“What was that?” asked Dryas sharply.
“I don’t know,” answered the slave. Dryas, with wide eyes of fear, backed behind a rock.
“If he’s stealing from the gods we ought to stop him,” spoke the slave. “See; we have our bow.”
At this word Dryas, ashamed of his fear, came out from hiding.
“Stay by me,” he pleaded, and the slave advanced first.
These small temples, being outside the Precinct wall, were poorly guarded. The boys crept nearer and rounded the corner just in time to see the man with some silver cups in his arms running down the hill.
The boys gave chase. The man circled around so as to come up the hill again. The upper heights were always a fastness for robbers. The boys still followed, and above the road overtook the man.
Dryas with a cry half like a sob leaped upon him while the slave at the same time tripped his heels. The fellow went down like a log, screaming in panic. The boys quickly possessed themselves of the cups. The slave with his own leather belt tied the man’s hands, and together the boys pulled the man down the road—he not resisting at all. They pushed him along toward town.
At the edge of the village Nikander met them. In all his life Nikander never forgot that shock—first the fear, then the joy—as he realized that Dryas, spite of bleeding face and dishevelled hair, was safe and that he had done a brave deed.