Under his swift fingers the clay soon took the form of a youth. “Look, it is beautiful,” whispered Dryas, wondering. Now Eëtíon looked up impatiently, seized upon a plectrum as a tool, and began to work again in mad haste. More and more lovely the little youth became, not standing on both feet in the old hieratic attitude, but leaning forward with one leg advanced as if running, head thrown back and both arms outstretched toward an invisible goal. Time passed by, but Eëtíon was unaware of it. Now began the muscle modelling, dry, and at points stylized, yet lovely and alive, the delicate thighs full of strength, the spare abdomen showing the play of running muscles, the chest lifted and full of breath. “It is Ladas,” they cried, “Ladas, the Argive runner.” Now Eëtíon began to etch the hair in fine-drawn lines in the old fashion and bind it down with a fillet. Nikander saw at once that this figure was the result of long and intense imagining of the mind. Eëtíon could not otherwise have modelled with such swiftness. The skill, too, was no idle skill, it was the result of long hours of training and toil. At length it satisfied its creator. Eëtíon breathed deep, looked up and saw all the company gazing at him, and laughed a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Eëtíon!” spoke Nikander, amazed. “Surely you are not a sculptor!” Eëtíon hung his head. “I sometimes think I am,” he confessed. “But your father Euclides was a high-born citizen. He surely would not give you over to the sculptor’s trade.” “No,” answered Eëtíon. Then on the defensive, “But after all, Nikander, is there any nobler way of honouring the gods than by beautiful sculpture? What would Delphi be without its statues and its songs?” “Oh, but Eëtíon, this is _hand_ craft. See, your hands are soiled even now. Song is the work of the mind alone.” “But you use the hand to play the lyre,” said Eëtíon, quickly hiding his dirty hands in his himation. “Apollo presides over song,” retorted Nikander. “No such god fosters sculptor work.” “There is Hephæstos.” “The ugly lame god. By heaven, Eëtíon, you are no Hephæstos.” Everybody laughed. “The beautiful Eëtíon himself with the limping, grizzled one!” “I am serious,” insisted Nikander; “you must explain this thing. Who taught you?” “Ageladas,” answered Eëtíon, “but of course my father never knew.” “Ah, no wonder you model well,” said Nikander, for Ageladas, the Argive, was the greatest teacher of sculpture in Greece.