“Tut,” he said, “I meant no harm.” Then he turned to the poet: “Pindar, I hope you are coming to us to-night, speaking of feasts; a symposium in Dryas’s honour.”
Pindar frowned at the young man’s forwardness but assented, then smiled again as he turned to Dryas.
“It was almost as good as your father’s victor song years ago.”
“Oh, better, much better,” urged Nikander. At which Pindar moved onward, laughing, shaking his head. A lovable man, Pindar.
They arrived finally at their own door. All the slaves were there bowing and curtseying, Medon, the old pedagogue, at their head. He peered up eagerly to see if the boy really wore the laurel crown and, at sight of it, trembled visibly with joy.
“Little Dryas, little Dryas,” he crooned, all love.
Nikander must needs stop to rehearse all his happiness to the old servant. And who so glad to hear as Medon!
“All Dryas’s songs have been good,” Nikander finished. “But, oh, this one to-day is in a new class! Do you know what the rascal did, Medon? Brought out an utterly new poem, different from any I ever heard. Imagine my amazement when he started out—and my delight!”
“Yes, Master, yes!” assented Medon.
As they talked, they had been moving slowly through the andron and now entered the women’s court.