“Darling Dryas.” Then, “Quick, I must help him.”
Dryas’s face was white with pain, but he caught her hand.
“I am safe now,” he whispered. “Really, really safe!”
He closed his eyes.
“He saved my life,” spoke Eëtíon proudly.
“And fought better than any of us. Oh, my son. Dear, dear boy!” cried Nikander.
“I saw him in the fight,” asserted one of the guard. “That’s true what you say.”
In the entrance portico of the Precinct they set him down, while Theria sent slaves for water and wine and other slaves homeward for the remedies of her own.
Soon she was bathing Dryas’s deep wounds, staunching their flow with the wine, setting the poor broken leg, which, while it would mend, would never let Dryas walk perfectly straight again.