had been the guardian of the place, receiving its sacrifices each year. In the old days even the first-born of the royal blood had been lifted in those blackened arms and rolled upon the iron knees to be roasted alive. The terrible face leaned above with distended nostrils, as though to inhale the odor of burning flesh, and thousands of mothers had watched its dreadful smile through the smoke with songs of praise on their lips and death in their hearts, while their babies writhed in agony in the pitiless embrace. Baal would accept no unwilling sacrifice, and the mother whose child was torn from her breast to be given to the God, not only lost her infant but was disgraced forever if she showed emotion while the rite was being performed.

In spite of themselves, the Macedonians were oppressed by a kind of superstitious dread as they looked at the grim visage that seemed to sneer down upon them.

The great portals of the temple, at the other end of the hall, were closed. On either side were rows of dark columns upholding the roof, which was painted to represent the heavens. Dim shapes of monsters, half beast and half human, appeared upon the walls.

The Greeks made a circuit of the temple but found no means of egress. There were several anterooms similar to the one to which the subterranean passage had led them. These contained vestments, the implements used in the ceremonials, and a store of scented wood, dry as tinder, that furnished fuel for the sacrifices. In one of the rooms was a door which Joel believed connected with the building in which the priests were housed. The walls around the platform were draped with heavy hangings of black that formed a background for the image.

"Let us take counsel," Nathan said, casting a look of hatred at the idol. "Jehovah will not permit this monster to triumph over Him."

"One thing is certain," Leonidas said. "Alone we can never prevent the sacrifice."

"My people will help us," Nathan said. "They will not give up their first-born without fighting."

"There are ten thousand of them in the city," Joel replied; "but they are not armed, excepting those who have been drafted to the defence of the walls."

"I have more faith in Alexander than I have in your people," Chares said bluntly. "He will be in the city before this day ends, unless the Gods have misled old Aristander."

"But will he come in time?" Leonidas asked. "Let Nathan and Joel go to the Israelites and rouse them to resist. Tell them that Alexander is coming and that he will protect them. We three will stay here and await the result."

To this the others gave their assent. It seemed a desperate chance, but it was all they had. There was a small window in the antechamber, high up in the wall. Nathan climbed up to it on the shoulders of the Greeks and looked through.

"There is nothing on this side but the cypress garden," he said. "Farewell; you may be sure that we shall return, though we come alone."

He slipped through the window and dropped upon the turf outside. Joel followed him. The three Greeks, left alone in the temple, looked into each other's faces and Clearchus grasped his companions by the hand.

"You have placed your lives in peril for me," he said with emotion. "Zeus grant that they be not demanded of you!"

"Pshaw!" Chares exclaimed, "are not our lives always in peril? If we must die, we shall die; and we are not permitted to choose where or how. When the Ferryman calls, we must go. For my part, if thou wouldst repay me, let me sleep, for my head is nodding."

Clearchus smiled, understanding his friend's aversion to any display of feeling. He embraced the Theban, who calmly lay down upon the stone floor; his eyes closed, and he began to snore gently.

Leonidas, whose tough frame defied fatigue, and Clearchus, whose mind was in a torment of doubt and suspense, stationed themselves behind the curtain that hid the door and waited, talking in whispers. They could hear the patter of raindrops and by the rising wind outside they knew that a storm was breaking over the city. Its breath entered through the slits in the dome, causing the dark hangings to sway against the wall. The gloomy temple seemed to be filled with mysterious murmurings. Some drops fell upon the image of Baal and ran glistening down the bronze head and broad, sleek shoulders.

Nathan and Joel made their way through the cypress thickets and scaled the wall of the temple garden. They found themselves in a narrow street which led them to a broader thoroughfare, where men were hurrying to and fro in the rain. Soldiers of the garrison, weary and hollow-eyed, were going to the defences. Citizens whose uneasy rest had been cut short by the tension of dread were early abroad in search of news.

"What of the enemy?" one of them asked of a soldier who was returning from the walls.

"They are coming out to attack," the soldier replied. "Their ships have already left the shore, and the stones will soon be falling about your ears."

"Ask that of the Gods," the soldier replied indifferently; "but I think the end will be soon, unless Moloch relents."

Joel and Nathan passed on, their appearance attracting no attention in a city where there were so many of their race.

As they advanced toward the quarter occupied by the Israelites, the streets became filled with people, nearly all of whom seemed to be drawn in the same direction that they themselves were taking. They fell in with a man who strode on with knitted brows and lips compressed. By his appearance he was a Hebrew, and Nathan addressed him in the Hebrew tongue.

"To save the innocent from slaughter," the man replied fiercely. "Come with me if ye are men!"

Half a dozen of the ministers of Baal, surrounded by a guard of soldiers, came down a cross street. They carried in their hands small bundles of short cords with which to bind the limbs of their victims. The crowd gave way before them, gazing at their black robes and stern, fanatical faces with curiosity mingled with dread.

"May the curse of the Most High rest upon them!" the stranger cried, shaking his fist.

He began to run in the direction of the open square used by the Israelites as a market-place. Nathan and Joel raced after him. The clamor of voices raised in bitter lamentation reached them. They found the square choked with a surging mass of men and women who clasped little children to their breasts, seeking to protect them. The rain beat in their faces and the gusty wind tossed their garments. Some called upon their God, raising their hands toward heaven. Others shrieked the names of their offspring who had already been torn from them. Every house in the quarter was filled with weeping and cries of despair. The priests of Baal went hither and thither, seizing their prey in the name of the law wherever they found it.

Nathan and Joel halted at the edge of the square. The priests were searching through the crowd, many of them concealing a tiny burden beneath their robes of office. Feeble wailings betrayed the nature of these bundles. They were the children of the Israelites, bound hand and foot for the sacrifice.

While the young men stood looking, one of the priests discovered a woman who crouched upon the ground with her face hidden in her dishevelled hair. He grasped her roughly by the shoulder and drew her back, disclosing the fact that she had been shielding her baby beneath her bosom. The child raised its dimpled hands and tried to touch its mother's wet cheeks. The priest seized them and tore the infant from her. She clutched the skirt of his robe and followed him on her knees through the mire, begging piteously for the child.

"You have so many already," she said, "and he is all I have! Surely Baal does not require my little one. He will be appeased. Give him back to me!"

The priest turned and struck her upturned face with his clenched hand. She uttered a cry of anguish and released his robe, falling back senseless to the earth.

An inarticulate sound burst from the lips of the man who had guided Nathan and Joel to the market-place.

"O Lord, my God!" he shouted, raising his hands to the leaden sky. "I had two children to be the staff and prop of my old age. Wilt Thou suffer them to be taken from me? We have remained faithful to Thee; is this to be our reward?"

Nathan was about to spring upon the guard that surrounded the priests before him when the tall figure of an old man strode into the square. His gaunt frame was clad in sackcloth, and his long white hair and beard were blown in the wind. He walked erect, without the aid of the staff which he carried in his hand. There was an air of authority and even of majesty in his bearing. The men and women nearest to him fell upon their knees and stretched their hands toward him in supplication. He did not glance at them and he seemed not to hear their prayers. His stern eyes swept the market-place and he spoke in a resonant voice that rose above the tumult and caused it to die away.

"Why do ye lament, men of Israel?" he cried. "Cease now your weeping and rejoice. For Tyre is fallen! Her hour is come!"

"It is Pethuel, chief priest of the synagogue," Joel whispered to Nathan, who was watching the old man with glowing eyes.

"Hearken unto me, O ye of little faith!" Pethuel continued, and the silence spread until his words could be heard throughout the square. "The worshipper of idols is cast down. The day of clouds and thick darkness is at hand. Lo! they waxed a strong and a mighty people. The cities of the world feared them, and their ships followed the trackless wastes of the sea. There was none like to them in their greatness.

"Unto some they said, 'Go!' and unto others they said, 'Come!' Verily, their strength was like that of the lion, and they rejoiced in their vessels of gold and silver. It seemed to them that there would be no ending.

"And lo! the end is upon them. They are cast down; their walls are overthrown, and their city is become a place of desolation. Thus saith the Lord God unto me, His servant, that I may tell it to my people and bid them rejoice!

"He has delivered them out of the hands of their enemies as a bird from the net of the fowler. I said unto the Lord, 'Behold, the city of abominations hath laid her hand upon Thy servants! In the olden time, did she spoil Israel and Juda and the pleasant valleys, wasting them with fire and sword. Then did Thy vengeance fall upon her, until of her strong walls not one stone remained upon another. But now she presseth sore upon Thy people; wherefore help us, O Lord!'

"Hear ye, men of Israel! Out of the darkness came a Voice like the rushing of a mighty wind and the sound of many waters, and it filled mine ears, saying: 'I am the Lord God of Hosts. Inasmuch as ye have been faithful unto Me and have bowed not before the work of man's hands, therefore will I hearken unto you. She has sown the wind, and she shall reap the whirlwind. Her fortresses and her strong places shall be spoiled. The weak shall perish with the strong, and the mighty shall not deliver himself. I will give her daughters to ruin and her children shall be wanderers among the nations. This will I do for My people, that they be not put to scorn. Say to them: "Take each man his sword and let him slay; for who shall withstand the wrath of the Most High?"'"

To Nathan it seemed that the veil that separates the seen from the unseen had been rent away. The voice that rang in his ears was no longer the voice of Pethuel, but that of his Maker. He felt himself lifted up beyond the region of doubt, and a great gladness filled his heart.

Pethuel paused before him and looked at him with a gaze that pierced him through like fire. The old man raised his staff and touched him on the shoulder. It seemed to Nathan an act of consecration.

"Lead thou them!" Pethuel cried in a loud voice. "It is the command of the Lord, thy God."

A compelling Power, greater than himself, seized upon the young Israelite. He no longer had any volition of his own. He became an instrument.

"Follow me, men of Israel!" he shouted, drawing his sword. "Jehovah gives the heathen into our hands!"

The hush was broken, and a great cry went up from the densely packed market-place. With one impulse, the crowd fell upon the soldiers and priests who still remained in the square, the greater part having already retreated toward the Temple of Baal-Moloch. The Phœnicians, greatly outnumbered, were able to make but a brief resistance. Nathan sprang forward and cut down the nearest soldier. In the rush that followed him, the guard was swept away, scattered, and destroyed singly. A score of children were rescued. The priests were trampled to the earth and torn limb from limb. The square resounded with savage cries. The Israelites had been roused to frenzy. The word of God was upon them.

"To the temple!" Nathan shouted. The cry ran through the mob which surged into the narrow streets leading to the shrine of Baal-Moloch, bearing down all before it. The frightened priests heard it coming and sent messengers to the walls, demanding succor. Azemilcus ordered soldiers to be detached to quell the disturbance, and the defence of the city was still further weakened.

The fighting in the streets became desperate. The Israelites scattered and, by circuitous routes, pressed toward the temple. They mounted to the roofs, hurling all kinds of missiles from a great height upon the heads of the guards. The rain fell in blinding sheets. It seemed to the Tyrians that the entire Hebrew population of the city had suddenly gone mad. Ties of association were forgotten, and men who had been friends for years struggled for each other's lives.

The tumult spread in every direction. The soldiers were forced to fall back and form a ring of defence around the temple. Even then, they had much ado to hold the crowd at bay, for the Israelites charged against them without ceasing, recklessly throwing away their lives upon the hedge of steel.

Great stones dropped from the sky continually. Friend and foe were crushed beneath them. When they struck the walls of the houses, they left gaping fissures through which the interior could be seen. They came from the engines upon the Macedonian ships that were renewing the attack upon the city.

CHAPTER XLV

MOLOCH CLAIMS HIS SACRIFICE

Artemisia and Thais looked from their window at the scud of flying clouds and beneath them the Macedonian fleet assembling south of the city. Thais' eyes danced with excitement, and Artemisia's cheeks were flushed.

"This time we shall win!" Thais exclaimed, throwing her arms about her companion. "You are beautiful this morning, Artemisia; Clearchus will be pleased with you."

"I shall make him leave the army," she said. "Of course I am proud of his bravery; but, after all, there are better things than to be always killing other men."

