Surely after tasting so sweet a thing as courage he could not ever go back to cowardice. The Nikander in him grew to full stature in these moments. Oh, heaven! Eëtíon had fallen. Dryas rushed to him, holding over him the shield while he fought. More wounds were here. Then, Paian be praised, Eëtíon struggled to his feet. Where were they now? Out beyond Delphi, a mile out on the Daulis road and the Persians, Assyrians, Arabians, Ethiopians in full retreat. Oh, what was Dryas doing now? Struggling, shouting, brandishing his arms in foolish wildness, while Eëtíon and Nikander adjured him to keep still, that all was past. CHAPTER XXXVIII THANKFULNESS Surely never was a happier, humbler band of victors than these who now returned along the road to the Precinct. Nikander and Eëtíon bearing Dryas on a litter, the temple guardsmen now laughing aloud with some recollection of battle triumph, now awed into silence, as one of them told of the divine shoutings he had heard, or the terrible dealing of those rocks which fell from on high upon the enemy. The other Delphians who had rushed down from hiding in the hills kept silence. Every one of them was wishing that he had stayed with the guard in the Precinct. Outside the gate Theria met them with outstretched arms and tears of joy. She kissed Eëtíon and her father, and knelt down by Dryas’s litter, bending over him in love. “Darling Dryas.” Then, “Quick, I must help him.” Dryas’s face was white with pain, but he caught her hand. “I am safe now,” he whispered. “Really, really safe!” He closed his eyes. “He saved my life,” spoke Eëtíon proudly. “And fought better than any of us. Oh, my son. Dear, dear boy!” cried Nikander. “I saw him in the fight,” asserted one of the guard. “That’s true what you say.” In the entrance portico of the Precinct they set him down, while Theria sent slaves for water and wine and other slaves homeward for the remedies of her own. Soon she was bathing Dryas’s deep wounds, staunching their flow with the wine, setting the poor broken leg, which, while it would mend, would never let Dryas walk perfectly straight again. Dryas bore his pain with a look which ever and again started her tears, the look of a child come home. As soon as Melantho came to replace her Theria turned to attend Eëtíon’s wounds. She knelt before him, binding up his bleeding ankle, then carefully washed the deep gash in his shoulder where the sword had grazed over the top of his shield. Her heart sang with the task. Nikander, perhaps because he was an older, more skilful warrior, had received only scratches. Indeed the fight had not been long. The Persians had been conquered by the god ere ever man struck one blow. More and more Delphians crowded into the Precinct. The happy news seemed to have mounted on wings of its own to those who had been hidden on Parnassos.