“She’s goin’ soon where there’s no proper nor unproper,” retorted Baltè in her broadest Doric. “An’ if she goes, what harm to gi’ her this wee bit of joy beforehand? An’ if she dies for lack of it, then it’s ye will be her murderer.”
Baltè was determined to supplicate her master with the unrefusable supplication if she could get consent no other way.
But at this moment came Eëtíon, all excited over what the priests had done.
“It’s ye I am talkin’ o’, young man,” announced Baltè. “The master here says ‘no’. But the little mistress is pinin’ away for a sight of ye. She is thot.”
“Is she better? Did she ask—oh, Nikander——” pleaded Eëtíon.
“Baltè is dreaming. Go back to your little mistress, Baltè.”
But Baltè stood her ground. “If the lad calls her she’ll answer him. Mark ye that.”
“Will she answer? Do you really believe she will answer?” asked Eëtíon, his lips quivering with the memory of Theria’s unanswering silence on the mountain.
“O love o’ Leto, stop askin’! Come!” said Baltè.