She raised her chin with a charming affectation of pride. "He is an Athenian, you know," she added.

Thais frowned. She found in Artemisia's words an implied reflection upon Chares.

"Don't be silly," she replied. "Do you want to make him one of those curled idiots who spend their time in company with philosophers, chasing shadows or trying to find out why crabs walk sidewise? You would wake up some day and find that one of them had proved to him that there is no such thing as love. Or perhaps you would rather have him a dandy, with race-horses and a score of dancing girls to amuse himself with! Let him be a man, Artemisia; let him love you and fight his enemies with all his heart. For my part, if Chares talks of deserting Alexander, he may look elsewhere for some one to love him; for I shall not."

Artemisia listened to this outburst; but she shook her head, and a soft light shone in her eyes.

"You want power and splendor," she said "but I would rather be alone with Clearchus in a desert than sit beside him upon the throne of Darius. I will have no rival in his heart."

"And with half a dozen children around you," Thais said scornfully. "You might as well complete the picture."

"Yes," Artemisia answered bravely, though she blushed as she said it, "if the Gods permit it; and if the first is a boy, he shall be named Chares."

"There, sister, I did not mean it," she said. "May the Gods give us both our hearts' desire!"

She clapped her hands, and the tiring women who had been awaiting the summons entered.

"Give me my saffron chiton," she cried, "and my topaz necklace. We shall have visitors to-day, girls."

She seated herself before a large mirror while the women dressed her hair and robed her as she had directed. They could not hide their admiration when their task was finished and she stood before them like a living image of gold.

But Artemisia chose a linen robe of pure white, unrelieved by color. The spotless purity of her dress set off the delicate flush upon her cheeks and the soft brown of her hair.

So eager were the young women that they were scarcely able to taste the fruit and cakes that the servants set before them. They kept jumping up and running to the window to see what progress the Macedonian fleet was making, and whether the attack had begun.

"What a storm!" Artemisia exclaimed. "I wish it would stop; it hides the ships."

"Zeus is fighting on our side to-day," Thais replied gayly, as a long growl of thunder shook the walls of the house. "Tell me, what is going on in the city?" she added, turning to a Cretan maiden among the women. The girl was beautiful in face and figure, although her expression was one of sadness. She had once ruled as favorite of Phradates, and it was whispered in the household that she still loved him, in spite of the fact that she had had a score of successors since her brief day of ascendency.

"They are preparing a sacrifice to Baal-Moloch," she replied, "in the hope of persuading him to aid them."

"I know, mistress," another of the women volunteered. She was a Syrian, with a supple figure and bright black eyes, who had been a slave from her infancy.

"Baal-Moloch is the most powerful God in the world," the woman said volubly. "His image is made of iron, and is terrible to look upon." She shivered as she spoke. "I never saw it but once, and that was when the Babylonian king threatened to make war upon us. We offered sacrifice to prevent it, and Moloch would not permit him to come. The priests went about the city and took the children—even the little babies—and carried them away to the temple. When the doors were opened, we could see Baal sitting there in the darkness. There was a fire inside of him, and his eyes glowed at us. He reached his hands down, and the priests gave him the children, one by one, and he lifted them up and devoured them. It was awful to think of those little children!"

"I do not see where they are going to get the children now," Thais remarked. "They have all been sent away."

"They are taking the children of the Israelites who remained here," the Syrian explained, "and they say—at least, Mena says—they are going to sacrifice a virgin, too. Ugh! I don't want to see it."

"Little good will it do them!" Thais exclaimed. "Not even Baal can save their city now."

Sounds of commotion and of hurried footsteps in the lower halls of the house interrupted them. Thais listened.

The Syrian went, and in a moment came flying back into the room with terror on her face.

"Oh, my mistress!" she cried. "Why did you speak so of Moloch? His priests are in the house! Save us!"

She raised her head proudly and faced the doorway, while the slave women huddled behind her with frightened eyes. Artemisia stood beside her, trying to emulate her courage; but a strange sinking laid hold upon her heart, and a mist swam before her eyes.

There was a rush of feet outside, and four black-robed men, followed by a guard of soldiers, entered. Their leader was a man of stern and grave expression, whose eyes seemed to glow in his pale face with the power of his compelling will. He was Hiram, who had been chosen hastily to act as chief priest when Esmun failed to return from the royal palace. His ascetic countenance contrasted strongly with the gross faces of his followers, brutalized by self-indulgence. The other priests both feared and hated him, for it was said that Baal had endowed him with powers that were beyond the understanding of man.

He paid no heed to her and made no answer. His dark eyes caught those of her companion and held them.

"Artemisia!" he said, in a solemn voice that sounded like a summons, "our Lord, Baal-Moloch, the Saviour, awaits thee! Come with us to his temple."

To Artemisia the words sounded far away; yet she heard them distinctly, and they seemed to leave her no choice but to obey. A deep sense of peace crept over her as she looked into the fathomless eyes of the priest, that were fixed steadfastly upon hers, and from which she could not withdraw her own. Dimly she felt that never again should she see Clearchus or behold the land of Attica. Never should she hear his beloved voice or feel his arms around her, clasping her close to his breast. It was the will of the Gods. Everything earthly seemed to recede and fall away from her as in a dream, leaving her alone with the grim priest, her master. They two were floating upon a mighty current that was bearing them, she knew not whither. She was at peace, and all was ended. The terror she had felt a few moments before had left her. It seemed remote and long ago, and she smiled to think of it and of how foolish it had been.

Hiram saw her form droop and her muscles relax, and these signs of his victory did not escape him. The expression of his face did not change, however, and he still kept his eyes fastened upon hers. The sombre figures of his subordinates stood motionless beside him, and the soldiers of his guard, lean and weather-worn, blocked the doorway, glancing now at the two young women and now at the slave girls cowering in the background.

"Come with me!" Hiram said quietly, stretching his strong hand toward Artemisia.

She made an uncertain step toward him, but Thais caught her by the arm and drew her back.

"What do you mean by this mummery?" she cried, with blazing eyes. "Get thee gone and tell thy God that Artemisia is not for him!"

"Chafe not, daughter," Hiram replied calmly. "The will of Baal must be obeyed. There can be no escape."

"You shall not have her!" Thais cried. "Your creed demands a willing sacrifice!"

Artemisia made a feeble effort to obey, and Thais felt the arm that she held draw away from her grasp.

"Sorcerer!" she cried desperately, retaining her hold, "she is not willing of her own will. Release her from thy spell!"

"She is willing," Hiram repeated, "and thou shalt see her place herself voluntarily in the hands of the Giver of Life."

He made a slight sign, and the three priests who followed him stepped forward. One of them twisted Thais' hand from Artemisia's arm, retaining her wrist in his clutch, while another seized her on the opposite side, rendering her helpless. The third took Artemisia gently by the hand. She offered no resistance, but suffered herself to be led down the marble stairs with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing. Thais followed between her captors. Her face was pale to the lips, and yellow flames danced in her eyes.

"Priest of Baal!" she said, "thou hast shown no mercy and none shalt thou receive—neither thou nor thy God!"

"More bitter still shall be the vengeance of men," Thais exclaimed in her despair, "and they are now beating at the walls who shall make thee feel it!"

Hiram made no reply. If he felt a misgiving, his face did not betray it. He led the way with measured tread down the staircase, followed by his two captives and by the guard.

Artemisia made no response, nor did she turn her head. It was evident that she had not heard. Laying aside her pride, Thais determined to make a final effort. When they reached the deserted entrance hall, she raised her voice.

"Phradates!" Thais called again as the outer doors swung back, revealing the wind-swept street.

This time a figure emerged from the marble columns. It was that of Mena the Egyptian, who advanced with a malicious smile upon his sharp face.

"My master is upon the walls," he said impudently, though he bowed low. "He is fighting to save the city from your friends."

Something of the suppressed triumph in his bearing struck the attention of Thais, agitated as she was.

"Is this thy work?" she demanded, looking at him between narrowing eyelids. "Thou shalt pay for it, slave, upon the cross, to the last drop of thy blood!"

The slanting rain smote their faces as they emerged into the street, where throngs of men and women were crowding toward the Temple of Moloch. On this side, as yet, nothing could be seen of the fierce conflict that was raging for the possession of the children in the Hebrew quarter. The sounds of it were lost in the rushing of the wind and the crashing of the thunder.

The people of Tyre hastened forward in silence and with bowed heads. A nameless dread possessed them. Amid the confusion wrought by man and the elements, friends and neighbors touched shoulders without a glance of recognition. A weight of oppression seemed to dull their minds and restrict their lungs. They were like creatures that listen furtively in hidden terror to catch the forewarning of some catastrophe, the nature of which they know not. All bonds were dissolved. Husbands became separated from their wives in the press and made no attempt to rejoin them.

Even the priests of Moloch who followed Hiram were affected by the universal uneasiness, and Thais felt the hands that clasped her wrists tremble. Hiram himself walked gravely and slowly, apparently oblivious of what was going on about him. He seemed indifferent alike to the pelting of the storm and the danger from falling stones. A mass of rock plunged into the crowd close before him, crushing a man beneath its ponderous weight. The step of the pontiff did not waver, and he passed the spot without so much as a glance at the mangled body pinned down by the missile. His consciousness of the protection of Moloch freed him from all sense of personal danger.

The people made way for him in silence, huddling to the sides of the street and closing in after the soldiers had passed. Artemisia walked with her eyes upon the sombre figure that strode before her. Her face was as colorless as the linen chiton that clung to her figure in the rain, disclosing the maidenly outline of her bosom. Her breathing was even and regular, as though she were sleeping with open eyes.

Anger raged in Thais' breast as in that of a lioness, bound with chains, which sees her cubs taken from her. She knew the hopelessness of struggling with her captors, for even if she could free herself, she would still be powerless to rescue Artemisia.

Around the gloomy temple stood thousands of men and women, mournfully and silently waiting in the rain for the procession to enter. The great bronze doors stood open, revealing the dark interior of the building, where a few torches cast a flickering light upon the face of the monstrous idol, whose cruel features seemed to be twisting themselves with hideous grimaces.

Streamers of pale blue smoke were drawn through the apertures over the head of the image by the wind, and the inside of the temple was filled with a smoky haze that increased the obscurity. This came from the fire of scented wood that the priests had kindled in the body of the idol. They fed it continually from behind; and the faint smoke, rising from carefully disposed openings in the breast and shoulders of the figure, partially veiling its face, added to the mystery and solemnity of the ceremony.

As Hiram approached the entrance, two lines of black-robed priests issued silently to right and left, pushing back the crowd and forming a lane which led up the two flights of shallow stone steps to the doorway. The spectators reverently bowed their heads. Their faith in the power of Baal, bred in them from infancy, was strong upon them, and deep was their fear of his wrath. Many times had he listened to their prayers, and more than once had he refused to listen, permitting the calamity that they besought him to avert. But never since he had become their God, at a time beyond the limit of tradition, had they gone to him in such dreadful extremity. Would he intervene, or would he leave them to their fate?

All eyes were turned to the impassive face of Hiram, searching there for an answer to the question that was in every mind. The chief priest gave no sign. He paced slowly into the open space between the ranks of the priests, his black vestments fluttering about him in voluminous folds. His eyes looked straight forward into the temple, seeking the face of Baal. In his footsteps walked Artemisia, her head now drooping slightly, like a flower cut from its stem. The priests began a slow chant, so low that its words of praise could hardly be understood.

Halfway up the second flight of steps, behind the row of priests, Pethuel appeared in the crowd. He had managed somehow to reach the temple in advance of his flock. The rain glistened upon his white hair and snowy beard. Pressing forward as Hiram advanced, he raised his voice above the mystic words of the chant.

"Priest of Baal!" he cried to his rival, "thy God is fled! Behold, his image shall be broken in thy temple. The wrath of the Lord God of Hosts is upon you; for the cup of Tyre's iniquities runneth over!"

