CHAPTER ONE
HE HAD BEEN RUNNING a long time， so now there was a
sickness in him. The sickness came up from his belly in
waves， and it tasted vile. He thought about thrusting his
fingers into his mouth in order to relieve himself by
vomiting; but to do that he would have to take one hand off
the goat kid he had stolen; and besides， there was nothing
in his belly to throw up anyhow.
Where he was now， in the foothills of the Parnons， the
air was thin and sharp so that to drag it into his lungs
made a tearing. Behind him， the mountains were a soaring
bleakness， forbidding hope. Off to his left was another blue
~isting of mountains， the Taygetus， taller， bleaker stiU，
w~h their peaks glittering whiter than a cry in the morn-
ing~sun， though spring had long since come to Lakonia. He
could see far below him the river which his countrymen，
the Lakedaemonians， called the Eurotas， flashing silver like
a shield. If he could reach it， cross it， he would be safe.
But he knew what his chances were of doing that. Slight.
Or none.
He looked back to see if the villagers had given up the
chase. But they were still lumbering along behind him， clad
in their goatskins， bearded， filthy， looking for all the world
like a horde of lesser demons escaped somehow from
Tartarus， such minor fiends as Lord Hades employed to
torment the shades of the wicked among the dead. And it
came to him with a sudden contraction of his breath， his
heart， that they weren t going to give up. Not now; not
ever.
Poor as they were， a kid was an important thing to
them. But that wasn t the main point. The main point was
that he， A_riston， shouldn t have climbed so high into the
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