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.