Suddenly his agony was transformed to anger.
“You—you—tell that tale, oh, how easily! It is not true. Leave me. I am beside myself. Your sins are more than I can bear. And now you add yet more. You will ruin my sons.”
“Father, Father,” she pleaded.
“My poor wicked Theria. What place is there for you anywhere? Not at home here, not in the Pythia House. Oh, I know not what to do for you. No, I will never believe that story. Leave me before I go mad!”
He was so beside himself that he did not notice when she shrank away from him and staggered out of the door. Indeed he continued to speak in the same words, “Leave me—I will not believe you. Leave me!”
Suddenly she touched his arm again, or so he thought. He uncovered his face to find Medon standing before him—Medon with eyes astream with tears.
“Master, Master, I knew that if the little mistress appeared it was some terrible thing. Master, I know what she has told you. You called so bitter loud upon your sons. I know, I know!”
“Leave me, Medon,” said Nikander angrily. He was still pacing up and down. But Medon did not leave.
“Master, I had not the courage to tell you. But I can follow the little mistress’s telling. Lycophron, Dryas, oh, you must haste to save them.”