THE PERILOUS SEAT




BOOKS BY CAROLINE DALE SNEDEKER


    SETH WAY: A ROMANCE OF THE NEW HARMONY COMMUNITY
    THE SPARTAN
    THE PERILOUS SEAT




                                   THE
                              PERILOUS SEAT

                                   BY
                         CAROLINE DALE SNEDEKER

                             [Illustration]

                        The untaught maid
            Mounting the perilous high seat can, for the god
            Speak wisdom kings will seek for, but herself
                        The god will soon destroy.

                        GARDEN CITY      NEW YORK
                        DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
                                  1923

                           COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
                        DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

           ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
           INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

                      PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
                                   AT
               THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

                             _First Edition_




TO MY SON KARL SNEDEKER WHOSE GREEK SCHOLARSHIP HAS AIDED MY TASK, THIS
STORY OF OLD GREECE IS DEDICATED




PREFACE


The background and details of this story have been carefully
authenticated. The founding of the colony Inessa, however, is not an
actual event. It is the union of a number of colony traditions. It is
therefore correct in character and spirit.

The tale was written at the MacDowell Colony at Peterborough, New
Hampshire, and I am constantly mindful of the inspiration given to me by
the beautiful and solitary surroundings in which I there worked.




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                                  PAGE

                                 BOOK I

                        _At the Pythian Festival_

          I. DRYAS WINS THE PRIZE                               1

         II. PARENTAL JUSTICE                                  10

                                 BOOK II

                         _A Childhood in Delphi_

        III. THERIA, SEVEN YEARS OLD                           19

         IV. ELEUTHERIA LOOKS OUT OF A WINDOW                  26

          V. THE TRADITIONS OF THE HOUSE                       34

         VI. THE GUESTS                                        45

        VII. WHAT GIFTS THE GUESTS BROUGHT                     51

       VIII. DRYAS TAKES A ROBBER                              57

         IX. LAUREL FROM TEMPÈ                                 62

          X. A BOY CALLED SOPHOCLES                            69

         XI. WHY NOT BE THE PYTHIA?                            78

                                BOOK III

                           _Within the Oracle_

        XII. “THE PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS”                     89

       XIII. IN PLEISTOS WOODS                                101

        XIV. THE POOR SLAVE                                   105

         XV. THE SHATTERED CUP                                113

        XVI. GATHERING THE THREADS                            117

       XVII. THE YOUTH UNDER THE WINDOW                       122

      XVIII. GATHERING MORE THREADS                           127

        XIX. THE SONG RE-SUNG                                 133

         XX. LOVE IN THE LANE                                 142

        XXI. A PROCESSION OF SACRIFICE                        152

       XXII. IN THE PYTHIA HOUSE                              156

      XXIII. THE CHILD PRIESTESS                              159

       XXIV. THE HIGH, PERILOUS SEAT                          164

        XXV. BITTER CONSEQUENCES                              170

       XXVI. “PRAY TO THE WINDS”                              177

      XXVII. THE MESSENGERS                                   182

     XXVIII. OUTCAST ON PARNASSOS                             191

       XXIX. EËTÍON PURSUES                                   196

        XXX. SHEPHERD WISDOM                                  201

       XXXI. NIKANDER’S NEAREST OF KIN                        210

      XXXII. TERRIBLE NEWS FROM THERMOPYLÆ                    215

     XXXIII. AT EËTÍON’S CALL                                 221

      XXXIV. EËTÍON AND NIKANDER                              226

       XXXV. THERIA TELLS HER VISION                          229

      XXXVI. REFUGE IN THE PRECINCT                           233

                                 BOOK IV

                    “_The God Will Care for His Own_”

     XXXVII. THE PERSIAN COMES                                239

    XXXVIII. THANKFULNESS                                     247

      XXXIX. NIKANDER PLEADS FOR HIS DAUGHTER                 252

         XL. AGAIN HOME                                       257

        XLI. A SCULPTOR’S RESPECTABILITY                      261

       XLII. THE UNWILLING COLONIST                           267

      XLIII. THE BIRD IN THE CAGE                             278

       XLIV. THE METIC                                        289

        XLV. THE MARRIAGE                                     293

       XLVI. THE DOOR OF ESCAPE                               297

      XLVII. ALIEN MEADOWS                                    302

     XLVIII. TOWN MAKERS                                      309




BOOK I

AT THE PYTHIAN FESTIVAL




CHAPTER I

DRYAS WINS THE PRIZE


Dryas, the young Delphian, finished his song. As he did so he leaped
impulsively to the sheer edge of the temple platform, leaning forward in
the very attitude of the Archer God. The song was to Apollo. For a moment
he seemed to be the young Apollo himself.

