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

"And so do I," Chares added heartily, clapping the Spartan on the back.

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.

"Throw it into the sea," Leonidas suggested in an uncompromising tone.

"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 Piraeus. 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.

"City is full of soldiers," he gasped, wiping his forehead.

"Is there to be war?" Artemisia asked.

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

"And will he come here?" she inquired.

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."

"Why are they sending their army here?" she persisted.

"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."

"Can you not send me back to Athens before the war begins?" Artemisia pleaded.

"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.

"I have no room for her here," he cried.

"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."