Eëtíon had said to Theria that he was going upon an urgent quest. The quest was indeed an urgent one. Eëtíon set about it instinctively, not considering how little chance there was of its success. It was nothing less than to save Dryas.
Eëtíon had come to know Nikander’s sons well. He had met them in palæstra and lesche. Being foreign born himself, he had also often been thrown with the other young foreigners who were Lycophron’s friends. These men called themselves Athenians, but Eëtíon believed that they were really Ionians and that they were in Delphi for no good purpose. As for the men themselves, they were inclined to consort with Eëtíon as an Argive because of the secret league of Argos with Persia. And while they did not talk with him of their projects, they were less careful in his presence than they might otherwise have been.
Eëtíon, meanwhile, being ardent for the Hellenic cause, had kept quiet watch of the disguised Ionians and later of Nikander’s sons as well. He had hitherto found nothing worthy of note. But to-day a chance word of Dryas’s had given him a clue. Then by careful watching he had learned that couriers bearing the oracle were to be intercepted.
Dryas had a boyish devotion to Eëtíon, first because of Eëtíon’s beauty and also because of his prowess in wrestling and fast running, combined gifts which easily made a hero in Greece.
And Eëtíon, touched by the boy’s love for him, had wished many a day to save Dryas from his treacherous companions. This he had not dared to attempt because the weak boy would have babbled and all Eëtíon’s chance to watch the Ionians be lost.
But now Eëtíon thought he had a chance to save Dryas. Lycophron had gone to cut off the Thermopylæ messengers because he was heart and hand with Persia. Dryas had gone with those who were intercepting the message to Athens because of weakness and fear. Eëtíon, therefore, the instant he had given word to Theria, hastened to get a horse to pursue Dryas. Horses were few in Delphi where they were of so little use. He returned to the Great Temple where workmen painting the crimson columns had left their paint. Here he smeared a red gash upon his knee and stained the breast of his cloak. Like Odysseus, Eëtíon was a man of many devices. Then mounting, he hurried from Delphi along the Athens road. He trusted much to the swiftness of his horse. The spies must go at the pace of their worst steed, nor would they feel any special need of haste. So Eëtíon hoped to overtake them. The highway was very clear under the bright moon. It was a mountain road and mountain rough. But the Argives were lovers of horses and Eëtíon had not forgotten his early skill. Sometimes he held tight rein and rode with careful slowness; again, whenever the stretch was good, he dug heels into the flanks of his horse and galloped hard.
What man when at a gallop has not dreamed of his beloved? And Eëtíon had just seen Theria’s face again beyond all hope. So thin and changed it was, in its frailness almost like a child’s, and very pitiful. And oh, that little cry of joy when she saw him. That sounded again and again in his mind and mingled with the fragrance of the mountain road.
So he passed the town of Daulis. Some distance beyond Daulis he saw the men he was pursuing.
As soon as he neared them he began to cry out to them, cries of suffering and distress. He saw them stop. He dashed into their midst.
“For the sake of the gods, save me, save me!” he cried.
“What is it? What is it?” Ionians were always quick of sympathy.
“Robbers set upon me. I was going to Orchomenos on a mission. You fellows can guess what kind it was. But, oh, stop the blood. See, it trails in the road.”
At this Dryas dashed up.
“Eëtíon,” he exclaimed, going pale. “Great Zeus! Dear fellow.”
Eëtíon displayed his horrible red knee and leg and as he did so reeled in Dryas’s arms. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me.” Then Eëtíon lay in the road with closed eyes and heard them talking.
“We ought not to stop at all. You know that.”
“We’ve got to stop,” said Dryas’s voice, half weeping. “I for one will not let him lie here to die.”
“But we can’t leave you here, Dryas. We need you in Athens. Who will introduce us to Themistokles?”
“I won’t leave him, you’ve got to wait.”
Some of them drew aside, discussing the matter in low tones. Eëtíon strained his ear to hear. He heard a scornful laugh.
“Suppose we do leave Dryas here, will he join us in Athens? By the gods, he will! Wasn’t he beside himself to come?”
This was true. Poor Dryas was hoping to get ship from Athens and save himself in the Islands. He was terrified at the certain impending destruction of Delphi. He had ever pleaded to accompany the party.
“Very well, Dryas,” they said at last. “You stay. We’ll send you help. You can leave Eëtíon at Daulis. Then follow quickly. Do you hear?”
So they cantered away.
Dryas started off for water, but Eëtíon called him back again, allowing himself to revive.
“Get me on my horse,” he faltered. “I must get to Daulis if I can.”
“Dear Eëtíon, dear, dear fellow,” said the affectionate Dryas.
They remounted, and soon the distance was doubling between Theria’s brother and the killers of his soul.
At the edge of Daulis Eëtíon drove his horse close so as to touch Dryas’s arm.
“Dryas,” he said in a low voice, “do you want to do that vile deed?”
Dryas started violently, and Eëtíon caught his wrist. Eëtíon could throw Dryas at a wrestle like a child.
“What deed?” Dryas asked between chattering teeth.
“You know very well what deed. Will you let your father and your mother die without lifting your hand to help, while you save yourself—a renegade, a Persian serf?”
“Let me go, let me go!” cried Dryas wildly.
“Yes, I shall let you go, I will not bring you back against your will. That would be folly. But think. Perhaps your father already knows this. If so, he longs to die. Think of the shame, Dryas.”
Dryas began to breathe as if weeping.
“Think of the glory of fighting for Delphi,” went on Eëtíon’s low voice. “The rich glory. And if you will fight I will make you my brother-at-arms. Yes, even knowing what I know. You are a skilful fighter, Dryas. You will not fail in the fight.”
Suddenly the sobbing breaths stopped and Dryas sat up straight and urged his horse forward. “Quick, quick,” he said, “before they come back after me.” Then he reined in the gallop. “Eëtíon, forgive me. Your wound!” he said.
“My wound is red paint,” said Eëtíon, laughing. “Thus I was wounded for your sake.”
“And, and you came out for my sake——” At this Dryas began to weep indeed.
They passed Daulis, and hurried on under the setting moon. Dryas was silent now, only urging his horse so fast that Eëtíon had to check him for fear of accident. In the dark they met a party of men hurrying toward Athens as if mad. Eëtíon knew what they were and Dryas guessed, and he hid his face in his cloak as they rushed by. They were Nikander’s kinsmen riding to intercept those who would withhold the good oracle from Athens.
Toward dawn the two riders neared Delphi, and at the familiar road-sights Dryas lifted his face, saying to himself:
“Safe, safe!”
“Safe?” asked Eëtíon, “where the Persians will certainly come to harry and destroy?”
“Yes, safe,” answered Dryas, “safe from worse than the Persians!” and with Greek affection he reached for Eëtíon’s hand and kissed it.