Nikander fell forward at the shock of joy, trembling and unable to speak. Then he righted himself, heard as in a dream the boy in his arms talking to him.
“Only some god saved me! I want to fight for you, Father—to fight at your side.”
“You did not go with the spies? Not after all?” Nikander said dazedly.
“Yes, Father, but——”
Here Eëtíon, whom both had forgotten, stepped forward and touched Dryas’s shoulder.
“They abducted him, Nikander,” he said clearly. “It was only by a ruse that I saved him. Oh, if you could have seen the joy in the boy’s face when I got him free.”
“I see the joy in his face now,” said Nikander. Nikander believed because he so wanted to believe.
“Tell your father how I fooled them,” urged Eëtíon, and Dryas between trembling and laughter told the story of Eëtíon’s red paint wound. But before he had finished, Nikander rose, took Eëtíon’s hand, and drew him to an embrace.
“Oh, you good youth!” he said, “I can never thank you, never fully thank you. No kinsman shall be so dear as you.”