The childish face sleeping upon his arm reminded him of his mother—a resemblance he had not noted before, and very tenderly he carried her to her bed where Baltè was waiting. It was from a guest also that Theria heard the first whisper of The War—that steadily approaching war which was yet so far off that only the wise felt its dread. Theria was older at this time and understood more of what she heard. Her father one day entered suddenly bringing with him a stranger whose personality started her interest. Unremitting energy! That was the keynote of the man. He talked continually. Theria heard him even before he entered—the clear voice of the orator. His strange Attic dialect, his swift words made him a little difficult for her to understand. Fair he was, tall, blue-eyed, strong, something un-Greek about him. Nikander did not even see Theria this time. He was too absorbed in Themistokles. Their talk was first about the new play at Athens. Themistokles had just heard the first great drama. His heart was afire with the excitement of it. “It is new, utterly new and powerful,” he exclaimed. “Prometheus, it is called. Our Æschylus has outdone himself. The very gods come down upon the stage. And actors! We have never had such actors, Nikander. But it is the greatness of the play which creates them—the greatness of the play!” “The lines!” pleaded Nikander. “Tell me the lines.” And with ready memory Themistokles began. He gestured swiftly with his hands. “Flashing hands,” Theria named them. He puzzled her. Surely he was not Athenian—not quite moderate and serene—and his cloak with its border of purple and gold was a little too conspicuous of beauty. In the midst of a scene he broke off. “But here we talk of the play,” he said. “When I want to talk of dear Athens. Nikander, the Athenians are blind, every one of them, _blind_!” “Gracious,” laughed Nikander, “no one else thinks so.” “They will not believe that the Persian will come again. ‘Oh,’ they boast, ‘We conquered them at Marathon, that deed is done.’ But the deed is not done. Nikander, _you_ know the Persian will return. Ye of Delphi, are you so unaware?” He seized Nikander’s hand and Nikander sobered instantly. “Indeed we are not unaware,” he answered. “Oh, Nikander, the trophies of Miltiades will not let me rest. Such trophies must be won again. May the gods let me win them!” Nikander did not reply but Theria saw him search the man’s face, as if anxiously measuring him for some great need. “Have you news, Themistokles—fresh news?”