“I wish you had,” echoed the boy.
And suddenly the boy’s gentle reverence gave Theria a joy utterly new—a sense at once of humbleness and power.
“Come,” she said childishly, seizing his hand, “there’s a swing in the other aula. Let’s swing in it.” Busily she hied him thither. But the boy would not swing.
“It’s for girls; I’ll push you,” he said.
Soon the court rang with their voices and merry laughter. The boy “ran under” and Theria flew like a tall nymph in great dips and soarings. Now her black tresses streamed behind, new they flung over her face—a dusky veil. After a while the boy stopped, breathless, and the swing “died.”
“Guess who came with us all the way,” he said suddenly.
“I cannot guess.”
“Pindar!” he told her joyously. “That’s what made the journey so wonderful. All those three days I heard his divine talk with my father. Never shall I forget it—all about Hellas and the Persians and the war that is coming. I hope it won’t come too soon before I can fight.”
“Pindar is ours,” said Theria with Delphic pride. “There is a chair set in the temple just for him. He sits there and the god gives him song. Tell me: did you hear him sing?”