It was at the betrothal feast, when it was too late for mending, that Eëtíon revealed his one defect.
They were chatting after the meal, or rather sitting silent while Eëtíon talked. For none of the youths of Delphi had had such adventures as Eëtíon, by storm of ocean, by cruelty of pirates, deceit of merchants in the ports. As a captive he had seen practically all the far ports of the West.
Eëtíon sat upright on his couch, too animated to recline, his dark eyes now brightening with some memory, now filling with terror or triumph. Near him was one of the many small tables of a Greek room.
Upon this table had been left, no doubt by Kairos himself, the god of chance, a double handful of smooth clay. It had been brought that morning by some citizens from far away who wanted to establish a sale for it in Delphi. Nikander had pronounced it the finest in texture he had ever seen. Then it had been left here.
Eëtíon idly picked it up as he talked, working it with his deft fingers.
Gradually it became soft, malleable. Absently he shaped it into a thick pillar, then, as if in sudden decision, began to mould it. He ceased talking, forgot his guests entirely, quite unconscious that they were watching what he did.
Under his swift fingers the clay soon took the form of a youth. “Look, it is beautiful,” whispered Dryas, wondering.
Now Eëtíon looked up impatiently, seized upon a plectrum as a tool, and began to work again in mad haste.
More and more lovely the little youth became, not standing on both feet in the old hieratic attitude, but leaning forward with one leg advanced as if running, head thrown back and both arms outstretched toward an invisible goal. Time passed by, but Eëtíon was unaware of it. Now began the muscle modelling, dry, and at points stylized, yet lovely and alive, the delicate thighs full of strength, the spare abdomen showing the play of running muscles, the chest lifted and full of breath.
“It is Ladas,” they cried, “Ladas, the Argive runner.”