Melantho, the mother, hearing them enter, came running down the stair to fold her son in her arms. Baltè, the old nurse, hobbled up. Nerea, Clito, and other slave girls came and kissed the hem of his robe.
But Nikander missed one member of the household.
“Where is Eleutheria?” he asked.
Then he caught sight of her standing in the far corner of the court—his daughter, tall, delicately flushed with that air between shyness and pride which is common to all new-flowering things.
“Daughter,” said Nikander, “we have come home with the crown!”
She bowed her dark head, fingering her distaff with its tangled threads.
“Come, my dear,” said Nikander, snapping his fingers to hasten her. “Come, greet your brother victor.”
Then she looked up—a face full of some strange startling emotion.
“No,” she half whispered.
“No? What on earth do you mean?”