In an hour’s time he and Mantitheos were in the courtyard. It was dark. After waiting a short time they heard the guard go off singing a Persian song. All was quiet. Presently a rope was thrown over the high wall from outside. Mantitheos fastened the end securely to the trunk of a tree. To an athlete like Alkibiades, to haul himself up a wall even of that height was an easy matter. Mantitheos quickly followed, fear aiding him in his ascent. First Alkibiades, then Mantitheos, went down the other side hand over hand, and arrived at the bottom, with no greater injury than bleeding hands and legs. They found a strong, ragged-looking man, in an old Persian sailor’s dress, who, throwing the end of the rope over the wall, walked rapidly in front. The fugitives followed silently. A light shot for a moment from the warder’s gate across their path. The voice of the warder was heard calling after them. No one heeded it. The light disappeared. The three quickened their pace. The warder, suddenly roused by the noise, had cried out on his first impulse, then, realizing what had happened, held his peace. He had reason to believe that his lord, having shown his good faith towards Sparta and the king, would not be sorry for his prisoner’s escape. In almost less time than it has taken to write down this speculation on the warder’s thoughts, the fugitives had made their way down the narrow track leading from the citadel, had passed by the side of the ruins of the splendid temple of Kybele, built by the old Lydian kings, and burnt by the Ionians before the town was taken by the Persians, had forded the shallow Paktôlos, and were soon outside the unwalled town. There, in a thick wood on the northern ascent of the hill, they found three small mountain ponies tethered to a tree. The stranger—who of course was Agrestides—loosed them, the three mounted, and away they went! By a secluded path with which their guide had made himself well acquainted, they got into the wild mountain country of the Tmolian range, and on they rode through the dark, stormy night. It was the depth of winter; the rain at first, and then, as they got higher up, the blinding snow, blew hard in their faces. Progress was slow. They dare not keep the level road along the valley of the Hermos. The only safe path for them was on the ridge of the chain of mountains from Mount Tmôlos, over Drakôn, Clympos, and Mastousia. The ponies, native to the mountains, knew the path as well in the dark as by day, but their pace was very slow, and morning was breaking over Sardis before they had made much way. They reached at length a ruined temple of Artemis; there they hid themselves. Mantitheos showed signs of breaking down; all three were drenched and tired out.