Melantho came, and Dryas. One would have thought to hear the rejoicings in the house that no Persians were anywhere in Greece. Then presently Baltè was for sending them all away. They must not tire her darling. Theria clung to her lover’s hands. “Will you come again, Eëtíon?” she pleaded. “Say you will come again.” Nikander doubtfully opened his lips but Baltè waved a warning finger. “Indeed an’ he will, my darlin’,” she said with authority. “Old Baltè will see that he does.” And Eëtíon, leaping up, kissed Baltè’s withered cheek, at which Theria’s first sweet laugh was heard. CHAPTER XXXIV EËTÍON AND NIKANDER Nikander and Eëtíon went out hand in hand as was the custom of Greek men who loved each other. “Dear youth, what can I say to you?” spoke Nikander. “You have returned to me my two children, my son and now my daughter.” “I love your daughter. I love your daughter,” spoke out Eëtíon passionately. “Now you know it. I want her for my wife.” “Would you could have her,” was Nikander’s answer. “But can I not?” questioned the unreasonable youth. “My dear boy, you know she is priestess. I wish Apollo had killed me before I made her priestess.” Eëtíon clenched his hands. “She shall not go back to the Pythia House. She is too splendid, too free-minded.” “She shall certainly never go upon the tripod,” responded Nikander. “I will promise you that.” Eëtíon paced the room in bitter distress. “How could you make her priestess?” he said, forgetting all kindness. “How could you take away her last chance for action and noble living? You don’t deserve to be Theria’s father.” “Indeed I do not,” was Nikander’s sorrowful rejoinder. He laid quieting hands upon the youth. “We are in dark days, Eëtíon. Perhaps not one of us will be alive to-morrow. Let us not grieve over what may not in any case come to pass.” “The hope would be so much,” said Eëtíon with sudden tears. Eëtíon’s fortunate beauty made each emotion of his appealing, whether bowing the head in grief or lifting it with sudden smile. Nikander loved him for his grief and, forgetting his own bitter share in it, set about earnestly to calm him. “My dear boy,” he said, “in the coming battle you will forget this love for a maid. It will be unimportant in the light of great deeds. Men love other men with such devotion and companioning but hardly a maid.” “But this is Theria,” said Eëtíon childishly. “Yes,” mused the father proudly. “It is Theria.”