And Nikander suddenly consented.
Eëtíon came in with awe as one comes into a death chamber.
He knelt by her couch, laid his brown, trembling hands over her two white ones, and, leaning close, called her—once, and again.
Then an amazing thing happened: There passed slowly from off the dark lakes of eyes something as it were a shadow, leaving them sweet and sensible, leaving in them an ardent, dreamy look.
Then the dream gave place to lovely awakening, which was Theria’s self—a surprised, outreaching love.
Her lips framed a word: “Eëtíon.”
Eëtíon forgot all about him. He gathered her close, kissing her, calling her. And now she spoke quite aloud, calling him in return with names and epithets as dear.
“You have not forgotten me,” he was saying, “Oh, I thought you had forgotten.”
“Never, never. I could not forget you in Acheron,” was her murmured answer.
“Speak to me, me, also, my daughter,” pleaded Nikander.