Meanwhile, Dryas was pacing nervously to and fro under the balcony. Nikander averted his eyes. He could not bear that his son should be in the pangs of personal fear. But Eëtíon went directly to Dryas.
“Dryas,” he said, “would it not be well for you to take a last survey of all the rooms to see that nothing is left? Do it quickly, for all is ready.”
Dryas hurried off with just the sense of relief which Eëtíon had meant to afford him.
And as Eëtíon once more stood at Theria’s side, Nikander said to him:
“I want you, Eëtíon, to be with us in the Precinct as a son of the house. A son could not be more dear.”
Dryas returned.
“I’ve been through the rooms,” he said brightly. “There’s nothing worth while but this old thing in the storeroom.”
It was Lycophron’s old lyre which Theria had used all these years.
“Oh, yes, yes, I want it,” said Theria, taking it in her arms.