Nikander and Eëtíon went out hand in hand as was the custom of Greek men who loved each other.
“Dear youth, what can I say to you?” spoke Nikander. “You have returned to me my two children, my son and now my daughter.”
“I love your daughter. I love your daughter,” spoke out Eëtíon passionately. “Now you know it. I want her for my wife.”
“Would you could have her,” was Nikander’s answer.
“But can I not?” questioned the unreasonable youth.
“My dear boy, you know she is priestess. I wish Apollo had killed me before I made her priestess.”
Eëtíon clenched his hands. “She shall not go back to the Pythia House. She is too splendid, too free-minded.”
“She shall certainly never go upon the tripod,” responded Nikander. “I will promise you that.”
Eëtíon paced the room in bitter distress. “How could you make her priestess?” he said, forgetting all kindness. “How could you take away her last chance for action and noble living? You don’t deserve to be Theria’s father.”
“Indeed I do not,” was Nikander’s sorrowful rejoinder. He laid quieting hands upon the youth.