The final note was scarce heard for the surge of applause which met it.
The people pelted the boy with flowers—snatched off their own garlands
to throw to him—until he stood ankle deep in the bloom. He was blushing,
shy, now that his song was finished. Awestruck, too, for he heard
everywhere the shout:

“The Prize! The Prize!”

Thus ended the first day of the Pythian festival at Delphi. The crowds
poured down through the Precinct, a very tumult of colour and motion.
White-robed priests, purple-cloaked kings, Sybarites in cloth of gold,
young athletes beautiful as the sunlight in which they moved; and upon
every man’s head, rich or poor, his crown of flowers.

How freely they talked, how happily gave themselves to laughter! The
truce of God was upon them—that peace which Apollo imposed upon the
passionate, warring Greeks at festival time. Delphi itself, forbidding
amid its beetling cliffs, seemed to lose sternness at this festival. Out
on the far-seen hillsides were the booths and bright-coloured tents of
the visitors, the flash and glitter of things brought for sale. Even yet
crowds of pilgrims were arriving, swarming up the steep winding roads as
the bees were fabled of old to have swarmed thither to build the first
temple in Delphi.

Dryas, his father, Nikander, and his brother, Lycophron, came down
through the stirring Precinct, perhaps the happiest hearts of all the
multitude.

The prize at Delphi! It was an immortal honour. The noblest poets of
Greece would write hymns in his praise. Dryas’s whole town would bask
in the honour of it. Dryas’s statue in bronze would be set up near the
Precinct gate, and in future years his sons and sons’ sons would recount
the victory.

Neighbours, kinsfolk, strangers, halted them on their homeward way.
No man in Hellas was too exalted to pause in humility and delight to
greet the young victor with the crown yet fresh upon his head. But it
was to the father, Nikander, rather than to Dryas that they addressed
themselves, lingering to catch if it were but a reflection of the
surprised joy in that father-face.

Nikander walked holding his boy’s hand, or touching his shoulder as he
presented him to some famous man.

“You liked it?” he would say, his sensitive face flushing almost as
Dryas’s own. “You liked the song? Yes, I, too, enjoyed it—that stern
opening—the Dorian mode. It was as new in my hearing as in yours. The
dear lad kept it so.”

And Dryas’s answering look showed the father’s praise to be the most
precious of all. It was no usual affection which bound these two
together.

And now Pindar, the greatest poet, met them, outstretching both his hands.

“Nikander! Dryas! Kairos bless you both! You are tasting the heady joy of
victory!”

“Eating victory rather,” put in the elder brother, Lycophron, with a
rough laugh. “Feasting on it in courses I should say.”

At his father’s hurt look he stopped and laid his hand upon the father’s
shoulder.

“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.

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?”

“I cannot,” she spoke sharply. “I cannot praise him.”

“You are ill,” said Nikander, going to her. Indeed he feared some fever
had deprived her of her wits.

“No, I am not ill.”

“Then what madness is this? What nonsense!” Nikander could hardly believe
in this sudden quarrel darkening the brightness of his day of joy.

Dryas crossed over to her. He was ever the peacemaker.

“What has happened, Theria?” He began gently.

Her great eyes looked fearfully at him.

“You know perfectly well what has happened. How dare you ask!”

Nikander was now thoroughly angry.

“Theria,” he said, “greet your brother at once or go to your room. Your
whims are unbearable.”

“Theria,” began Dryas again. But at his urging voice her anger took flame.

“I won’t praise you!” she cried wildly. “You know the song is mine, mine.
I made it myself.”

“Great gods!” laughed Lycophron. “Here’s a pother for you!”

