The wretched Athenians lay down supperless to snatch a
few hours of rest, intending, when all was quiet, to steal away under
cover of darkness. But when they rose at dead of night, and prepared
to march, a shout from the Syracusan camp warned them that the enemy
were on the alert, and they were compelled to return to their
comfortless bivouac. Three hundred, however, persisted in their
intention, and forcing their way through the Syracusan lines, gained
for themselves a brief respite from capture.
A whole week had now elapsed since the ill-fated army left its
quarters on the shores of the Great Harbour, and a few thousand
starving and weary men were all that remained of that great host. At
dawn on the eighth day Nicias gave the word to march, and they pressed
on eagerly towards the Assinarus, a stream of some size, with high and
precipitous banks, not more than two miles distant from their last
halting-place. They had still some faint hope of making good their
escape, if they could but cross the river. So they fought their way
onwards, through the swarming ranks of the Syracusans, who closed them
in on all sides, and thrust them together into one solid mass. There
was life, there was freedom a little way beyond,--or, if that hope
proved futile, at any rate there was water; and every fibre in their
bodies ached and burned with intolerable thirst.
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