He ceased and a murmur ran through the crowd; but no hand was raised against the old man. The priests looked at Hiram, who passed on without so much as turning his eyes, and they continued their chant. Not even when the brother who walked beside Artemisia was struck down by an arrow on the threshold of the temple did Hiram pause. The shaft, falling obliquely, buried itself between its victim's shoulders, and he fell upon his face in his death agony. His comrades lifted him quickly and bore him out of sight; but the people continued to gaze at the stain of blood upon the stones where he had fallen.

As Artemisia and Thais vanished in the doorway, the sounds of conflict caused by the rising of the Hebrews reached the temple.

"It is Alexander!" said one to another in the crowd, and because of the words of Pethuel, the cry was more easily believed. Panic seized upon the multitude. Thousands of those who had assembled fled back to their homes. Others ran toward the royal palace, and still others sought the harbors. Scores found refuge in the temple, fighting with each other to enter first through the wide doorway. The dread that had weighed them down had taken shape. The evil was upon them.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE PASSING OF A GOD

Inside the Temple of Baal-Moloch the chant of the priests swelled to a triumphant hymn of praise. The throbbing of drums and the droning of strange musical instruments increased the volume of sound. It drowned the uproar of the conflict between the guards and the Israelites, who had reached the gardens of the temple, and it rose above the wailing of the infants destined for the sacrifice. The children were held by the priests, who formed in a deep semicircle before the idol. The throng of devotees filled the body of the temple beyond their line and the dim reaches of the arcades behind the rows of columns.

The pungent smell of smoke from the sacrificial fire was mingled with the odor of incense that floated from censors swung by neophytes clad in robes of scarlet.

Amid the crowd that burst into the temple in such numbers as to forbid all semblance of the usual ceremonial order, rose the image of the Giver of Life and its Destroyer, gigantic and terrible. Its broad breast glowed dull red, and a spurt of flame issued from its sneering lips like a fiery tongue. The terror that had driven the people into the temple gave way to awe when they found themselves in the presence of the God. Many of the votaries fell upon their faces before the colossal figure; others stretched their hands toward it in an agony of supplication. Sharp cries pierced the maddening pulsations of the music. The gusts of the storm, entering through the opening in the temple roof, drove the smoke in eddies through the obscurity.

Hiram walked straight to the idol and prostrated himself upon the lowest of the steps that rose to the platform on which it stood. He remained for a moment in silent prayer, and then, rising, he stretched forth his arms and repeated the ancient formula that always preceded the sacrifice, calling upon the God by the numerous titles that signified his manifold attributes.

Artemisia stood behind him, within the half-circle of priests who held back the eager crowd. Her white garments gleamed pure and spotless against the background of their sombre official robes. Her head was slightly bowed, and her hands were clasped lightly before her. She seemed utterly oblivious of her surroundings and the terrible fate that awaited her. Thais, firmly held by the priests who had brought her to the temple, was stationed by her captors on the left hand of Baal, in a position that prevented her eyes from meeting Artemisia's gaze. The angry color had faded from her cheeks. She realized at last that Artemisia was lost and that she herself must endure the agony of seeing her perish. Her face had grown haggard and drawn.

"Spare her, priest of Moloch!" she cried desperately, as Hiram ended his invocation. "Her death cannot save thy city. Give her back to me, and I promise thee thy safety and the safety of thy order. If thou needs must sacrifice a woman, let me be the victim. I am fairer than she, and I will be more acceptable to thy God. See, I beg her life at thy hands!"

She would have thrown herself upon her knees, but the priests restrained her. Hiram made no reply and paid no heed to her appeal. Ascending the steps with a firm tread, he stood between the feet of the idol and turned to the multitude, extending his hands over Artemisia's head with the palms downward. The chant ceased and the music died away. Only the frightened sobbing of the infants, whom the assistants sought in vain to quiet, broke the silence within the temple. Hiram began to speak in a solemn and impressive voice.

"We bring thee, O Lord, a maiden, pure in heart," he said. "We have sinned against thee in our pride; upon her head we place our sins; take thou her and forgive!"

"We have neglected thy worship," Hiram went on. "Upon her head be our neglect; take her and forgive! We have done those things that are forbidden; upon her head be our disobedience to thy law; take her and accept our atonement! We have disregarded our oaths; upon her head be our perfidy; receive her in quittance of our debt to thee. Pardon us, O Lord, in this our sacrifice to thee, all our many sins against thee, and protect us out of thy mercy in this hour of our great peril!"

At the conclusion of the recital, he turned again to the God. The arms of the idol slowly sank and extended themselves until the outstretched palms were brought together before the iron knees a few feet from the floor.

With faltering steps she obeyed his command, advancing slowly until she stood before the broad palms that seemed to tremble with impatience to clasp her form. In the deadly hush of expectancy, the fierce cries of the Israelites, struggling with the soldiers outside the temple, could be distinctly heard. Hiram saw that haste was necessary if the sacrifice was to be accomplished.

"Dost thou give thyself willingly for the sins of Tyre?" he demanded, confident of his power.

Her voice was roughly stifled by the priests, her captors, but a questioning murmur rose from the crowd.

"Answer!" Hiram said sternly, bending all the strength of his merciless will upon her.

"Artemisia! Do not answer!" cried another voice. It was the voice of a man, and it rang strong and clear, though it vibrated with anxiety. It seemed to issue from the dark recesses behind the idol. A stir of astonishment broke the spell that had imposed silence upon the worshippers. Every eye strove to pierce the gloom of the sanctuary. Hiram started, and his pallid face grew a shade paler.

Artemisia's eyes left those of the chief priest and looked beyond him eagerly into the darkness. The mask of impassiveness faded from her face. Her lips parted.

She threw up her arms with a despairing gesture, and sank upon the platform beneath the terrible hands that were stretched to seize her.

"Alexander! Alexander!" shouted Chares out of the darkness. "Down with the dogs!"

The words were followed by a cry of mortal agony from one of the priests whose duty it was to feed the fire that roared inside the idol. The Tyrians heard the sound of a brief commotion in the rear of the temple, they saw the gleam of armor and of weapons, and the dark hangings that veiled the innermost shrine were rent from the walls. Armed men rushed across the platform and leaped down among the priests, hewing at the holy ministers with flashing swords.

In the obscurity, the Tyrians fancied that an entire company of Macedonians was upon them. Those who had sought refuge there from the Hebrew mob forgot the dangers that awaited them outside and surged toward the entrance. But the Israelites had scattered the soldiers in the gardens, and they charged the doors just as the assemblage attempted to force its way out. The fugitives from the terrors of the temple were struck down in heaps upon the threshold.

Hiram alone retained his presence of mind. He had implicit faith in the power of the terrible deity, in whose service he had spent the greater part of his life, and absolute confidence in the efficacy of sacrifice. When he saw Artemisia fall and heard Chares' battle-cry, he knew that all was lost unless the offering could be consummated.

Unmindful of his own danger, he bounded forward and raised the slim, unconscious form in his arms. Quickly he laid it upon the iron palms, with a muttered prayer. There was a sound of creaking chains, and the hands ascended slowly, bearing upward the slender figure. One bare, white arm hung inertly between the iron fingers, and the snowy chiton shone through the smoke against the dark bulk of the monstrous image.

Clearchus sprang out of the darkness and saw Artemisia raised aloft in that pitiless grasp. She was already beyond his reach. A cold sweat broke out upon his body. He stood for an instant transfixed with dread, unable even to cry out. Every heart-beat brought her nearer to that glowing metal surface, whose terrible heat he could feel upon his face where he stood.

Hiram stepped forward to the edge of the platform and stretched out his arms. The glare of religious madness shone in his eyes.

"Peace, peace!" he cried to the struggling and shrieking mob, frantic with fear. "Baal-Moloch accepts the sacrifice. Peace! Profane not his temple!"

His voice was drowned in a crash of thunder that seemed to rend the sky across from mountain to sea. Before it died, a huge mass of rock, hurled from an engine of the Macedonian fleet, crashed through one of the openings in the dome of the temple. The ponderous missile struck the masonry and bounded backward and downward in a shower of dislodged stones upon the inclined head of the idol.

Moloch seemed to rise from his throne, as though about to stride from the platform. His iron arms flew apart, and the grim colossus lurched forward down the steps, and fell with a clang of metal upon the marble floor.

A sharp cry rose from the struggling crowd. Those who witnessed the downfall of the sacred image stood in doubt, unable to believe their eyes. The Israelites, unaware of what had happened, took advantage of the moment to overcome the slight opposition of the Tyrians who still faced them. They rushed into the temple, crying aloud for the restoration of their children.

In the wild confusion of their onslaught, many of the infants were trampled to death. Others were killed by the priests, who seemed crazed by the fall of their idol. At first they stood stupefied. Hiram's voice was no longer heard. They called upon him in vain. Finally one of them ran to the fragments of the prostrate image. Bending above it, he saw the distorted face of the chief priest gazing up into his own. The unfortunate man had been caught beneath the breast of the God to whom he had offered so many innocents, and his crushed body was being slowly roasted under the red-hot metal.

He ran into the crowd, and, seizing one of the infants by the heels, dashed out its brains against a pillar. His example was followed by others no less frantic than himself.

Before he could finish the sentence, Leonidas' sword pierced his throat, and he fell upon the body of the child that he had slain.

Down the dim arcade, behind the pillars, strode the Spartan and Chares, hacking and thrusting at the black-robed minions of Moloch. They showed no mercy. Neither prayer nor entreaty availed. They sought the priests through the terrified crowd, and dragged them from every place of concealment, until of all who had been in the temple not one remained alive.

With the crash of the stone as it smote the idol, Clearchus realized what had happened. He saw the iron arms drop, and he leaped forward in time to snatch Artemisia from their embrace. The hot iron grazed his body as the image fell. Artemisia's pale, sweet face lay upon his shoulder, and he clasped her close to his breast. In the revulsion from his despair he felt his muscles endowed with strength.

He smiled to see his friends dash past him, and he looked smilingly upon the clamorous crowd in which every man fought for his life. One of the priests, whose face had been gashed to the bone, rushed upon him, with hands extended, and tried to tear Artemisia from his arms. The man was unarmed, and Clearchus thrust him through the breast. He sank and died without a moan.

Amid the fragments of Moloch's image, the fire that had been kindled in the iron bosom flickered with blue and crimson tongues of flame.

Suddenly the crowd was split by a rush from the great doorway, and Clearchus saw Nathan leading the Israelites into the temple. With the name of Jehovah upon their lips, the swarthy, black-eyed Hebrews poured in, smiting the Tyrians and beating them down with merciless strokes in the delirium of their exaltation. They swept through the temple like wolves through a sheepfold. The floor was heaped with the dead, and the stones were slippery with blood. Nathan recognized the Athenian and sprang to his side, shouting to his followers to strike and spare not.

Into the midst of the confusion rushed the Hebrew women, seeking the children who had been taken from them. The uproar of conflict gave way to the lamentations of mothers whose infants had been slaughtered. Others, more fortunate, sat with their babes in their arms, kissing them and feeling them over to discover whether they had been hurt. One young wife sat upon the steps at Clearchus' feet with her first-born and only child. Nathan recognized her as the woman who had been struck down by the priest in the market-place. The baby had been strangled and was dead.

"Hush!" she said, in a crooning voice, and, covering the child's head with her garment, she pressed its lips to her breast. For an instant she sat there, but the chill of the waxen mouth struck through her heart. She gave a startled glance at the baby's face, and then sprang up with a scream of despair and rushed out of the temple into the tempest, with the poor little body clasped in her arms.

Nathan called to Chares and Leonidas. "Alexander is on the wall," he said. "The streets are filled with the Tyrians. We must escape as we came. Listen!"

He held up his hand, and the Greeks became aware of a dull roaring that filled the city like the humming of a gigantic hive of bees.

"Even here we shall not be safe," Nathan continued. "Let us seek the secret passage."

"Chares!" cried one from among the women, and Thais ran forward, with her saffron robe torn so that half her perfect breast was exposed. She carried a dagger in her hand, and its blade was red; but her face shone with joy. The weapon fell from her grasp as she sprang to the Theban, who lifted her like a child in his arms and kissed her.

Turning their backs upon the throng of the living and the dead, they descended into the secret passage and closed the entrance behind them.

