“Am I goods and chattels, not even so much alive as the dogs of Delphi? The dogs stay.”
Great Paian! Melantho was angry. Nikander had never seen her angry in his life.
She stamped her foot.
“I will not go,” she cried. “I’ll turn over the boat and swamp it if you put me in it. I will not go when—when all my dear ones stay.”
Then she melted with streaming tears. Poor Melantho! After this little outburst she would have done anything Nikander required.
But Nikander took her in his arms, loving her as he had never thought to do.
“My dear Melantho,” he said. “I begin to think I am the stupidest man in Delphi. Of course you shall stay.”
It was no easy matter to care for two helpless women at such a time, but Nikander was glad that Melantho was to stay. As for Baltè, nations might rise or fall, she had one care only, to watch her nurseling. And now Baltè was busy with new plans. She had long ago given up her sieve and taken it back to the kitchen where she gave it a kick of scorn.
Theria was steadily growing weaker, but her eyes as Baltè studied them looked not quite so glassy, not quite so blank as at first. Sometimes Baltè actually saw in them a great sadness. When any one came into the door, Theria’s eyes would slowly, painfully direct themselves thither, seeming to search, and when the search was made this deep sadness or disappointment would settle upon her face. And once, instead of relapsing into blankness after their pitiful searching, the dark eyes closed and tears stole down between the lids.
What did her child want? Baltè asked herself this question. Asked Theria every question she knew. For while Nikander could not bring himself to speak to that strange, blank face of Theria, Baltè talked and asked and crooned as any nurse crooned to her baby.