“No pother at all,” spoke Dryas quickly. “Who’ll believe her?”

“Nobody, nobody, my son,” sounded Nikander’s deep voice. “Now, Theria,
go! I shall punish you myself for this!”

Here Melantho lifted horrified hands. “What jealousy, Theria! Shame on
you! Shame!”

Theria had already reached the stair-foot, but at this word she faced
them again.

“I am not jealous, I can prove that I made it,” she said, her voice
suddenly clear. “I can sing my song.”

As at sacrilege, Nikander answered:

“Indeed you will do no such thing. Do you suppose I would allow that
perfect creation to be caricatured by you?”

“Father, she heard me sing it,” thus Dryas, pale with the hurt Theria had
given. “She has a perfect memory.”

“My dear boy, do you suppose the matter needs argument?”

“Oh, let her try. Why not?” came the heavy voice of Lycophron. “Then we
can finish the scene with a good laugh, anyway.”

“You will not laugh at me,” cried out Theria. “By Hermes, you will not
laugh!” The look in her face, suddenly visionary and unafraid, found
response in an unexpected quarter.

“Oh, let her try.” Lycophron spoke in a different tone. “Give the poor
child a chance.”

“Surely you need no proof,” said the father.

“Be damned if I don’t,” responded the elder brother.

“Then have your proof. It will need few moments.”

Nikander swiftly took the lyre from Dryas’s slave and gave it into
Theria’s hand. The girl received it with an almost hungry eagerness as
though the song within her burned for expression. Every vestige of anger
died from her. Something from within seemed to sweep her up into a mobile
erectness, holding her delicately steady as a flame is held aloft.

She struck a deep chord from the lyre upon her hip and sang. To their
astonishment, it was not Dryas’s song though haunted ever and again with
bits of the Dryas melody. She tossed the melody from grave to gay with
ease and in the changes swayed softly.

    Wherefore, O Muse, dipping from highest heaven
    Down through the ambient air
    Com’st thou to _me_ in my thick-walled shadowy chamber
    To lay on _my_ lips the honey of sweet song?

    I am a woman, a spinner.
    Not for such is the glory of singing;
    Not for such the happiness free in the sunshine
    of Pythian contests in song.

    In answer the Muse
    Inexorable goddess,
    Drew with yet stronger cords my will and my spirit.
    “Sing!” she commanded, “Sing!”

At this point the rhythm with an increasing purposeful tread marched
into the very tune of Dryas. The ancient story of Apollo slaying the
Python-snake and winning the place of the Oracle from which to speak to
men. The song was greatly enhanced by its prelude:

    Fair, fair on the mountains the feet of Apollo striding;
      Swift is our God and stern.
    Dark, dark in the valley, the snake coiling and sliding
      Lone mid the Delphic fern.

    Ha, old Dragoness, dost thou possess it—
      Oracle meet for the voice of a God?
    Nay, for our archer God comes to redress it.
      Already are trod
    The dear paths of Delphi by feet mysterious, divine.
      Apollo, we shall be thine!

    Coils of the Python lie over the place
      Of Loxias’s[1] grace
      The heartening word
      Is choked in the depth,
            Unheard.

      Dark dark is Delphi,
      Dark is the dell,
    There in the murk the birds of ill-omen, softly horribly fly,
      And like waters of hell
    Castaly streams from her gorge and is lost in Castaly’s well.

      That _gleam_ in the gorge!
      That glint in Phaëdriades cleft!
      Like a golden spool in the weft
      Like a golden bird which flits
      ’Mong solemn crags of the ghostly place:

    Before the God cometh, cometh his grace.

      Ha! flash of silver bright as a bolt from the sky
      A piercing cry
    And straight to the heart of the monster
      The arrows of Loxias fly!
      Writhe, O Monster, lifting on high.
      Now thou must die!

    And now from Castaly’s gorge like the beauty of day
    Steppeth the God with bow bent broad to the fray
    Drawing with lifted arm the shaft to the tip.

      Paian, Paian, the pure!
      Thou art here, thou art sure,
    Immortally tall, fair tressed, crowned with bay.

