“No, no, I mean it. Did not Dido, the Tyrian, found Carthage and was faithful to the city even unto death?”
“Ay, but Dido was no Greek.”
“No, but Manto was—Manto who founded Clarus. She was a priest’s daughter, a priest of Apollo.”
Suddenly Nikander guessed Timon’s meaning.
It was Theria—none other, whom Timon was about to propose for this high, amazing trust.
But why? How could Timon know that the girl had the needed power—Nikander’s little girl, hidden away in her home, unknown?
For a moment Nikander pictured her thus and trembled to think how his familiar Theria could wield the power of state.
Then with an overwhelming pride he realized that she could! She could do it! What else was the meaning of her trenchant questionings, her revealing suggestions in matters which puzzled himself, her overpowering interest in public affairs in spite of all rebukes, her oracles, by which in the very face of death she had sent courage to the armies?
Yes, yes, Theria could! And the high task would meet and satisfy her mental need.
Ah, but that task would take her away over seas; away, away to the west. Nikander would never see his child again. The very life would be torn out of him to part with her. It was too sudden, too unexpected. He must call aloud to Timon to stop—stop! But no. Did he dare stand in Theria’s way, to deprive her of this gift? Was it not her right, her fate from the gods? Nikander hid his face from the Council. They would never understand this emotion of his—this dependence upon a girl-child.