Theria sat up rubbing her eyes, dizzy from the depths of sleep.
“About Eëtíon?” she murmured.
“No, not your lover. Yourself, yourself. Though, by Hermes, Eëtíon comes into it, too.” Suddenly Nikander found the matter difficult to explain. The girl there on her bed looked so tender, so young! A creature to cherish and protect. Hardly to send over seas to contend with men and fate. He sat down beside her and took her slender hand—that feminine hand so curiously like his own.
“It is a brand-new colony,” he began, “a city that is to be founded or rather refounded in Sicily.”
“Yes; what has that to do with me?” How infinitely far she was from guessing the outcome!
Nikander went back to the beginning, told of Hyllos and his difficult oracle, of the Council, of the proposal of Karamanor and Agis, of Dryas. She grew keenly interested.
“No, no, those could not be leaders, Father. I cannot think of any one who could, any one big enough. Let me see, let me see——”
She looked away, knitting her pretty brows.
“The priests are not in such doubt, Daughter,” said Nikander tenderly. “They have chosen you!”
“Me!” She turned such an amazed face that Nikander had to laugh.