      God of the far-borne voice,
    So dost thou capture with valiance the place of thy choice—
      Delphi, murmuring, golden.

      Hail to thee—God of Day!

[1] Loxias, Son of Leto, Archer God, Paian, son of Zeus—all are
affectionate, worshipful names of Apollo.

To the end she sang it. Not with Dryas’s sensitive handling but with a
dramatic power, possessive, from within, making it inalienably her own.

Then she seemed to waken. She looked around. Her father stood with bowed
head and hidden face. Melantho was weeping. Lycophron motioned a slave to
shut the door lest someone come upon them, and Dryas sat gazing at the
ground with an expression of misery and defeat which scattered the last
vestige of Theria’s creative joy.

Suddenly she would have given worlds not to have sung. All kept silence
as if they were all guilty. And like a guilty thing, Theria gave the lyre
back to the slave and went up the stair.




CHAPTER II

PARENTAL JUSTICE


Theria was gone. Yet in the room the awkward silence held. Then by some
hidden sympathy Nikander’s hand beckoned to Dryas and Dryas himself
started forward at the same moment.

“I wanted,” faltered Dryas, “oh, I wanted you to be proud.”

“I would have been proud anyway,” said Nikander loyally. Dryas began to
sob.

“Son, why did you deceive me? There was no need. I would never have told
the judges.”

“I don’t care for the judges. It was you—you!”

With sorrowful affection Nikander kissed him, then went slowly up the
stair to Theria’s room.

He found her pacing up and down the narrow place. She was talking aloud.

“To take away my song! It wasn’t fair. No! To take away my song!”

Nikander spoke passionately: “Theria, this was the happiest day of my
life and you have made it the most sorrowful.”

“Father!” she cried. “Father!”

She stood instantly still. Tears were running down her face. “Oh, I was
sorry the minute I had done it. There was no use to tell and it only gave
pain to everyone.”

Wistfully she tried to take his hand. Like most children, she had never
told him how intensely she loved him.

“I cannot understand, Theria, why you would give your song to Dryas and
then at a crucial moment snatch it back again. Dryas has done wrong, but
your wrong is sheer cruelty.”

“But, Father——” she began. Then she stopped. She had done enough harm for
one day.

She could not tell him that she had never given the song, but that Dryas
had taken it against her will. Dryas had come to her one morning with a
song of his own. Theria knew at once that it would never win the prize.
They had talked it over, trying to mend it.

That afternoon her own song had flashed upon her. It was, as such flashes
are apt to be, the culmination of long striving and dreaming. And for
days afterward she had worked and perfected it. Then a week before the
Pythian festival she had taken the song to Dryas and had sung it for him.
Of course she was willing to give it to him. It did not occur to her but
that Dryas would share with her the honour of it, at least in their own
home. This Dryas had refused to do. They had quarrelled, and, at the end,
Dryas had flatly told her that since she taught him the song he would
take it for his own, whether she willed or no. He had thought she would
never dare to tell. But now she had told, and the result was this misery.

“Theria,” said her father wearily, “how did it ever occur to you to write
a song?”

“It was just as I told in the singing, Father. I was spinning alone in
the spinning-room and the Muse struck across my mind. She would not let
me go. The words hurried before I could catch up with them; a new chord
waited for every chord I struck.”

Nikander was for a moment awed. He believed in the Muse; no mere poetic
figment was she. She was an accepted goddess, and even thus was she wont
to act.

“But you must have studied and worked,” he said. “You must have had help.”

“Medon has helped me a little. He taught me the scales, and I have taken
your book rolls and made him show me how to read. Do not be angry with
Medon. He is only a slave and I commanded him. It was really myself did
it. I worked very hard.”

Suddenly it seemed to her that some invisible door, which ever for her,
a girl, had always stood ajar, had quietly and irrevocably closed. She
had the instinct to turn this way and that for escape. But there was no
escape.

“What shall I do?” she moaned. “Oh, what shall I do?” It seemed as though
her father, so intelligent, so quick to help all comers to the Oracle,
surely he would know some help for her.

“My dear Theria,” said Nikander, “there is much for you to do here at
home. You have everything, why are you unhappy?”

