So Nikander resumed his post. Sitting there, patiently playing, he was the more convinced that she would die. Even his anxiety for Lycophron faded before this unlooked-for sorrow. Nikander’s two sons were only by some physical chance his children. This girl was the child of his mind and heart. She loved what he loved, hated what he hated. She was his nearest of kin. His own! Why had he not known it before? At last, as Theria’s wide-open eyes half closed, he tried to believe she slept. So he lay down on a couch near at hand while the old slave Baltè watched. It was full morning when Baltè woke him. “Karamanor and Agis are in the andron to speak with you.” These were the young kinsmen whom Nikander had sent in pursuit of Lycophron. Nikander rose and went to hear what he must hear. The two young men waited solemnly. “It was midnight, Nikander, when we came up with the spies on the north road,” said young Karamanor gently. “They gave battle so quick that we had just time to fend ourselves even though we so outnumbered them. And Lycophron, even though we called and kept calling to him to come over to our side, that we had only come to save him, Lycophron laughed us to scorn. And, oh, Nikander, he fought splendidly, fiercely, like a wild boar. And so he fell. Two of the spies fell. The rest fled to the hills.” “He was fearless always,” said Nikander in a low voice. The young man put his arm pityingly over his uncle’s shoulder. He could not know that just now Nikander felt only relief in the death of his son. “We took an oath among us, we kinsmen,” said Karamanor. “All of us, an oath not to tell this thing. We will say that he fell in a skirmish with the Persians. Men are too troubled now to think. His absence will not be marked. Our words will be believed, if any of us, after the Persian onslaught, be left alive for beliefs or doubtings. Can we do anything further for you, Nikander?” “No,” said Nikander quietly. “May the Son of Leto bless you for saving my son’s honour. I must go now and tell his mother.” Dryas, who had been playing the lyre at Theria’s bedside, had stopped playing when his father withdrew. He sat awestruck, waiting. Presently Melantho’s death-wail for Lycophron sounded through the house. “Oh, look, Baltè,” whispered Dryas, through his tears. “Poor Theria does not even hear it.” Baltè bent over her nurseling. “She hears it well enough,” she answered sadly. “She hears, but she is too far to care.” CHAPTER XXXII TERRIBLE NEWS FROM THERMOPYLÆ Theria lay on her couch without change, except to grow weaker each day. Baltè had her own remedies. She brought a sieve and suspended it from the ceiling. Then she whirled it, reciting all the magic she knew and all the cures. At whatever cure the sieve came to rest that one she tried. But, alas, it did no good.