CHAPTER XLVII

SYPHAX SQUARES HIS ACCOUNT

King Azemilcus stood at a window of his chamber, with the aged chancellor at his side, looking out across the parapet of the wall. They were alone in the room, for the king had ordered his guard to await his commands in an outer apartment. The window opened directly upon the top of the wall, to which the royal palace was joined. Often during his long reign had the old king stood there, revolving his schemes in his cunning brain, while the salt breeze cooled his temples.

Beneath his feet the stones trembled with the shock of the great battering rams that were enlarging the breach in the wall west of the palace. In his ears sounded the tumult of the attack upon the two harbors, where the Macedonian triremes were seeking to break the barriers of chains. He saw the Tyrian soldiers upon the battlements, fighting against hope, with the valor of desperation.

The roar of falling masonry told him that the rams had done their work. The breach had become a wide gap, extending beyond the ends of the inner wall that had been built to block the assault. The vessels lying in wait drew nearer. Flights of arrows and volleys of stones, great and small, swept the defences. Troop-ships, provided with drawbridges at their prows, closed in at the breach. The bridges fell, and streams of men in armor began to flow across them. They gained the breach and held it. They scaled the slope of fallen blocks and reached the top of the wall. The Tyrians were forced backward or hurled into the sea.

"That must be Alexander," the king remarked, noting the irresistible vigor of the assault.

Alexander indeed was leading the charge along the wall toward the palace, fighting in the forefront as his custom was, while the shield-bearing guards pressed forward where he led. Their triumphant voices shouted his name. At one of the towers upon the wall, between the breach and the palace, the Tyrians made a stand, seeking to check the advance of their foes. The Macedonians hunted them out and drove them to the next tower. The battle raged in mid-air, and the bodies of the slain fell either into the sea on one side or into the streets of the city on the other.

"It is time!" the chancellor echoed, gazing upon the slaughter like a man under the spell of a horrible fascination.

The king led the way into the large hall where the guard was stationed. It consisted of a company of a hundred men under the command of a young captain whose bronzed face and steady gaze showed that he was a veteran in service despite his youth. He had been pacing backward and forward before his men, who stood at attention along the wall. At sight of Azemilcus he paused and saluted. The old king placed a thin hand upon his shoulder.

The young man shook off the royal hand as though he felt contaminated by its touch.

"Does your Majesty really mean to seek refuge with the Alexandrine?" he asked indignantly.

"Then I refuse!" the soldier exclaimed. "I have two brothers yonder on the wall, if they be still alive. The Macedonians will try to enter the palace, and if they succeed, the city is lost. Go you to Melkarth's temple if you will; but you go alone. We remain here."

Azemilcus looked at the handsome face, flushed with anger, and his inscrutable smile played about his lips.

"Thy father was my friend, and I have loved thee," he said. "I would save thee if I could, but youth is hot and hasty; have thy will if thou must."

"There goes Tyre!" the young captain cried bitterly, "selfish and treacherous to the last. To the windows! We may yet save him honorably, though he does not deserve it."

They reached the seaward side of the palace in time to receive the remnants of the Tyrian companies that had vainly striven to defend the wall. The captain's brothers were not among the fugitives.

It had seemed to the young officer that the entrances to the palace from the wall might be held by a few men against any force that could be brought up; but it was not within human power to resist the onrush of the Macedonians. The captain was slain by Ptolemy; half his men fell with him, and the others fled down through the palace to the streets with the Macedonians at their heels.

The noise of the battle spread from the palace through the city. There was the clash of steel and the hoarse shouting of men at barricades; screams of women in fear and sharp cries of command mingled with the trampling of many feet. Save for the obstinate guard, the palace had been left unprotected by the crafty old king, who was awaiting his conqueror in the sanctuary of Melkarth's temple. Alexander led the way into the city with Hephæstion and Philotas. Ptolemy, Perdiccas, Clitus, Peithon, Glaucias, Meleager, Polysperchon, and a score more of his Companions and captains swept after him, heading the scarred veterans of Philip's wars,—phalangites, archers and javelin throwers, Thessalian cavalry riders, and heavy-armed mercenaries.

Then in the city of Tyre, whose name for centuries had been a synonym for power and pride, began a slaughter which lasted until nightfall. Alexander ordered that the Israelites should not be molested and that none should enter with violence the Temple of Melkarth; but he did not seek to forbid his followers from taking revenge for the rigors and hardships of the long siege.

At first the Tyrians fought desperately from street to street and from square to square, falling back from one barrier to another; but this resistance served only to whet the rage that drove the Macedonians on. Fresh troops constantly landed from the fleet and poured in through the palace. The breach in the wall became a gateway. The pitiless squadrons hunted the defenders from lane and housetop, cutting them to pieces.

In the Sidonian Harbor, seven ships were hastily manned, the chains were let down, and the crews made a dash for the open sea. They were snapped up by the Cretan vessels which lay in wait beyond the breakwater. Three of them were sunk, and the rest were forced to surrender.

In the house of Phradates the terrified slaves locked and barred the doors by direction of Mena. The master was fighting on the walls. More than once parties of Macedonian soldiers demanded that the gates be opened, but when no response was given, thinking perhaps that the house was deserted and tempted by easier spoil, they passed on. At last came a Tyrian cry for admittance. Mena looked from the wicket and saw Phradates, supported by two soldiers. His face was pale and his helmet had been shattered.

Several of the slaves started forward and laid their hands upon the bars, but the Egyptian pushed them back.

"There is no longer master or slave in Tyre," he said. "Each man must think first of himself."

At the suggestion of Phradates the soldiers bore him to the rear of the house, where there was a small door leading to the kitchens. It was opened by a white-haired crone, whose eyes were blinded with tears.

"Take him, then," the soldiers said roughly, irritated by the delay. "He owes us fifty darics for bringing him off, and we have our own to save."

Upheld by the trembling arms of the old woman, Phradates staggered across the threshold. He could no longer feel the earth beneath his feet. If he could only rest a little!

"Yes, yes, master," the old woman replied through her sobs, "but not here. Come to your own chamber."

She tried to urge him toward the banqueting hall, but his steps grew more uncertain and his weight became too great for her feeble strength.

The Egyptian ran in furiously and closed the door that she had left open in her anxiety.

"Do you want to have us all killed?" he demanded, turning upon the old woman. "Take that, my master, for the beatings you have given me!"

He plunged his dagger into the young man's defenceless side, and Phradates sank to the floor.

The old woman uttered a quivering cry and fell upon her knees beside him, trying with her robe to stop the flow of blood. Mena ran back to the front of the house, leaving her alone with the body.

"Speak to me! Speak to me!" she wailed, not knowing what she said; but Phradates made no reply.

Tyre was in a turmoil of riot and license. The real fighting was at an end, but the soldiers were everywhere pillaging and drinking. Costly fabrics were trampled in the mud of the gutters. Rare vases and priceless statuary were shattered upon the pavements. Rough Thessalians ransacked the houses of rich merchants for gold and gems, destroying with laughter and jests what they did not want. The stifled screams of women mingled with their voices. Here a soldier emerged from a great house with his arms full of rich silks. Another shouted to him that a hoard of gold had been discovered close at hand, and he straightway dropped his burden that he might get his share of the more convenient plunder. There a man who had found a huge tusk of ivory tried to carry it away on his shoulder, while his comrades wrestled with him for it, uttering shouts of laughter as their fingers slipped upon its polished surface. Sometimes swords were drawn and blood flowed over a bag of gold or a necklace of pearls. Bands of mercenaries paraded with wine-skins on their backs, singing the hymns of Dionysus and squirting the precious vintage into each other's faces. Gorged with blood, the army glutted itself in a delirium of indulgence.

In the universal license the baser elements of the city's population joined in the pillage with none to hinder, for the Macedonians were too intent upon their revenge to heed them. Like Mena, slaves rose against their masters, and entire families were slain for the sake of plunder or to requite harsh treatment. The prisons were broken open and their inmates set at liberty. The sailors about the harbors, who had been kept inactive by the blockade of the fleet, desperate men from all quarters of the sea, satisfied their ferocious appetites at will. In the frenzied carnival of lust and slaughter, neither age nor innocence was spared.

The swirl of the battle drew Syphax and his companions from their haunts among the great warehouses near the waterside, where they had been drinking. The bloated face of the freebooter grew purple with eagerness as he heard the sounds of conflict and of panic spread through the city.

"Ho, comrades!" he shouted, "to-day we pay ourselves for all we have had to endure from Fortune! The spoil lies ready for us."

"Break open the warehouses and load a ship with ivory and silk," cried one of his followers.

"You are a fool," Syphax replied contemptuously. "We should be sunk before we could get out of the harbor. Take nothing but gold and jewels. We can hide them until the time comes to escape. Look there!"

An old man, a member of the council, came running toward them, glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. Syphax grasped him by the arm and tore the heavy golden chain of office from his neck. The man made no resistance, but fled away without a word as soon as he was released.

"This is what we want," Syphax cried, holding up the shining links. "Be bold and follow me."

He set off toward a part of the city that the Macedonians seemed not yet to have penetrated. It was a quarter where many wealthy houses stood, and the sailors were fortunate enough to arrive among the first of the marauders. In half an hour, each of them had collected a fortune in gold and precious stones. There was blood upon the hands of Syphax and one of his men had a cut across his forehead when they came out of the last house, carrying their spoil in small, heavy bundles. The city was in its death-throes. From harbor to harbor it had become a vast shambles.

"Let us get back to the warehouses and bury what we have," one of the seamen said.

Syphax looked about him, and his glance fell upon the house where he had seen Ariston enter. In their immediate vicinity there was yet no sign of the enemy. A cruel gleam entered the pirate's bloodshot eyes.

"Now that we are rich," he cried, "it is no more than fair that we should pay our debts. I have one yonder that must be discharged, and to you I resign my share of whatever of value we may find inside."

Syphax found the door bolted, as he had expected. His men battered it in with stones and rushed into the entrance hall. The place seemed deserted. The sailors scattered through the house in search of booty, but Syphax sought only his enemy.

The terrified family had taken refuge in an alcove on the third floor of the house. There one of the sailors found them and summoned his chief with a joyful shout. Ariston and his host stood at the entrance of the recess, with swords in their hands to defend the women, a mother and three daughters, who cowered behind them in the shadow with two slave girls only, the rest of the household having fled. The sailors laughed at the two feeble old men who dared to oppose them.

"Spare our lives and you shall each receive five thousand talents of gold," Ariston cried. "I am Ariston of Athens, and I pledge myself to the payment."

"We know what the pledges of Ariston are worth!" Syphax replied, his face convulsed with hate and rage.

"We are lost, my friend," Ariston said, in a low voice, to his host, recognizing the pirate.

"You bade me once to remember Medon," Syphax bellowed. "I bid thee now to remember him and the silver talent thou wert to give me for what was done in Athens. I have had no luck since; and now thou shalt pay for all!" He rushed upon Ariston, who tried to defend himself; but the pirate easily disarmed him and dragged him out into the room. The master of the house fell beneath a shower of blows.

"Now for the harbor! Our time is short," Syphax shouted, hurrying Ariston with him down the stairs.

The screaming and prayers of the women mingled with sounds of brutal merriment told him that his order was unheeded.

This time two of the wretches obeyed him, bursting from the room with loud guffaws. The others straggled after them, but several minutes elapsed before they were all assembled for the sally.

"Why not do it here?" one of the sailors asked, indicating Ariston, whose arm Syphax held in a firm grasp.

"Because I intend to make him remember Medon," the freebooter answered savagely. "You shall see sport when we reach the harbor."

A cold sweat covered Ariston's forehead, but he made no sound. His ear had caught the trampling of feet, and he hoped yet for rescue.

The sailors emerged into the street and turned toward the harbor. Just as they reached the first corner, a company of Thessalians, in pursuit of a few Tyrian fugitives, ran into them. No questions were asked. The swords of the cavalrymen were already out, and they drove them into the bodies of the men who were unfortunate enough to block their way.

Syphax alone had time to drop his booty and draw his sword. He saw that there was no escape.

"Thou hast been my evil genius," he cried to Ariston, "but at any rate thou shalt go with me to the Styx."