She bowed her head without answer. There was so much to say that she
could say nothing at all.

“Theria,” he went on kindly, “I must tell you that only yesterday by your
mother’s advice I did something for you. I see now how necessary it was.”

Her lips parted as if in fear.

“I have offered you in marriage,” said Nikander, “to Timon for his eldest
son Theras. Timon has accepted. I am delighted with the alliance and I
shall have the betrothal very soon.”

With a low cry the girl crouched upon the floor, clasping his knees.

“Oh, no, Father, no,” she pleaded. “You are not so angry with me as that.
Don’t send me away! Don’t send me away!”

He took her hands gently and lifted her—put his arm about her pitifully
trembling shoulders.

“What a strange child. What a strange, foolish child. All maidens look
forward to marriage. It is their right.”

“But not I, Father, not I!”

“You must do so. Of course it will be strange at first. Brides are often
timid, but you are not lacking in courage. Theria, your constant dwelling
upon thoughts which are for men makes you cold toward what is your
business in life—which is marriage and childbearing. You are mature in
things not for you and in all the rest an undeveloped child.”

This brutal statement was a nearer reading of Theria’s character than
Nikander himself guessed. An unevenness of development was hers—a kind of
mental hobbledehoy which is not infrequent in high-bred youngsters. Nay,
more than this: An actual shrinking purity was the concomitant of her
poetic gift. Other girls of Delphi discussed the facts of marriage with
primitive frankness and looked forward to marriage as the one event to
break monotony. Theria never spoke of it, and thought of it almost with
horror—the strange house, the strange man, the mysteries from which she
hid her eyes.

Shall we add to this the terrific pride of youth—that she held it a
certainty that no family equalled the Nikanders? To mate even with
another Delphian was a downward step. This pride was in her stubborn
answer.

“Father, I cannot—I cannot.”

“Nonsense,” smiled Nikander, “of course you will. He is a good
man—Timon’s son.”

“Have I seen him?”

“Daughter! Of course you have not.”

She wrung her hands in sudden wildness.

“I won’t marry,” she cried. “I won’t go away from the house I love to one
I have never known. I won’t belong to Theras whom I have never seen. I
will only belong to you, you, you!”

“Theria, my dear child,” began Nikander.

But she was quite beside herself. She stamped the floor with her foot.

“I won’t marry Theras! I won’t! I won’t!” she raged.

At the end of the interview Nikander brought out a small whip which was
used for child slaves. With this he whipped his daughter. Greek fathers
had this right even with grown sons, but Nikander had never used it.

At last, when she stood tall and tearless and he stood trembling in spite
of effort to keep steady, he said:

“Daughter, this is not for your present act alone. It is for your
year-long disobedience. I believe now that you will obey.”

She stood like a straight reed, so still, so horror struck. And in that
stillness her father left her.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later Theria was roused from her apathy by the sound of beautiful
music.

It was in the street, and she curiously stole forward to her father’s
room to look out of the little window there. She was in time to see Dryas
borne along the way on the shoulders of his friends.

The full moon of the festival made the street as bright as day and the
torches of the procession twinkled like jewels in the white light. Pindar
walked in the procession chanting a strophe in Dryas’s honour. A chorus
of youths followed singing the antistrophe, and behind these a boy played
the cymbals upon which the glitter of sound met the lovely glitter of the
moonlight.

Leaning out of the window, Theria suddenly exulted. “It is _my_ song
Pindar is praising. All those words are for me and it is Pindar, Pindar!”

In a burst of joyous music they passed within the house door below her,
and Theria heard the pleasant confusion as they took their seats at the
board and the scurry of the slaves beginning to serve them.

Then after a time came a faint tuning of a lyre, a pause, and Dryas
started once more to sing his song—her song. He faltered. Oh, would her
rumpus of the afternoon make him fail? She was in a panic—family pride,
family affection were strong in the Nikander household—but after a little
flickering Dryas’s flame burned bright. He even imitated his sister’s
dramatic singing of the afternoon.

