Whatever attention had been given to the various events by those who cared especially for this or that peculiar form of emulation, it was all concentrated now on the closing contest. Some thought they could trace signs of anxiety on the face of Alkibiades, as he assisted Tolas to mount the lightly-built, well-balanced vehicle, and could catch almost a pathetic look as he stroked the manes of those dear horses who knew his touch, and neighed with equine love as they turned their heads and saw their master, giving promise that, come who might against them, they would do what in them lay to bring him glory and repay the care he had bestowed upon them. How many times in after-years he thought of those so cherished animals, their more than human fidelity! But now it was time to take his place among the great men and hide all traces of emotion. It was for this moment he had longed so many years, of this he had so often dreamt by night, to this, when a boy, he had looked forward as the great effort of his life—his worthiest effort. Now it was here—the very moment was arrived. He was speaking courteously to those near him—men whose names would live in their various cities for generations not yet born; but he saw them indistinctly, or as in a dream. His thoughts, his eyes, were there where ten chariots stood abreast and forty horses were waiting for the signal to be given, their hearts leaping with excitement, feeling as though wings had come upon them and they must fly. And off they went; the cries were deafening. Seas of faces watched them upon their way; seas of faces greeted them as they turned the corner and the first round was run. ‘Thebes and Boiotia!’ cried the crowd, as the victor of the first day’s race was seen to lead. ‘Thebes and Boiotia!’ yelled the Thebans, and all who took their side. Thebes and Boiotia seemed, indeed, to be about to gain the double prize. Here they come round for the last time, and the trumpets sound a gallant flourish. Now they near the end. Thebes and Boiotia first—not much ahead of Tolas there, just behind, as calm as his master tries to be—now scarcely ahead at all. ‘Ye gods, a hundred victims if I win!’ And as he stretched forth head and neck, forgetting his affected carelessness, among the mass of faces gazing all one way, peering to catch the first sight of the flying chariots, the horses straining every nerve and sinew of their frames, he met the great eyes of Sokrates turned full upon him. Some had come to sell their wares: painters to puff their pictures; sculptors to show their graven images; authors to recite their works, if they could get a chance; most had come to watch the games and races. Sokrates had come to watch mankind, and amongst them one he cared for more than all the rest.