The young man put his arm pityingly over his uncle’s shoulder. He could not know that just now Nikander felt only relief in the death of his son.
“We took an oath among us, we kinsmen,” said Karamanor. “All of us, an oath not to tell this thing. We will say that he fell in a skirmish with the Persians. Men are too troubled now to think. His absence will not be marked. Our words will be believed, if any of us, after the Persian onslaught, be left alive for beliefs or doubtings. Can we do anything further for you, Nikander?”
“No,” said Nikander quietly. “May the Son of Leto bless you for saving my son’s honour. I must go now and tell his mother.”
Dryas, who had been playing the lyre at Theria’s bedside, had stopped playing when his father withdrew. He sat awestruck, waiting.
Presently Melantho’s death-wail for Lycophron sounded through the house.
“Oh, look, Baltè,” whispered Dryas, through his tears. “Poor Theria does not even hear it.”
Baltè bent over her nurseling. “She hears it well enough,” she answered sadly. “She hears, but she is too far to care.”
CHAPTER XXXII
TERRIBLE NEWS FROM THERMOPYLÆ
Theria lay on her couch without change, except to grow weaker each day. Baltè had her own remedies. She brought a sieve and suspended it from the ceiling. Then she whirled it, reciting all the magic she knew and all the cures. At whatever cure the sieve came to rest that one she tried. But, alas, it did no good.