He plunged his sword into the old man's side. Before he could withdraw it, a Thessalian blade cleft his skull. Murderer and victim fell together.

The storm had blown over. The sinking sun shone crimson upon the twisted clouds far across the sky. In the quarter where the Israelites dwelt, amid the mourning and rejoicing, Pethuel, the high priest, raised his hands to heaven.

"Give thanks to Jehovah!" he cried. "Our enemies have fallen and they that mocked Him are no more! Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

CHAPTER XLVIII

THAIS GIVES A FEAST

Down in the secret passage the fugitives from the Temple of Moloch could hear no sound of the battle. Leonidas had snatched one of the perfumed censers from the hand of a quaking neophyte, and this shed a glimmer of light as he led the way.

"It is no dream, my beloved!" the young man answered. "I have found thee at last."

"Dear heart, I have longed for thee so!" she said, with a little sigh of content, as her arms stole around his neck.

Clearchus bent his head, and their lips met in the darkness. Thais heard the murmur of their voices.

"Oh, I have lost my sandal—and I am cold!" she exclaimed, in a tone of distress. "Chares, I am afraid you will have to carry me."

Leonidas uttered a sound that was something between a snort and a grunt and signified disdain, whereupon Chares laughed until the narrow passage rang.

Before they reached the palace it was in full possession of the Macedonians. They entered the room where the young men had left Azemilcus the night before, and found a portion of the squadron belonging to Leonidas busily searching there for plunder. The men stood open-mouthed when their captain appeared from behind the hangings. They looked like schoolboys caught in a forbidden frolic.

"He is fighting down there," one of the soldiers replied, pointing from the window.

"You will find us here when you come back," Chares cried after them. "We will fight no more to-day."

Leonidas overtook Alexander stamping out the last sparks of resistance in the northern part of the city. The young king, still glowing with the ardor of battle, greeted him with a smile.

"They await you in the royal palace with Artemisia and Thais," the Spartan replied.

"Good!" Alexander cried. "This will have to be celebrated. Let us see what has become of Azemilcus."

He led the way to the Temple of Melkarth, which was filled with fugitives and suppliants. The general feeling in the city that the God was on the side of the Macedonians had led many to seek his protection when no other remained. Some of them were even striving to remove the chains with which the image had been bound to the pillars.

Azemilcus and the chancellor came forward, surrounded by the priests of the temple. The two kings, one withered and shrunken and old, his brain cankered by the cynical knowledge of experience, and the other, in the fulness of his vigorous youth and generous enthusiasms, looked into each other's eyes. Alexander's face was grave and stern, but the mocking smile still hovered about the lips of the older man.

"I have been a king," Azemilcus replied, "but I am a king no longer. What is your will?"

"You may live," Alexander replied coldly, "but you have never been a king. Where is your son?"

"I would rather be in his place than in thine," Alexander said shortly. "Follow me."

Azemilcus shrugged his shoulders and gathered his robe more closely around him. To all who had sought refuge in the temple Alexander granted safety, and then, having issued the necessary orders regarding the city, he turned back to the palace.

The streets were encumbered with the dead. The bodies lay in heaps behind the broken barricades or scattered between them, where the fugitives had been stricken as they fled before the fury of the Macedonian charge. A wounded Tyrian raised himself on his elbow while the two kings passed, cursed Azemilcus, and died.

In the council room of the palace Alexander demanded from the chancellor an accounting of the public treasure of Tyre, an enormous sum in gold and silver, and gave it into the custody of his own treasurer. There, too, he received the reports of his captains, and with marvellous quickness despatched the business that they brought before him. The greater part of the army he ordered back to the camp on the mainland.

He ran to the apartment where he had left the lovers, and burst in, to find them nestled among the cushions, telling each other of all they had endured.

"Tell him that we will come presently," Chares said, but Thais promptly boxed his ears and slipped out of the arm that encircled her waist.

"I don't suppose there is a woman in the palace to smooth my hair," she exclaimed.

"Do you think Alexander will look at you?" Chares asked. "He has more important things to think about, indeed."

Nevertheless, Artemisia and Thais made Leonidas wait five minutes while they aided each other to make the best appearance possible under the circumstances, before they followed him to the great council chamber. Artemisia entered shyly, casting down her eyes before the bold glances of so many men; but Thais walked beside Chares with head erect, her red lips parted in a smile, and a gleam of excitement dancing in her eyes.

With the license that Alexander permitted, the captains raised a shout of welcome when Chares and Clearchus appeared. Before Artemisia could catch her breath, she was standing in front of Alexander, and Clearchus was presenting her to him.

"She looks like a rosebud when the dew is on it," Clitus whispered to Hephæstion.

Alexander himself was not free from embarrassment when he greeted Artemisia, for he knew nothing of women, not yet having met Roxana; but he took her hand and praised the bravery of Clearchus, at which she blushed and smiled.

Thais looked the young king frankly in the face. "We bid you welcome to Tyre," she said.

There was something in the unconquerable vitality of her gaze that reminded him of his mother, although Olympias' eyes were dark and the eyes of this girl were yellow, if any color could be assigned to them that seemed a blend of all.

"It was worth fighting for," he said, returning her look with unconcealed admiration. "But sometimes I wish I were not Alexander," he added, turning to Chares with a smile.

"And I thank the Gods that thou art indeed Alexander," the Theban replied, drawing Thais closer to him.

"You four shall be my guests to-night," he exclaimed. "Azemilcus will provide the feast."

"If that be so, we will eat elsewhere," Alexander answered, frowning and looking askance at the Tyrian.

"If you will permit me to manage it," Thais said, "Phradates shall furnish the feast."

"He was our captor here," Thais replied, "and he is a man of some good qualities, though he has others also."

"He is the messenger whom you sent from Thebes to carry word to King Azemilcus of your coming," Clearchus explained.

"I remember," Alexander said. "I would like to see him again and ask him whether he delivered the message. So be it, then."

Bidding the Companions follow, Alexander suffered Thais to lead him to the house of Phradates. It was still closed and silent, but Chares and Clearchus beat upon the door with their sword-hilts and demanded admittance in the name of Alexander. Mena, recognizing the king through the wicket, thought it best to open, since he knew that resistance would be in vain. The door swung back, and he prostrated himself at Alexander's feet.

"Welcome, O son of Philip," he said. "The house of my master and all that was his belong to the Conqueror of the Earth."

"Alas, he is dead!" the Egyptian answered. "He received a fatal wound while fighting on the walls, and they brought him home. He died in my arms."

"It is a lie!" the old nurse screamed, from among the slaves clustered in the back of the hall. They tried to stifle her voice, but Alexander commanded her to come forward.

"I was his nurse," she said, in her cracked and broken voice. "They brought him wounded to this door, and Mena—this man here—would not permit him to enter. He was not always kind to me, but I loved him; for how often when he was little have I held him in my arms! So I stole away and brought him in by another door, thinking to save him, for he was so weak from his wound. And then Mena stabbed him, and he died. Vengeance, O king; thou art strong!"

He motioned to his guard, who seized the Egyptian and held him fast. "Were others concerned in this?" he demanded of the nurse.

"Then let them have no fear," he said. "They shall be unharmed. I give them and this house to Thais."

"Take him away," Alexander said. "I see you know how to punish," he added, turning to Thais.

"I thank the king, both for that and for his gift to me," she replied demurely. "I was sold at Thebes."

By her order the slaves conducted Alexander to the bath and waited upon the Companions who began to arrive. She caused the body of Phradates to be carried to his own chamber, where it was left in the care of the old nurse. With the aid of Artemisia, she superintended the preparations for the feast, giving especial care to the selection of the wines and to the decoration of the hall in which the tables were spread.

Masses of oak leaves from the gardens of Melkarth's temple hid the columns, and from among them shone hundreds of lamps and torches, shedding their light upon the platters of gold and trenchers of silver, interspersed with flagons of colored glass of the finest workmanship, that weighed down the tables. The couches were covered with silks of many hues and piled with yielding cushions.

Pyramids of flowers from the roofs of the houses were disposed upon the tables, and for each guest a wreath was prepared. The warm, perfume-laden air throbbed with the music of flutes breathed upon by invisible musicians.

Thais had caused soldiers to be sent to the Temple of Astoreth, where the priestesses, with many lamentations, supplied them with pheasants from the sacred flock, and these, with abundance of fish from the harbors, pastries, and sweetmeats, disguised the poverty of the larder. Alexander was accustomed afterward to drive his cooks and stewards to despair by commanding them to provide a banquet like the one that Thais had given; for, try as hard as they might, he never could be brought to give his approval, but persisted in declaring that the feast of Thais remained unequalled.

The secret was that there never after came a time when the young king was so well satisfied with himself and his fortune, when his friends were so inspired, and when the future held so much promise. The battle of Issus had been won, and the strongest fortress in the world had been taken. The shores of the sea, from the Hellespont to the Nile, had been conquered and held. Alexander knew then that no power on earth could stand against him. He foresaw the overthrow of Darius and the spread of his own dominion to the confines of the world. Great thoughts and limitless projects were stirring in his mind. He felt himself half a God, and he wondered at his own power. There was yet no bitterness of anxiety to contaminate the pleasure of anticipation, which always in ambitious hearts so much exceeds that of realization.

The feelings that animated the young leader were shared in greater or less degree by his followers. Even Hephæstion forgot to sulk because his place on the right of the king had been given to Artemisia. Thais sat on his left, and beyond her reclined the lazy bulk of Chares. Each man looked his neighbor frankly in the face, sure of his sympathy, and all felt toward Alexander an affection and generous admiration in which there was no selfish thought.

What wonder that, in after years, when suspicion and insidious pride had poisoned the mind of the young king, and when the free-hearted soldiers there gathered together had fallen away from each other, each hoping evil to his comrade that he himself might profit thereby,—what wonder that Alexander remembered the feast of Thais as the happiest of his life? But of the sorrows that were to come none then knew or even guessed, unless it was old Aristander, to whom all paid honor because his prophecy of the fall of Tyre, that the king himself had deemed impossible, had been fulfilled. And even Aristander was cheerful that night beyond his custom, forgetting the future in the present.

So the young men rejoiced in their strength, in their hopes, and in the honest affection that warmed their hearts toward each other. The hall was filled with laughter, and their jesting left no scars. The wine expanded and stimulated their minds instead of their passions, and when Callisthenes, at Alexander's request, recited the immortal description of the fall of Troy, the majestic periods of the epic drew tears of emotion to their eyes, and every man of them became a hero.

"If I were to bid thee crave a gift at my hands, what would it be?" Alexander asked of Artemisia.

"That is much to ask of a general," Alexander said, affecting hesitation. "I would rather you had demanded his weight in gold; but which one?"

"Here he is," said Artemisia, blushing still more deeply and laying her hand in that of the Athenian.

"I suppose I must give him to thee," the young king said. "Let the chief priest of Melkarth be summoned."

"I will fetch him myself," Clearchus cried, leaping from his couch, and he hurriedly left the hall amid the approving laughter of the company.

The priest was found, the marriage contract drawn and signed, and while Alexander joined their hands, the words were spoken that made Clearchus and Artemisia one. The captains rose to their feet, each with a brimming goblet, and they drank the health of the bride with a cheer such as they had not given since they charged the squadrons of Darius. With heart-felt freedom they showered good wishes upon their comrade, and loud were their protests when Alexander broke up the feast to return to the royal palace.

Leonidas remained, with a few men of his troop, to guard the house, and he and Chares sat for hours with a flagon of wine between them, talking of all that had passed since the day when they rode at dawn into Athens in search of Clearchus.

In the lofty chamber where Artemisia and Thais had spent so many weary days waiting for the coming of deliverance, Artemisia stood with Clearchus at the window that looked toward the Macedonian camp. The cloud-wrack had vanished, and the sky was thickly sown with great stars that seemed to look down upon them with friendly gaze. The young man's arm clasped his bride warm and close, and her dear head rested against his breast. He kissed the soft coils of her hair; but she lifted her lips to his, and he saw that her blue eyes were swimming with tears of happiness.

