Nikander had returned to his aula and sat there with face of stone. The kinsmen had gone. He himself had sent the doom upon his sons. For him Delphi was already in the dust. The Persians had no need to destroy her. Suddenly a running step outside, and the door burst open. There in a flood of morning light came Dryas like Hermes running with outstretched arms. He fell at his father’s feet, embracing his waist, hiding his face in his lap. “Father! Father! Father!” he cried. Nikander fell forward at the shock of joy, trembling and unable to speak. Then he righted himself, heard as in a dream the boy in his arms talking to him. “Only some god saved me! I want to fight for you, Father—to fight at your side.” “You did not go with the spies? Not after all?” Nikander said dazedly. “Yes, Father, but——” Here Eëtíon, whom both had forgotten, stepped forward and touched Dryas’s shoulder. “They abducted him, Nikander,” he said clearly. “It was only by a ruse that I saved him. Oh, if you could have seen the joy in the boy’s face when I got him free.” “I see the joy in his face now,” said Nikander. Nikander believed because he so wanted to believe. “Tell your father how I fooled them,” urged Eëtíon, and Dryas between trembling and laughter told the story of Eëtíon’s red paint wound. But before he had finished, Nikander rose, took Eëtíon’s hand, and drew him to an embrace. “Oh, you good youth!” he said, “I can never thank you, never fully thank you. No kinsman shall be so dear as you.” Now the only shadow on Nikander’s joy was his anxiety for Lycophron. Dear gods, where might his son be now? Even if Delphi survived the onslaught of the Persians this sorrow would remain. Nikander could never speak his son Lycophron’s name. A slave brought their breakfast, and as they ate the figs and bread and milk they began to talk seriously of Delphi’s plans of escape. Many citizens had already carried their household treasures up the mountain to the Korykian cave. And the priests were now urging a further questioning of the god if perchance even yet he might reveal to them some way to save the Holy Place. Dryas entered into the plans with an interest and fearlessness which caused his father to look at him ever and again. What had happened to Dryas? What brave-minded god was thus changing his son? Such was their conversation when a temple slave came running in at the door past Medon, saying breathlessly: “The Pythoness, your daughter, is nowhere in the Pythia House. Is she here, Nikander?” Nikander hid his eyes confusedly a moment. “Yes,” he said, “yes, she is here; I had forgotten. I will bring her back myself and explain. Tell that to Tuchè. Dryas, dear lad, go you and fetch your sister.” The slave added with embarrassment: “And, Master, I was to tell you that Tuchè is very angry. They wish to begin the rites at once. Consultants are waiting and the priests are there. Aristonikè is too ill to go upon the tripod and they have no Pythia.”