struggle. Strong as I was even in boyhood, the Helot would have been
a match for Alcides. A shade passed over my eyes; my breath heaved
short. The slave was kneeling on my breast, and, dropping the club, he
drew a short knife from his girdle. I gazed upon him grim and mute. I
was conquered, and I cared not for the rest.

"The blood from his side, as he bent over me, trickled down upon my
face. "'And this blood,' said the Helot, 'you shed in the very moment
when I spared your life; such is the honour of a Spartan. Do you not
deserve to die?'

"'Yes, for I am subdued, and by a slave. Strike!'

"'There,' said the Helot in a melancholy and altered tone, 'there
speaks the soul of the Dorian, the fatal spirit to which the Gods have
rendered up our wretched race. We are doomed--doomed--and one victim
will not expiate our curse. Rise, return to Sparta, and forget that
thou art innocent of murder.'

"He lifted his knee from my breast, and I rose, ashamed and humbled.

"At that instant I heard the crashing of the leaves in the wood, for
the air was exceedingly still. I knew that my companions were at hand.
'Fly,' I cried; 'fly. If they come I cannot save thee, royal though I
be. Fly.'

"'And _wouldest_ thou save me!' said the Helot in surprise.

"'Ay, with my own life. Canst thou doubt it? Lose not a moment. Fly.
Yet stay;' and I tore off a part of the woollen vest that I wore.