“Not yet! you forget I also have cleared the five; but, to prove to you that my jump was no fluke, I challenge you to five one.” “You’ll never do it, Maurice,” whispered Crispin in alarm. “Jump the five again, and let the match be a tie.” “I’m hanged if I will!” retorted the Englishman fiercely; “I have done better than five one at Oxford, and if it had not been for the gloves, I’d do it again. At all events, I’ll try this jump, Count Caliphronas.” In fair play the Count could not refuse the challenge, although he was pale with anger, so, knowing he would never clear that extra inch, went half-heartedly towards the start. Such a faint spirit is not conducive to victory, and Caliphronas not only touched, but fell heavily on the ground, much to his chagrin. Then it was Maurice’s turn, and, measuring the distance with his eye, he placed himself a little more than ten yards from the tape. Helena clasped her hands with nervous fear, the spectators held their breath, as Maurice, pale in face, but stout in heart, came flying forward, and, soaring upward like a bird, cleared the five one with consummate ease. There was a wild cheer from the crowd, especially from the British tars, who rejoiced greatly at the way in which Maurice was upholding the honor of England, and the victor found his two hands nearly shaken off by Crispin and Justinian. As soon as he could get free, he looked for Caliphronas, but the Greek, too petty-souled to bear his defeat, had vanished, nor was he seen in the arena for the rest of the afternoon. The games being concluded, Helena distributed the prizes, which were useful articles, especially selected by Justinian for these occasions. Caliphronas had won several races, and also the wrestling contest, but could not receive his prize, owing to his non-appearance, concerning which no one seemed sorry, so universally was he hated for his arrogance. Temistocles, Dick, Gurt, and others were duly rewarded for their prowess in the athletic field, and then Maurice knelt before Helena to receive his prize. Justinian had been somewhat puzzled what to give his guest, as the simple articles loved by the villagers were hardly acceptable to the travelled Englishman. Helena, however, solved the problem, and hastily twisted together a wreath of wild olives, which she placed lightly on his bent head. “For you,” said Justinian, as he arose a crowned victor, and kissed the hand of Helena, “we can have no fairer prize than the Olympian wreath of old.” “You should now have a Pindaric ode,” exclaimed Crispin gayly; “but alas! I am not Pindar, and you must be content with the old Archilochian shout, ‘Hail, Victorious!’” The valley rang with the cries of the delighted Greeks; and Caliphronas, seated on a summit of the grand staircase, heard the triumphal shouts with wrath in his heart.