The Timariotes remained behind, and Zaid began to send forward his Spahis to attack the retreating army in the rear. Odysseus slowly retraced his steps till he came to Puló. There his war-path stopped. His banner was no longer white, but red; it was sprinkled with the blood of the many heroes who had died in its defence. Suddenly, from the heights of Pindus above them resounded the tempestuous melody of the "Marseillaise," which the Greeks had adopted as their war-song, and rapid as a storm-swollen mountain torrent the Suliotes, with Kleon and Artemis in the van, hurled themselves upon the Turks. Omar Vrione was caught between two fires. It was too late to turn back, too late to reform his order of battle. His guns were useless, his cavalry could not move forward, and his infantry columns were so completely isolated that they could not render each other any assistance. The general saw that he could not save his army, but he was at least determined not to save himself, so he hastened to where the fight was raging most furiously. A wild, merciless _mêlée_ was proceeding between the inextricably intermingled foes. Forcing his way along, Omar Vrione suddenly encountered, in the midst of reeking powder and streaming blood, a tall youth with a blackened face, whom he at once recognized as Kleon. There, then, they stood, face to face. Three years before, when Ali had sent Omar Vrione to threaten the Suliotes, Kleon fled before him, and then he had called after the fugitive, "Stand, I would send thy head to Ali Tepelenti!" And there, indeed, Omar Vrione fell, combating, and Kleon cut off his head. How strange is fate! The fall of Omar Vrione sealed the fate of his army. The Turks fled wherever they saw the chance, leaving all their guns, all their flags, and all their officers in the lurch. The cavalry had no chance of escaping. Half of it fell, the other half surrendered. Zaid, in the moment of extremest danger, took his silver aigrette out of his turban and threw it away; then he changed caftans with his servant, and mingled with the rank-and-file, so that none might recognize him. It would have been much better for a child like him to have remained at home than to have gone hunting that old lion, his aged grandfather. The Suliotes surrounded Zaid's company. "Dismount from your horses!" exclaimed the clear voice of Kleon. The Spahis, full of shame, dismounted. "Which is your leader, Zaid?" cried Kleon, advancing. The edge of his sword was dripping with blood. "I am," said the servant who had changed clothes with Zaid, and he approached Kleon. "Bow down before me, thou slave!" cried Kleon, kicking him.