Leonidas, who had gone about his duties long before his friends were stirring next morning, returned at midday and placed in Artemisia's hands a mysterious package.

When Artemisia opened it, out poured a magnificent double necklace of rubies, so large and pure that she could not help kissing him, at which the Spartan blushed like a boy.

"I found them under the idol," he said. "For once, the chancellor told the truth."

CHAPTER LXIX

CHARES FINDS REST

Again Alexander and Darius stood face to face, this time upon the plain of Nineveh at Gaugamela, the Camel's House, beyond the swift Tigris. Chares and Leonidas felt the chill of autumn in the air as they strolled out upon the earthen ramparts that sheltered the Macedonian camp. The wide plain below them, where they knew the Persian host was assembled, was shrouded in mist.

Both were silent, and both were thinking of Clearchus, whom they had left behind in Egypt, in the new city that Alexander had founded at the mouth of the Nile, giving it his own name. There he was building the house that was to shelter him and Artemisia amid its gardens, within sight and sound of the sea; for when he learned of the wreck of his fortune, he had no desire to return to Athens.

"We shall soon know who is master," the Spartan said, gazing toward the mist-wrapped plain.

"I believe I would rather go back to sleep than fight," he said. "I don't know what has come over me."

Leonidas shot him a quick glance, and it seemed to him that the Theban's face had aged and grown grave over night.

"I wonder what Clearchus and Artemisia and little Chares are doing," Chares went on. "I would like to see them again. May the Gods give them happiness!"

"Yes, and I shall be happy too when you have built your palace beside them," Leonidas replied. "It will have to be a palace, for Thais will be satisfied with nothing less."

"That is not for me," he said. "I shall never have a home and children of my own."

"I know not," Chares said reflectively. "Watch over her, Leonidas, if I am not there to do it. She loves me."

"You talk like a sick man," Leonidas exclaimed, "yet you were never better. What is the matter with you?"

"Who can speak of to-morrow?" Chares replied. "You know, Leonidas, that I am not afraid, and yet somehow I care not. You and Clearchus I must leave sometime, and whenever that time comes, it will be a regret to me; and Thais, of course, will grieve; but she will recover. She is not like Artemisia. I think something is lacking in me. I have taken pleasure in life, but I am tired of everything. My city exists no more. Perhaps I am being punished for taking service under the man who destroyed it. I do not know—or care. Let be what will be."

"When you hear the trumpet, you will forget all this folly," Leonidas said impatiently. "You are young and you have everything to live for. That palace will be built yet; and when our heads are gray, we shall be sitting there, telling each other of this battle. See, they are waiting for us. They have been there all night."

The mist was lifting in undulating billows and twisted scarfs of vapor, floating away into the upper air. Before them was mustered the might of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Away to the left and right spread the army of the Great King, a wilderness of bright plumes and glittering helmets. The spear-points, emerging from the mist, caught the rays of the sun like diamonds. Rank on rank they stood, so deep that the young men could not distinguish where the files ceased. Far on their right was the Bactrian cavalry and the Persian horse under the cruel viceroy Bessus, who had unwittingly saved Chares and Clearchus from the Babylonian mob. They could make out the banners of the Susians, the Albanians, the Hyrcanians, the fierce Parthians, the Syrians, the Arachotians, the Cadusians, the Babylonian levies, the haughty Medes, the dusky squadrons from beyond the Indus, the warriors from the shores of the Red Sea, the Mesopotamians, the Armenians, the Cappadocians, and the mongrel tribes of mixed blood. From the flaunting banners they could read the muster-roll of the nations that bowed to the will of Darius.

In advance of the first rank stood a line of huge, swaying brown bulks. They were the royal elephants, stationed there to drive a pathway through the Macedonian army for the Great King. Leonidas wondered at their number and size. On both sides of them stretched rows of chariots, with axles and neaps that terminated in long, curved scythe-blades. Behind the elephants was the royal squadron of ten thousand picked riders, and in its rear Darius had stationed himself, surrounded by his kinsmen, and protected on either side by bodies of Greek mercenaries. All the plain in front of the vast array had been made as level as a floor, so that the chariots might find no obstacle in their advance.

"This will be the last battle," Chares said indifferently. "If we win here, the empire is ours."

"I'm not so sure of that," Chares said, measuring the host of the enemy with his eye. "There are more of them than there were at Issus, and here they have room to move."

A trumpet sent its bold notes from the Macedonian camp. The call was taken up by others, rose, and died away. Presently the first squadron of the phalanx wheeled out upon the plain, and began marching slowly and in silence down the gentle slope toward the Persian van.

"We must get into our armor," Chares said, and the two friends hastened down from the rampart.

The camp was swarming like a great beehive. Rough shouts of greeting, jests, and salutations were heard on every side as the soldiers hurried to join their commands. The army was in high spirits at the prospect of a decisive grapple, but the heaviness that oppressed Chares' mind refused to yield to the general enthusiasm. He made his way through the crowds to the purple pavilion set apart for Sisygambis, the mother of Darius, and his children. The beautiful Statira was no longer there. She had died in her captivity.

He was admitted to an anteroom of the tent while a slave carried his message. Thais answered the summons quickly. A proud smile parted her lips when she saw the powerful form of the Theban, clad in resplendent armor; but it vanished when she looked into his face.

He took her hands and bent down to kiss her, while the plumes of his helmet fell about their heads.

"I have but a moment," he said. "Farewell, Thais; you have loved me better than I deserved."

"Chares!" she exclaimed, with a sinking of the heart that caused her voice to flutter. "Why do you speak to me like this? I have loved you and I do love you with all my heart—with all my heart! Never have I loved another, and I never shall. Without you I should die!"

She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around his neck. "You are all I have!" she cried, with a sob.

"Thais," he said, holding her close, "if I come not back to you, promise me that you will accept what the Gods send. They are wiser than we."

To Thais it seemed as though the world was slipping away from her. He had gone to battle before, and she well knew its chances; but he was so brave and strong that she had never really feared for him and for herself. What would become of her without him? She remembered what she had been before she knew him. The future would be worse than a void. The thought of it stabbed her heart like a knife.

"If you come not back!" she cried, clinging to him with all her strength. "But you will come back, Chares—tell me that you will! Tell me that you will come back for my sake. I cannot let you go!"

"I will come back if the Gods permit it," he said, kissing her once more, "but promise me, my love, for the time is short."

"I promise," she said hastily, "but, O my heart, guard thyself in the battle; for it is thy life and mine thou bearest!"

She felt his arms press her closely and tenderly, and then he was gone. She turned slowly back to the inner rooms of the pavilion, where the queen mother sat with her little grandson in her lap. Sisygambis had taken a fancy to her, especially since the death of her daughter-in-law, whom Thais had tended in her illness. She turned her face toward her, stamped with traces of sorrow.

"My son is there!" the queen said. "May Astoreth have him in her care. But whichever way the battle goes, either I or thou must weep. Our hearts are their playthings!"

As the Companions emerged from the camp, they passed through the ranks of the Thracian infantry, left behind to protect it, and saw the phalanx forming on the plain. They swung into the battle line on its right, behind the archers and the javelin men. The Persians overlapped them on both flanks by half a mile.

Never had Chares seen Alexander so confidently at ease as when he rode along the line in his bright armor, his white plumes nodding as he looked to see that all was in readiness. His eye was clear and his brow was untroubled in the face of those tremendous odds, although he knew that his fate depended upon the issue of that day. He took his place beside Clitus on the extreme right wing of the army, with the squadrons of Glaucias behind him.

There was a stir in the Persian host, and the terrible scythed chariots, drawn by horses that were lashed to madness, bounded forward across the interval that separated the two armies. At the same time the elephants began to move, and the Persian centre advanced to the attack.

Chares had hardly time to note this movement before the Bactrian and Scythian cavalry under Bessus swept down upon the Companions. Alexander ordered Mœnidas and the Greek mercenary cavalry to meet the charge. The Greeks galloped bravely to oppose the onset, but the rush of the Bactrians scattered them like chaff. The Pœonian cavalry under Aristo was then sent forward with better success. The wild troops of Bessus were curbed and forced back for a space, and Chares could see the bull-necked viceroy raging among them in a frantic endeavor to make them stand. Finding all his efforts in vain, he ordered the main body of the Bactrian cavalry, fourteen thousand in all, to charge. They left their place in the left of the Persian line and thundered down upon the Pœonians like an avalanche.

Not until then did Alexander turn his face to the impatient Companions. He raised his hand as a signal to make ready. Each man gathered his bridle reins more firmly, and tightened his grasp on his spear. A page scurried back to Aretes, who had been posted in the rear of the main line as a protection to the flank, telling him to charge with his splendid lancers. Then the Companions rushed forward, with Alexander at their head, and with their plumes fluttering like foam on the crest of a wave.

Squadron by squadron, they tore into the enemy's lines, while Scyth and Bactrian went down before them. Swift and deadly as a falcon, Aretes swooped upon Bessus' flank, throwing it into confusion. But the viceroy refused to yield, and the stubborn righting continued.

Meantime the dreaded scythe-bearing chariots had neared the phalanx, which it was their task to break. The soldiers clashed their spear butts against their shields with a clangor that frightened many of the horses beyond control. The light-footed skirmishers in advance of the line shot their arrows into the sides of the animals, or risked their lives to sever the traces of their harness. Some of the horses wheeled and galloped back into the Persian horde. Others were killed upon the sarissas that pierced their necks. A few of the chariots reached the line, that opened hastily to let them through, and both horses and charioteers were slain at leisure in the rear.

The elephants, from which the Great King had hoped so much, proved as useless as the chariots. Bewildered in the clamor raised by the phalanx, and maddened by the wounds inflicted upon them by the archers, they rushed about the field, trumpeting wildly, and trampling the Persians in their search for escape. Darius saw them, and his brow clouded.

With the first stride of his horse when the Companions charged, Chares felt his heart leap and the glow of joy in battle warm his veins. Misgiving and foreboding fell from him. He struck with mighty blows, spurring his horse forward into the Bactrian ranks until he could go no further. When his squadron fell back to give place to another, he refused to follow it, but remained there, fighting until the fresh troop in its charge surrounded him and bore him forward. Even when the Bactrians began to give way, and Alexander, leaving them to Aretes, directed the trumpeters to draw off the Companions, the Theban would not go. The young king, who happened to be near, spoke to him sharply.

Chares reluctantly complied. His eyes were bloodshot and his face flushed like that of a drunken man. To ease the throbbing of his temples, he loosed his helmet and threw it upon the ground.

Alexander's eye, keen as a hawk's, glanced along the front of the Persian line, and his heart leaped as he saw a wide break in the ranks just at the left of the centre, where Darius stood in his chariot. The Susians had shifted slightly toward Bessus, in order to give him their support, and a gap had opened between them and the Greek mercenaries who guarded the Great King on that side. The Macedonians had been ordered to fight in silence, so that the trumpets might be heard, and now their varied notes rang across the field. At the first signal, the hypaspists under Nicanor detached themselves from the line and came forward at a run. Another call, another, and another, brought the veterans of the phalanx swinging in behind them. Rank on rank, the tough fighting men of Cœnas, Perdiccas, Meleager, and Polyspherchon fell in with the rapid precision of cool discipline, forming a solid column that fronted toward the gap.

Alexander gave the word to the Companions to place themselves at the head of this enormous wedge, and then, with a shout that rolled far across the plain, it hurled itself against the Persian line. Into the gap rode the Companions, and after them pressed the heavy infantry. The matchless horsemen struck at the heart of the Persian host; the resistless charge of the men who followed them tore wide the wound.

Close to the snowy plumes that floated from Alexander's helmet in the front rank of the Companions streamed the yellow hair of Chares. The Theban fought with the strength of fury. His sword rose and fell, and every blow carried a death wound. A strange sense of unreality possessed him. He seemed to be fighting in a dream. Suddenly, through the dust and confusion of the trampled field, he caught sight of the figure of Darius, and every sense became acute. The Great King, wearing the royal robe of purple over his armor, stood erect in his chariot, shooting arrows into the Macedonian column. Between him and the Companions stood ten thousand Greek mercenaries.

