“Are you Myrtale, Simonides’ daughter?” asked Lycon, as he watched the pretty Methonian with a pleasure he had never felt before.
Myrtale nodded assent.
“Are you Lycon, the Athenian, my father’s guest?” she inquired, without raising her eyes to the stranger’s face.
Lycon had scarcely time to reply, for the goat now renewed its attack upon him. He laughed:
“Come, my kid. You shall learn that I am not called Lycon with the big hand for nothing.”
Seizing one of the goat’s horns with one hand, and its little tail with the other, he lifted the mischievous animal from the ground so that its four legs hung loosely down. When he set it on the earth again the creature was thoroughly cowed. Bleating feebly, it unresistingly allowed itself to be dragged back to the grass-plot from which it had escaped.
At the beehives Myrtale managed to have Lycon pass tolerably near them. While the insects were buzzing most thickly around him, she suddenly exclaimed:
“A bee, a bee!” and laying her hand on Lycon’s neck added: “Don’t you feel any pain? It must have stung you. I saw it creep out from under your robe.”
Lycon denied feeling any hurt.
“Let me see your shoulder!” continued Myrtale. “An old woman from Hypata taught me two magic words with which the stings of wasps and bees can be instantly cured.”