The Junior Classics, vol 7 | Page 7

shade." Two of the
300 had been sent to a neighboring village, suffering severely from a
complaint in the eyes. One of them called Eurytus, put on his armor,
and commanded his helot to lead him to his place in the ranks; the other,
called Aristodemus, was so overpowered with illness that he allowed
himself to be carried away with the retreating allies. It was still early in
the day when all were gone, and Leonidas gave the word to his men to
take their last meal. "Tonight," he said, "we shall sup with Pluto."
Hitherto, he had stood on the defensive, and had husbanded the lives of
his men; but he now desired to make as great a slaughter as possible, so
as to inspire the enemy with dread of the Grecian name. He therefore
marched out beyond the wall, without waiting to be attacked, and the
battle began. The Persian captains went behind their wretched troops
and scourged them on to the fight with whips! Poor wretches, they

were driven on to be slaughtered, pierced with the Greek spears, hurled
into the sea, or trampled into the mud of the morass; but their
inexhaustible numbers told at length. The spears of the Greeks broke
under hard service, and their swords alone remained; they began to fall,
and Leonidas himself was among the first of the slain. Hotter than ever
was the fight over his body, and two Persian princes, brothers of
Xerxes, were there killed; but at length word was brought that
Hydarnes was over the pass, and that the few remaining men were thus
enclosed on all sides. The Spartans and Thespians made their way to a
little hillock within the wall, resolved to let this be the place of their
last stand; but the hearts of the Thebans failed them, and they came
towards the Persians holding out their hands in entreaty for mercy.
Quarter was given to them, but they were all branded with the king's
mark as untrustworthy deserters. The helots probably at this time
escaped into the mountains; while the small desperate band stood side
by side on the hill still fighting to the last, some with swords, others
with daggers, others even with their hands and teeth, till not one living
man remained amongst them when the sun went down. There was only
a mound of slain, bristled over with arrows.
Twenty thousand Persians had died before that handful of men! Xerxes
asked Demaratus if there were many more at Sparta like these, and was
told there were 8,000. The body of the brave king was buried where he
fell, as were those of the other dead. Much envied were they by the
unhappy Aristodemus, who found himself called by no name but the
"Coward," and was shunned by all his fellow-citizens. No one would
give him fire or water, and after a year of misery, he redeemed his
honor by perishing in the forefront of the battle of Plataea, which was
the last blow that drove the Persians ingloriously from Greece.
The Greeks then united in doing honor to the brave warriors who, had
they been better supported, might have saved the whole country from
invasion. The poet Simonides wrote the inscriptions that were engraved
upon the pillars that were set up in the pass to commemorate this great
action. One was outside the wall, where most of the fighting had been.
It seems to have been in honor of the whole number who had for two
days resisted--

"Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land Against three hundred
myriads [Footnote: A myriad consisted of ten thousand.] bravely
stand."

In honor of the Spartans was another column--

"Go, traveler, to Sparta tell That here, obeying her, we fell."

On the little hillock of the last resistance was placed the figure of a
stone lion, in memory of Leonidas, so fitly named the lion-like, and the
names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at Sparta.
Lion, pillars, and inscriptions have all long since passed away, even the
very spot itself has changed; new soil has been formed, and there are
miles of solid ground between Mount Œta and the gulf, so that the Hot
Gates no longer exist. But more enduring than stone or brass--nay, than
the very battle-field itself--has been the name of Leonidas. Two
thousand three hundred years have sped since he braced himself to
perish for his country's sake in that narrow, marshy coast road, under
the brow of the wooded crags, with the sea by his side. Since that time
how many hearts have glowed, how many arms have been nerved at the
remembrance of the Pass of Thermopylæ, and the defeat that was worth
so much more than a victory!

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