Chares was seized by an overmastering and unreasoning rage against the tall, handsome man who had brought the vast horde together to oppose them.

"Darius! Darius!" he shouted, and spurred his horse so fiercely that the animal leaped forward, carrying his rider far into the mercenary cohorts. Alexander and the foremost of the Companions, among them Leonidas, pressed in after him. The Spartan shouted to him to be cautious, but he might as well have warned the wind. To right and left swung the terrible sword, and every bound of the frantic horse carried him farther forward. The ranks of the mercenaries were cleft apart. From every side blows were aimed at him, but the hireling troops were prevented by those who came after from closing around him.

Chares saw nothing but the pale face of the Great King. A sword gashed his thigh, but he did not feel the wound. An arrow pierced his shoulder. He snapped off the shaft so that it might not interfere with the sweep of his arm.

Darius looked toward the left, and his eyes met those of the Theban. He saw the strokes that were rained upon his armor; he saw the darts that were aimed at him. At every breath it seemed that he must go down, and yet onward he came, and his gaze never left the royal chariot. The Great King noticed that his lips were stained with bloody froth and that his hair was roped and matted with sweat. A chill settled about the monarch's heart. It seemed to him that the yellow-headed giant, whom nothing could stay, would surely reach him; and yet he was incapable of movement. Like a man bound hand and foot by a nightmare, he stood awaiting his end. The man was now so near that he fancied he could hear the panting of his breath. The warning cries of his kinsmen sounded in his ears, and he knew that they were trying to throw themselves before him. Of all the Macedonian army he feared only this one enemy. Would he succeed in reaching the chariot? No! His horse had swerved aside. Darius saw him grasp a javelin that was being thrust at his breast, and wrest it from the hands of the man who held it. He was about to cast. The Great King could see the glitter of the point of steel. Something grazed his arm, and the haft of the weapon quivered across his heart, its blade buried in the side of his charioteer.

Darius drew a shuddering breath of relief, and opened his eyes. He saw the great roan steed that bore his foe rear high above the heads of his guard. Its fore legs struck aimlessly at the air, and the face of its rider was hidden in its tossing mane. Then, with a scream of agony, the horse fell backward, and a hundred mercenaries swarmed upon him, thrusting and thrusting with their short swords.

The Great King was saved; but he knew that the battle, upon which he had staked all, was lost. He saw the eager faces of the Companions, and beyond them the solid wall of the phalanx, sweeping nearer, like a resistless tide. He stepped across the body of his charioteer and mounted a horse. Before his feet were in the stirrups he heard the ominous cry, "The king flees!" that had run before the rout at Issus, and by the time he reached the spot where the rear guard of his army should have been, the dust-cloud raised by hurrying hoofs and flying feet obscured the sun.

Slowly, from among the dead, Chares raised himself, and gazed with dimming eyes toward the place where the Great King had stood. Only the broken chariot and the dead were there, but far away he saw the ebbing tide of the battle. A smile flickered upon his lips, his head sank upon the side of his brave horse, and his blue eyes closed. "Sleep and rest!" he thought, and the darkness swept over him.

CHAPTER L

PROMISES FULFILLED

In the great Hall of Xerxes, in Persepolis, the city whose streets had never been trodden by the feet of an enemy since the first Cyrus overthrew the Medes and founded the Achæmenian line, Alexander feasted with his friends. Two months had passed since the empire that Cyrus won had been wrested from Darius at Gaugamela. Susa had fallen, and the might of Persia was shattered forever.

Terrace above terrace, from the limpid waters of the Araxes, fed eternally by mountain snows, rose the wonderful palaces upon which the revenues of generations had been lavished. There the grandeur and majesty of the masters of more than half the world had bloomed into visible form. There Cyrus and his successors had been accustomed to seek refuge from the summer heat, and to lay aside the cares of empire for luxurious days amid the myriad blossoms of their gardens and the fairer flowers of their effeminate courts.

The huge monoliths of the Hall of the Hundred Columns reared themselves from their hewn platform of stone. Around them were grouped the palaces of Cyrus and of Xerxes, of Artaxerxes and Darius, built of rare woods and polished marble, brought from distant quarries with infinite labor, that the eyes of the Great Kings might take delight therein. Each monarch had striven to outdo his predecessor in beauty and magnificence.

Broad staircases, guarded by colossal figures of soldiers, connected terraces, upheld by retaining walls upon which were sculptured enormous lions and bulls.

The palaces themselves were large enough to give an army lodgement. Their walls and ceilings were adorned with paintings commemorating the triumphs of the kings in war and in the chase. Upon the sides of the Hall of Xerxes, where the Macedonian captains were gathered at tables laden with vessels of solid gold, the petulant monarch, who had chastised the Hellespont with rods and who had given the temples of Athens to the flames, was represented in his hunting chariot, receiving the charge of a wounded lion. In the light of countless torches, the great paintings, the hangings, and the carpets spread upon the floor formed a background of rich color for the snowy garments of the banqueters.

Statues of ebony, lapis-lazuli, marble, and jade, brought from many a captured city, gleamed against the lofty wainscoting of golden plates, wrought into strange reliefs.

Alexander reclined upon a raised couch, covered with priceless Babylonian embroidery. In front of him the tables were arranged in the form of an oblong, stretching the length of the hall, and beside them lolled the veterans, crowned with wreaths of flowers whose perfume mingled with the heavy scent of unguents and incense. There were many women at the feast, each sitting beside her chosen lord. Some of them had been taken as captives. Others, released from the bondage of the harem, had formed willing alliances with the conquerors. They were admitted to the banquet on terms of equality with the men, according to the Macedonian fashion, and their light laughter, the brilliancy of their eyes, and the flashing of the jewels with which they were plentifully adorned lent a finishing touch of brightness to the scene.

But the beauty of the fairest representatives of a race famed for its beauty paled before that of Thais, whose gilded chair was set next to the couch of Ptolemy on Alexander's left. It was not so much the perfect grace of her form or the proud poise or her head, with its masses of tawny hair, that gave her distinction, as the spirit that shone in her eyes. Beautiful as she was, she had changed since the death of Chares. There was a suggestion of imperious hardness in her glance; she was less womanly, but more fascinating. The hearts of men turned to wax as they gazed upon her, even though something indefinable warned them that their longing would find no response in her heart. Yet warm vitality seemed to radiate from her, and the quick blood came and went under her clear skin with each changing emotion.

Habituated to the stiff formalities of the Persian court, the deft slaves who attended the Macedonians were astonished at the freedom of their manners. All the skill of the royal cooks was expended to prepare the feast. Scores of delicate dishes were brought in and set before the Greeks, but the master of the kitchens was in despair at their lack of appreciation. They devoured what was offered to them, it was true, but without a sign of the gastronomical discussion in which the Persian nobles were wont to indulge. The wine, however, was not spared, and the keeper of the royal cellars groaned over the havoc wrought among his precious amphoræ. The provision for a twelvemonth was exhausted, and still the thirst of the strangers seemed unabated. In the last and most ancient of the Persian capitals they were celebrating their triumph in their own way, and it was the way of men whose vices were as strong as their virtues.

The conversation, animated from the first, became livelier as the banquet progressed. The soldiers called to each other from table to table, pledging each other in goblets of amber and ruby wine as costly as amber and rubies. Faces were flushed and eyes grew bright. The stately hall echoed with laughter, in which the musical voices of the women joined. Old stories were told again, and time-worn jokes took on the attraction of novelty. The women provoked their guerdon of homage, and it was paid to them on hand and lip with frank generosity. The brains of even the stoutest members of the company were whirling, and some of the more susceptible to the influence of the wine began to slip unsteadily away, amid the jeers of their comrades, in the hope that the cool outer air would drive off their giddiness and enable them to see the end. Those who remained were all talking at once, boasting of their deeds, with none to listen.

Alexander, weary of the din, called suddenly upon Callisthenes to speak in praise of the Greeks. The orator rose slowly from his place and strode out into the open space between the tables.

"To whom shall I speak?" he demanded, gazing about him with an expression of disgust upon the babbling captains. "They are all mad with vanity and wine."

"Speak then to Xerxes," Alexander replied, pointing to the wall, from which the royal portrait seemed to look down upon them with a sneer.

Callisthenes obeyed. At first his voice was unheeded; but as his apostrophe gathered force, the chatter of talk died away around him, and all eyes were turned upon him.

Calling upon the dead king by name, he magnified his power and told how he had gathered the nations to the invasion of Hellas. The failure of his attempt he attributed to the jealousy of the Gods, who would not permit destruction to fall upon the country that was to produce Alexander. He described the heroic stand of the Spartans at Thermopylæ, and the victory of Salamis; and as he dwelt upon the bravery of the Greeks in the face of those overwhelming odds, the hall rang with the cheers of men who themselves knew what it was to fight and to conquer.

"By thy command, O Xerxes!" the orator cried, extending his open palm toward the portrait, "Hellas was made to blush in the flames that devoured the temples of her Gods upon the Athenian Acropolis; but the life of man is brief, while the Gods die not nor do they forget. Look down from thy chariot! Alexander, the defender and avenger of Hellas, holds thy dominions, and the nations that owned thy sway are bowed at his feet. Turn not thy face away; for the fire with which thou didst insult and offend the Gods of Hellas hath flamed across all Persia, until it hath reached thee at last!"

The rage that had been gathering in the breasts of the Macedonians at the recital of the wrongs that Greece had suffered could be repressed no longer. Clitus leaped to his feet and hurled his golden beaker at the painted face of Xerxes. In an instant the hall was in an uproar. The company rose with one accord and turned to Alexander, shouting for revenge. To their inflamed minds it seemed as though the injuries inflicted by Xerxes were of yesterday. The contagion caught the young king, who sprang from his couch and stood gazing around him, seeking some means of satisfying the desire for vengeance that swelled his heart.

Thais had been watching his face with lips slightly parted and a strangely intent look in her eyes, as though waiting for the moment to carry into execution some project that she had formed in her mind. While Alexander stood hesitating, she seized a blazing torch from its socket in one of the columns.

"He burned our temples—let fire be his punishment!" she whispered, thrusting the torch into Alexander's grasp.

"The Gods shall be avenged!" he cried, accepting her plan without hesitation; for the wine he had drunk and the maddening clamor of his followers had gone to his head.

He thrust the lighted torch against the draperies that hung behind him. A cry of horror burst from the slaves and attendants as the flame caught the heavy folds and ran upward in leaping spirals; but the cry was lost in the fierce triumphant shout of the captains. Every man grasped a torch and ran to spread the conflagration. The great Hall of Xerxes was enveloped in flame and smoke so quickly that the incendiaries themselves had barely time to escape.

Rushing from the doorways with the torches in their hands, the Macedonians hastened from palace to palace, scattering destruction. Clouds of smoke, glowing red above the leaping flames, rose over the marvellous structures that had been reared with so much toil. Tower and terrace, porch and portico, were transformed into roaring furnaces in whose heat the great columns cracked and fell with a noise like the rumbling of thunder. The lofty ceilings crashed down upon wonders of art and precious fabrics. The plates of beaten gold that lined the walls melted and ran into crevices which opened in the marble floor. Of the slaves, some perished in the flames; others fled with booty snatched from the ruin; still others ran wildly into the darkness, crying that the Macedonians were preparing to put to the sword all who dwelt in the pleasant valley.

The banqueters, driven back by the heat, watched the conflagration with shouts of joy while it slowly burned itself out, leaving only the gaunt and blackened skeletons of the group of palaces that had been the delight of the Great Kings.

Thais stood beside Ptolemy, beneath the wide branches of an oak where the glare of the flames she had kindled threw her figure into strong relief against the blackness. She held herself proudly erect, and a slight smile curved her lips as she saw the banners of flame leap upward toward the stars.

"Why did you do it?" the Macedonian asked, with an accent of respect that seemed out of place in a camp where women were held so cheap.

"I did it because of a promise that I gave to Orontobates when I was a captive in Halicarnassus," Thais replied. "I like to keep my word."

