“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.