“Where do you get it?” she asked.
“Get what? The lyre? Oh, of the lyre-maker in Athens.”
She shook her curls.
“No, the song. Does it come out of the air?”
“Perhaps so, little one. Apollo gives it, surely.”
“Oh, will he give one to me?” she asked, her hands clasping suddenly close to her breast. “If I make a prayer to him and a sacrifice—a big, big sacrifice like Father’s? A sheep, and burn it all up with leaping flame till it smells so good—so good?”
Her baby nose sniffed deliciously and all the men laughed.
“And where will you get your big sheep?” teased one.
“Nay, do not spoil her hope,” spoke Pindar quickly. He drew the lyre toward her and instantly her chubby hand reached out to touch the strings, sounding them lovingly, softly.
Pindar watched her, absorbed.