These small temples, being outside the Precinct wall, were poorly guarded. The boys crept nearer and rounded the corner just in time to see the man with some silver cups in his arms running down the hill. The boys gave chase. The man circled around so as to come up the hill again. The upper heights were always a fastness for robbers. The boys still followed, and above the road overtook the man. Dryas with a cry half like a sob leaped upon him while the slave at the same time tripped his heels. The fellow went down like a log, screaming in panic. The boys quickly possessed themselves of the cups. The slave with his own leather belt tied the man’s hands, and together the boys pulled the man down the road—he not resisting at all. They pushed him along toward town. At the edge of the village Nikander met them. In all his life Nikander never forgot that shock—first the fear, then the joy—as he realized that Dryas, spite of bleeding face and dishevelled hair, was safe and that he had done a brave deed. “Father, it is a robber,” Dryas was saying excitedly. “I caught him by the outer temples. See, he had the silver temple cups.” “My son,” said Nikander. “My son!” At sound of Nikander’s voice the man fell down again, howling like an animal in fear. And strangely, Dryas, too, broke into hysterical weeping. “Don’t let them kill him, Father. Don’t let them kill the man!” “But he has committed sacrilege.” “Oh, no—no, if they kill him I’ll die, too. Oh, I’m afraid! Oh, he would haunt me.” “Nonsense, Dryas.” Here the man tried to get upon his feet but tumbled down again. “Pitiful Hermes!” cried Nikander. “The wretch is starving.” Dryas, still sobbing, caught nervously at the man’s bonds and pulled them off. “Here, Son,” said Nikander. “Give him a drachma.” The poor creature snatched the money and seeing the look of relenting in Nikander’s face, sprang up the hill with sudden life. He was quickly lost among the crags. The incident soon got abroad in Delphi. The boys at school made a hero of Dryas. They had always liked him. Nikander, however, could not help recurring to Dryas’s curious, passionate weeping. He told himself that it was natural. The young boy should be pitiful. But the weeping had not seemed to be pity. Something selfish, almost craven was in it. And a look in the slave boy’s face made Nikander think that the slave had done as much or more of the deed than Dryas himself. Nikander pushed these thoughts from him and when Dryas’s praise came in from every side, Nikander gladly forgot them. For from this time the Delphians began to take notice of Nikander’s younger son. His beauty was growing every day. He had a voice high, clear, unearthly sometimes, and he played the lyre with firm touch while he sang. He was only fourteen years old.