A king, he thought, was rightfully more than power. He should be law. Yes, and a bringer of all goodly arts; a just man, who tamed wild folk more with his law than his spear--though he was also the one who taught them how to make war when war was needed--so far as the jealous gods allowed, a king should be freedom. And afterward, he thought wryly, when the king was dead, the people would bring back all the reeking past in his now holy name. But no, not quite all of it. Doubtless men slid back two steps for every three they made; nevertheless, that third step endured, and it was the king's. Phryne could show me how, he thought. As if in answer, he saw the little figure rise from the bush where it had lain concealed. Dwarfed by hundreds of yards, she came running in her Phrygian goatskin and rags; but Eodan's gray horse hammered those yards away, and he leaped from the saddle and caught her to him. She held him close, weeping on his cold steel coat. "It was not what I wanted, that you should come. It was not what I wanted." "It was what I wanted," he said. He raised her chin until he could smile down into her violet eyes. "I will hear no reproaches. Enough that I found you." "I shall never run from you again," she said. "Where you make your home, there shall Hellas be." Hoofs clumped at their backs. Tjorr coughed. "Uh-hm! The enemy is on his way, with hounds and remounts. And we've only two beasts. Best we flee while we can." Eodan straightened. "No," he said. "I, too, have run far enough." XX They rode up to the shepherd's house. Phryne struck the dog on the nose with her staff when it flew at her throat. It ran away, and she strung her bow and nocked an arrow. Eodan stayed mounted, the German sword in his hand. Tjorr went afoot to the door and beat on it with his hammer. "Open!" he bawled. Nothing stirred. He hefted the maul, swung it high and sent it crashing against the latch. The flimsy bolt cracked in two. Voices piped with fear in the dark hut. A shaking graybeard barred the entrance, holding a rusty old ax. Tjorr grabbed him by the tunic and threw him to the ground, not unkindly. "Out!" he said, gesturing. They shambled forth. There was only one woman, shapeless in a sacklike gown, and a dozen children. They looked so unlike that Eodan decided fatherhood was divided among the three herdsmen who had left their flock and were hovering timidly half a mile away. "Must we turn bandit?" asked Phryne in a troubled voice. Eodan considered her, clad in the same foul garments as the shepherds, but shining through it. He said bluntly, "This is no otherwise than smiting that whelp they kept." But because of her look he remembered certain thoughts about a king and fumbled in his purse. He tossed some coins to the ground. The grandsire sucked in his breath and crawled to shaky feet; the three men edged closer.