Nikander swiftly took the lyre from Dryas’s slave and gave it into Theria’s hand. The girl received it with an almost hungry eagerness as though the song within her burned for expression. Every vestige of anger died from her. Something from within seemed to sweep her up into a mobile erectness, holding her delicately steady as a flame is held aloft.
She struck a deep chord from the lyre upon her hip and sang. To their astonishment, it was not Dryas’s song though haunted ever and again with bits of the Dryas melody. She tossed the melody from grave to gay with ease and in the changes swayed softly.
Wherefore, O Muse, dipping from highest heaven
Down through the ambient air
Com’st thou to me in my thick-walled shadowy chamber
To lay on my lips the honey of sweet song?
I am a woman, a spinner.
Not for such is the glory of singing;
Not for such the happiness free in the sunshine
of Pythian contests in song.