They reached the
river; both banks were already lined by the Syracusan horse, who had
ridden on before, and stood guarding the ford: but there was no
stopping the wild rush of that maddened, desperate multitude. Down the
steep bank they plunged, trampling on one another, and flung
themselves open-mouthed upon the stream, with one thought, one wish,
overpowering every other impulse,--to drink, and then to die. Some
fell upon the spears of their comrades, and perished, others slipped
on the floating baggage, lost their foothold, and were swept away by
the flood. Yet still they poured on, by hundreds and by thousands,
drawn by the same longing, and thrust downwards by the weight of those
behind, until the whole riverbed was filled with a huddled, surging
mob of furious men, who drank, and still drank, or fought with one
another to reach the water. All this time an iron storm of missiles
rained down upon them from the thronging hosts of their enemies on the
banks above, while some, in the midst of their draught, were pierced
by the spears of the Peloponnesians, who followed them into the river,
and slew them at close quarters. The water grew red with blood, and
foul from the trampling of so many feet, but the thirsty multitude
still came crowding in, and drank with avidity of the polluted stream.
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