EËTÍON PURSUES
Eëtíon had said to Theria that he was going upon an urgent quest. The
quest was indeed an urgent one. Eëtíon set about it instinctively, not
considering how little chance there was of its success. It was nothing
less than to save Dryas.
Eëtíon had come to know Nikander’s sons well. He had met them in palæstra
and lesche. Being foreign born himself, he had also often been thrown
with the other young foreigners who were Lycophron’s friends. These men
called themselves Athenians, but Eëtíon believed that they were really
Ionians and that they were in Delphi for no good purpose. As for the
men themselves, they were inclined to consort with Eëtíon as an Argive
because of the secret league of Argos with Persia. And while they did not
talk with him of their projects, they were less careful in his presence
than they might otherwise have been.
Eëtíon, meanwhile, being ardent for the Hellenic cause, had kept quiet
watch of the disguised Ionians and later of Nikander’s sons as well. He
had hitherto found nothing worthy of note. But to-day a chance word of
Dryas’s had given him a clue. Then by careful watching he had learned
that couriers bearing the oracle were to be intercepted.
Dryas had a boyish devotion to Eëtíon, first because of Eëtíon’s beauty
and also because of his prowess in wrestling and fast running, combined
gifts which easily made a hero in Greece.
And Eëtíon, touched by the boy’s love for him, had wished many a day to
save Dryas from his treacherous companions. This he had not dared to
attempt because the weak boy would have babbled and all Eëtíon’s chance
to watch the Ionians be lost.
But now Eëtíon thought he had a chance to save Dryas. Lycophron had gone
to cut off the Thermopylæ messengers because he was heart and hand with
Persia. Dryas had gone with those who were intercepting the message to
Athens because of weakness and fear. Eëtíon, therefore, the instant he
had given word to Theria, hastened to get a horse to pursue Dryas. Horses
were few in Delphi where they were of so little use. He returned to the
Great Temple where workmen painting the crimson columns had left their
paint. Here he smeared a red gash upon his knee and stained the breast
of his cloak. Like Odysseus, Eëtíon was a man of many devices. Then
mounting, he hurried from Delphi along the Athens road. He trusted much
to the swiftness of his horse. The spies must go at the pace of their
worst steed, nor would they feel any special need of haste. So Eëtíon
hoped to overtake them. The highway was very clear under the bright moon.
It was a mountain road and mountain rough. But the Argives were lovers of
horses and Eëtíon had not forgotten his early skill. Sometimes he held
tight rein and rode with careful slowness; again, whenever the stretch
was good, he dug heels into the flanks of his horse and galloped hard.
What man when at a gallop has not dreamed of his beloved? And Eëtíon had
just seen Theria’s face again beyond all hope. So thin and changed it
was, in its frailness almost like a child’s, and very pitiful. And oh,
that little cry of joy when she saw him. That sounded again and again in
his mind and mingled with the fragrance of the mountain road.
So he passed the town of Daulis. Some distance beyond Daulis he saw the
men he was pursuing.
As soon as he neared them he began to cry out to them, cries of suffering
and distress. He saw them stop. He dashed into their midst.
“For the sake of the gods, save me, save me!” he cried.
“What is it? What is it?” Ionians were always quick of sympathy.
“Robbers set upon me. I was going to Orchomenos on a mission. You fellows
can guess what kind it was. But, oh, stop the blood. See, it trails in
the road.”
At this Dryas dashed up.
“Eëtíon,” he exclaimed, going pale. “Great Zeus! Dear fellow.”
Eëtíon displayed his horrible red knee and leg and as he did so reeled in
Dryas’s arms. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me.” Then Eëtíon lay in
the road with closed eyes and heard them talking.
“We ought not to stop at all. You know that.”
“We’ve got to stop,” said Dryas’s voice, half weeping. “I for one will
not let him lie here to die.”
“But we can’t leave you here, Dryas. We need you in Athens. Who will
introduce us to Themistokles?”
“I won’t leave him, you’ve got to wait.”
Some of them drew aside, discussing the matter in low tones. Eëtíon
strained his ear to hear. He heard a scornful laugh.
“Suppose we do leave Dryas here, will he join us in Athens? By the gods,
he will! Wasn’t he beside himself to come?”
This was true. Poor Dryas was hoping to get ship from Athens and save
himself in the Islands. He was terrified at the certain impending
destruction of Delphi. He had ever pleaded to accompany the party.
“Very well, Dryas,” they said at last. “You stay. We’ll send you help.
You can leave Eëtíon at Daulis. Then follow quickly. Do you hear?”
So they cantered away.
Dryas started off for water, but Eëtíon called him back again, allowing
himself to revive.
“Get me on my horse,” he faltered. “I must get to Daulis if I can.”
“Dear Eëtíon, dear, dear fellow,” said the affectionate Dryas.
They remounted, and soon the distance was doubling between Theria’s
brother and the killers of his soul.
At the edge of Daulis Eëtíon drove his horse close so as to touch Dryas’s
arm.
“Dryas,” he said in a low voice, “do you want to do that vile deed?”
Dryas started violently, and Eëtíon caught his wrist. Eëtíon could throw
Dryas at a wrestle like a child.
“What deed?” Dryas asked between chattering teeth.
“You know very well what deed. Will you let your father and your mother
die without lifting your hand to help, while you save yourself—a
renegade, a Persian serf?”
“Let me go, let me go!” cried Dryas wildly.
“Yes, I shall let you go, I will not bring you back against your will.
That would be folly. But think. Perhaps your father already knows this.
If so, he longs to die. Think of the shame, Dryas.”
Dryas began to breathe as if weeping.
“Think of the glory of fighting for Delphi,” went on Eëtíon’s low
voice. “The rich glory. And if you will fight I will make you my
brother-at-arms. Yes, even knowing what I know. You are a skilful
fighter, Dryas. You will not fail in the fight.”
Suddenly the sobbing breaths stopped and Dryas sat up straight and urged
his horse forward. “Quick, quick,” he said, “before they come back after
me.” Then he reined in the gallop. “Eëtíon, forgive me. Your wound!” he
said.
“My wound is red paint,” said Eëtíon, laughing. “Thus I was wounded for
your sake.”
“And, and you came out for my sake——” At this Dryas began to weep indeed.
They passed Daulis, and hurried on under the setting moon. Dryas was
silent now, only urging his horse so fast that Eëtíon had to check him
for fear of accident. In the dark they met a party of men hurrying toward
Athens as if mad. Eëtíon knew what they were and Dryas guessed, and he
hid his face in his cloak as they rushed by. They were Nikander’s kinsmen
riding to intercept those who would withhold the good oracle from Athens.
Toward dawn the two riders neared Delphi, and at the familiar road-sights
Dryas lifted his face, saying to himself:
“Safe, safe!”
“Safe?” asked Eëtíon, “where the Persians will certainly come to harry
and destroy?”
“Yes, safe,” answered Dryas, “safe from worse than the Persians!” and
with Greek affection he reached for Eëtíon’s hand and kissed it.