Something in her tone prevented the soldier, bold as he was, from asking her what the promise had been. She had already taught him when to remain silent, and he had learned that he must either submit or abandon hope of winning her. As he stood, drinking in her beauty, revealed in a new aspect by the firelight, he was puzzled to see her head droop, while two tears slowly gathered upon her lashes.

"Farewell, Chares, my lover!" she was saying to herself. "Upon thy funeral pyre my heart, too, is turning to ashes!"

"Thais," Ptolemy whispered, moved by her emotion without knowing its cause, "do not forget that I love thee!"

"I do not forget," she replied, "nor have I forgotten another promise that I made; for I think the Gods have sent thee to me. To-morrow I will be thy wife; and when this war has reached its end, thou shalt reign in Alexandria over Egypt with me at thy side."

So Thais, the Athenian dancing girl, kept her pledge; but through the length and breadth of the land ran the news that the home of the Great Kings had been laid in ashes, and men knew that, though Darius still lived, his power indeed was gone forever.

CHAPTER LI

AMID FRAGMENTS OF EMPIRE

Clearchus and Artemisia were walking in the garden of their home in Alexandria. Between the trunks of the trees, at a distance, they could see the roofs and towers of the populous city, and across the blue water, which began where the slopes of verdure ended, they could watch the white sails of ships bringing trade from all parts of the world. Ten years had passed since the palaces of Persepolis had crumbled into ashes. Alexander had been dead three years, and his body lay in the royal tomb at the mouth of the Nile, whither Ptolemy had brought it from Babylon, when the empire was divided among the Macedonian generals and he came to rule over Egypt in place of the rapacious Cleomenes.

Artemisia's figure had lost some of its girlish grace, but her blue eyes retained their clearness and her cheeks the delicate flush of her youth. Clearchus, too, was heavier than he had been when he fought among the Companions under Alexander, whom men were beginning to call "the Great."

At a turn in the path Artemisia placed her hand upon his arm and checked him. The silvery voices of children came from a sunlit glade among the shrubbery. They saw a boy of eleven years, clad in a short white tunic that left his arms and legs free, shooting with blunt arrows at a target that hung against a tree. Two little girls stood watching him, and after each shot they ran with eager laughter to find the arrow and fetch it back to him. Their fair hair gleamed in the sun. Artemisia's eyes sought those of her husband, and a smile of mother love transfigured her face.

Clearchus laughed. "You need not fear, my heart," he replied. "Do not the Gods owe us something? They are generous."

They heard a step on the gravel behind them, and Leonidas advanced with a smile and hands outstretched. He had changed little, excepting that a few gray hairs appeared at his temples and the lines of his face had deepened.

"Welcome, comrade!" Clearchus cried, running forward to meet him. "Whence come you? What news?"

"I come from the council in Syria," Leonidas answered, "and as for news, there has been another division of the world."

"He retains Egypt," the Spartan said. "Antipater is regent, with Macedonia and all Greece; Seleucus gets the satrapy of Babylon; and Antigonus, Susiana, besides what he had."

"I hope we shall have peace at last," Artemisia said, glancing toward the children.

"We shall have peace here, at all events," Leonidas said grimly. "None of the generals is desirous of sharing the fate of Perdiccas."

They sat down beneath a vine-grown trellis while Leonidas told them of the events that had led to the new distribution of the empire, describing the jealousies of the leaders and the ferment of revolt that was working in Greece.

"When will they stop killing each other?" Artemisia said sadly. "Has not each of them more than enough without trying to rob the others? Leave them to their quarrels, Leonidas; there is room enough for another house here beside us, and we will find you a mistress for it."

Leonidas shook his head and sipped the wine that a slave had brought for his refreshment. He knew that she referred to the site that they had reserved for Chares and Thais.

"It is too late," he replied, half regretfully. "As we have lived, so we must die."

Artemisia slipped her hand within that of Clearchus, while the Spartan followed with his eyes the glancing sails of a vessel whose prow was turned toward the north and the rugged hillsides of his native land. Their reflections were interrupted by the children, who had tired of their play and were seeking new diversion.

"Ho! Uncle Leonidas," shouted the boy, swooping down upon the Spartan. "Where did you come from? Tell me about the death of King Darius!"

He sat down beside Leonidas and composed himself to listen. The little girls took Artemisia prisoner and led her away to see a nest they had found, in which, they assured her, were funny little birds with no feathers on their wings. Leonidas, his eyes still on the receding ship, began the story that he had often told before. He related how the army came to Ecbatana, the gem of cities, with its seven walls each of a different color from the others, and each rising higher than the one outside it, and how they found that the Great King had fled up into the snow-capped mountains that overlook the Caspian Sea. He had with him Bessus, the treacherous; Oxathres, his own brother; Artabazus, the first nobleman of Persia, who commanded the Greek mercenaries; and a score more of the generals and viceroys who still remained constant to his fortune. He told how Darius wished to stand and fight among the rugged passes, but the others would not allow it; how Artabazus, suspecting their perfidy, besought him to trust himself to his Greeks, to which the Great King consented for the morrow; and how that night Bessus fettered him with golden chains and made him a prisoner in his litter.

The boy listened with sparkling eyes intent upon the Spartan's face, while Leonidas described how Alexander, finding the Persians ever fleeing before him, had left the foot-soldiers behind and struck out with the Companions across the desert to intercept them. The lad held his breath as he followed the desperate ride over the burning sands, where one by one the horses stumbled and fell, gasping, until only seventy riders remained. His cheeks flushed when he heard how a soldier had brought water to Alexander in his helmet, and how the young king, thirsty as he was, refused to moisten his lips because there was not enough for all.

Then came the charge of the seventy weary Macedonians in the gray of the morning upon the camp of the sleeping Persians and the panic-stricken flight of the cowardly army before them, too frightened even to look back. And there they found the Great King lying in his litter, stabbed through and through by the order of Bessus, who had hoped thus to win the favor of Alexander.

"And that was the end of Darius," the Spartan concluded. "Alexander was sorry for his death, and he spread his own cloak over him as he lay there; but I think it was better for him to die then than to live subject to another, remembering his former power. He was unfortunate in this, that he was not killed in battle, as all brave men should wish to be. He had an opportunity for that at Gaugamela, but he threw it away."

A picture rose before the Spartan's memory of Chares, lying with his broad shoulders against the side of his horse amid the dead, with a smile upon his lips, and he sighed.

"You have never yet told me what became of Bessus," the boy said coaxingly. "Is he still alive?"

"No," Leonidas replied, his face darkening. "He was betrayed in his turn, and Alexander ordered him to be killed in the manner of the Scyths when they punish traitors."

"There is Thais," Clearchus exclaimed. "Run and fetch your mother," he added to his son.

They rose and went to meet Thais, who was advancing slowly down an avenue of trees. Two enormous black eunuchs held a broad parasol above her head, and other slaves followed her, both men and maids, forming a train of escort. When she saw Clearchus and Leonidas, she spoke a word to her attendants, who halted, and she came forward alone. The sunlight, sifting through the branches that formed a green arch over her head, touched the burnished coils of her hair, flashing from hidden jewels and glancing upon the shimmering silk of her robes.

"She is more beautiful than ever," Leonidas said, gazing at her with admiration.

"My friends!" Thais exclaimed, giving them her hands. "It makes my heart glad to see you; but where is Artemisia?"

"Before she comes," Thais said, seating herself beneath the trellis and lowering her voice, "I must tell you something. The proofs for which I sent to Athens have arrived, and there can no longer be any doubt that we are sisters."

"Why not?" Leonidas asked bluntly. "You are a queen now, or will be one soon, and nobody thinks of—of the past."

"It is precisely because I intend to be a queen that I shall not tell her," Thais continued. "She could not love me more if she knew, and I will not be the means of bringing danger upon her or her children. We know the fate that awaits the kinsmen of princes. Did not Olympias cause Cleopatra to be slain with her babe in her arms? Has not Roxana murdered Statira, and is not Roxana herself, with the young Alexander, held in captivity? Nevertheless, I will tell her if you desire, and it shall be proclaimed throughout Egypt."

"May the Gods forbid!" Clearchus exclaimed. "You are right, Thais. It must not be told."

"Then I will destroy the proofs," she said, "and remain, as I have been, the first of my race."

All three were silent, thinking of the future, and Thais smiled faintly, as though at that moment she were conscious of the wonderful power that was to descend through her daughters, until it attained its perfection in the irresistible charm of that Cleopatra who was to see the conquerors of the world at her feet. Yet she sighed as her eyes met those of Clearchus.

"We know," the Athenian answered gravely, "and we do not blame you, since all of us must bow to the will of the Gods."

Artemisia joined them, holding one of her girls by either hand, while young Chares followed with his bow, concerning which he wished to consult Leonidas. There, in the vine-grown arbor, they sat talking until the shadows began to lengthen, and the afternoon drew to its close. Thais rose, lithe and graceful as an animal of the desert, and the slaves, who had been watching her, in a bright-colored group, from beneath the trees, scrambled to their feet.

"Come, Leonidas, the cares of state await us," she said. "Remember that you are a general now, and I am almost a queen, while these two have nothing to do but waste their time in being happy."

"Perhaps," replied Thais, and she moved away down the avenue with the Spartan, toward the retinue of slaves who stood waiting to surround her.

Clearchus and Artemisia watched them until the foliage hid them from sight, and then turned toward the house. Artemisia noticed that a rose bush, weighted with flowers, had swayed across the path, and she stooped to put it back into place. Clearchus slipped his arm about her waist and kissed her.

"That cannot be helped," he retorted. "You looked then just as you looked in the garden in Academe that morning when I found you among your roses—and I think I love you more now than I did then."

"We love each other more," Artemisia said softly, "because we did not know then what it would be to lose each other."

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CHAPTER
I.	THREE FRIENDS MEET
II.	WARNING FROM THE GODS
III.	ARISTON LAYS A PLOT
IV.	THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES
V.	THE BANQUET
VI.	SYPHAX EARNS HIS REWARD
VII.	THE RESPONSE OF THE ORACLE
VIII.	THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS
IX.	THE DOOM OF THEBES
X.	CHARES BARTERS HIS SWORD
XI.	THAIS
XII.	MENA READS A LETTER
XIII.	THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE
XIV.	ACROSS THE HELLESPONT
XV.	THAIS AND ARTEMISIA
XVI.	IN THE CAMP OF THE MERCENARIES
XVII.	THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARSH
XVIII.	GREEK AND BARBARIAN
XIX.	THE ROUT OF THE SATRAPS
XX.	MENA MAKES A DISCOVERY
XXI.	PHRADATES TRIUMPHS
XXII.	THE VISION OF DANIEL, THE VICEROY
XXIII.	IN THE WHIRLWIND'S TRACK
XXIV.	THE GORDIAN KNOT
XXV.	BESSUS COMES TO BABYLON
XXVI.	THE GREAT KING IS ANGRY
XXVII.	NATHAN KEEPS HIS WORD
XXVIII.	BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY
XXIX.	THE SLUICE GATE
XXX.	LEONIDAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION
XXXI.	ALEXANDER IS SURPRISED
XXXII.	THE WORLD AT STAKE
XXXIII.	THE CHESTNUT MARE
XXXIV.	IN THE PAVILION OF THE QUEENS
XXXV.	PHRADATES MAKES A WAGER
XXXVI.	TYRE ACCEPTS THE CHALLENGE
XXXVII.	THE JEST OF KING AZEMILCUS
XXXVIII.	MENA REVEALS A SECRET
XXXIX.	JOEL BRINGS BAD NEWS
XL.	THE GAP OF DEATH
XLI.	PRINCE HUR'S COUNTERPLOT
XLII.	A TRAITOR IN PURPLE
XLIII.	THI KING TAKES HIS REVENGE
XLIV.	THE REVOLT OF THE ISRAELITES
XLV.	MOLOCH CLAIMS HIS SACRIFICE
XLVI.	THE PASSING OF A GOD
XLVII.	SYPHAX SQUARES HIS ACCOUNT
XLVIII.	THAIS GIVES A FEAST
XLIX.	CHARES FINDS REST
L.	PROMISES FULFILLED
LI.	AMID FRAGMENTS OF EMPIRE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great