The prize at Delphi! It was an immortal honour. The noblest poets of Greece would write hymns in his praise. Dryas’s whole town would bask in the honour of it. Dryas’s statue in bronze would be set up near the Precinct gate, and in future years his sons and sons’ sons would recount the victory.
Neighbours, kinsfolk, strangers, halted them on their homeward way. No man in Hellas was too exalted to pause in humility and delight to greet the young victor with the crown yet fresh upon his head. But it was to the father, Nikander, rather than to Dryas that they addressed themselves, lingering to catch if it were but a reflection of the surprised joy in that father-face.
Nikander walked holding his boy’s hand, or touching his shoulder as he presented him to some famous man.
“You liked it?” he would say, his sensitive face flushing almost as Dryas’s own. “You liked the song? Yes, I, too, enjoyed it—that stern opening—the Dorian mode. It was as new in my hearing as in yours. The dear lad kept it so.”
And Dryas’s answering look showed the father’s praise to be the most precious of all. It was no usual affection which bound these two together.
And now Pindar, the greatest poet, met them, outstretching both his hands.
“Nikander! Dryas! Kairos bless you both! You are tasting the heady joy of victory!”
“Eating victory rather,” put in the elder brother, Lycophron, with a rough laugh. “Feasting on it in courses I should say.”
At his father’s hurt look he stopped and laid his hand upon the father’s shoulder.