Theria could not hear Pindar’s exclamation of wonder that the lad should
sing the song this evening with an entirely new meaning. She heard
only the hand clappings, the mingled voices, the chitter of the silver
cups—cups treasured many a year by successive Nikander housewives. A wave
of loneliness swept over her—a Wave of fear, remembering her father’s
purpose. And shrinking back from the window she made her way through the
darkness to her room and bed.




BOOK II

A CHILDHOOD IN DELPHI




CHAPTER III

THERIA, SEVEN YEARS OLD


A little girl in an ancestral house—a slender, vivid, flashing little
girl whom yet the rich traditions of her line filled to the brim with
dreams—such had been Theria in her childhood.

The town in which she was born had not grown haphazard, had not been
founded for trade nor for its nearness to some natural wealth.

Its central life was the god, the god of light and of enlightenment, of
beauty and judicial fairness. Apollo was its source of happiness and its
livelihood as well. He moulded the daily life. The focus of all Delphi
was the shrine where, from a windy cleft beneath the temple, Apollo
spoke, answering the wistful questions of men.

And of such an idealizing force it is true, that while it affects the
community as a whole, it gives to certain individuals a heaped-up gift.
Such a gift was upon this child, peculiar to her in Nikander’s house.
Delphi had imprinted that expression on her baby face, that unmistakable
look of spiritual life which had been the life of her fathers for at
least four hundred years. So many traditions, so many prides, upliftings,
adventures, poetries, and faiths, entering into the heart of a little
girl. Nikander’s sons were just hearty, playful Greek boys. Theria was a
Delphian.

One spring morning, when all Delphi was joyous with an awakening sky and
earth, it happened that Theria was seven years old. She came tripping
down the stairway of the inner court, fresh-washed from the hands of her
nurse, fresh-dressed in a single garment which did not reach her knees.

“Now be good,” the old nurse had admonished her as she gave the last
touch to her dark curls. “Your twin brother is playin’ that sweet down in
the aula. Don’t ye go now and stir him up with your mischievous ways.”

And here in the court sure enough Dryas was playing “that sweet.” He
had made a circle of pebbles and stones and was marching around and
around it chanting some childish, made-up thing—perfectly absorbed,
unseeing. Sunbeams slanted across the court leaving him in a sort of
magic, refracted light; small rain-pools here and there among the
worn pavement-flags gave back the blue, or wrinkled suddenly from the
unseen breeze. In the corner the old, old tiny altar, upon which many
generations of Nikanders had sacrificed, breathed yet the smoke of the
morning rite. The place smelt sweet of wood-smoke. Now Theria was aware
of a shadow moving across the court and looking up saw an eagle swoop
down the sunlit air.

In after years Theria—a woman and far away—was to recall this scene
cut clear and deep by the love she bore her home, but now she tripped
recklessly down the unbalustered stair and scattered Dryas’s circle of
stones with her foot.

“Let’s play,” she announced.

“_Am_ playin’—threshin’-floor,” responded Dryas, breathless from circling.

“You don’t play threshing-floor now. That’s past.”

The Threshing-Floor was an ancient circular platform in the Precinct of
Apollo. Every four years a sacred drama of the Python-snake was performed
upon it and this year little Dryas had seen it.

“I’ll tell you,” said the disturbing Theria, “you fetch more stones.
We’ll make the village and the road that goes by to the Oracle.”

The Oracle was the treasury of beauty and wonder of all Hellas, but to
Delphic children it was just a dear bright place within high walls and
the scene of their holidays.

Dryas did not answer, but he stopped his play and trotted off toward the
outer room, which led to the front door, for the pebbles.

Theria waited impatiently while he brought in skirtful after skirtful of
stones. Then she began to make her village, a stone for each well-known
house, a line of little stones to show the road which passed their own
door and ran windingly along the mountain slope. Theria set her miniature
precinct in the sunny part of the court. To her the sunlight always and
inevitably rested on that temple place where fane after fane and shrine
after shrine mounted the hillside up to the matchless Apollo temple
itself, set like a jewel of red and peacock-blue and gold against the
shining cliffs.

“The Sacred Way,” murmured Dryas happily as he made the path between the
temples. “Here it turns—an’ oh, here’s a sparkly stone for the ’Thenian
Treasury.”

“The Knidian Treasury,” corrected Theria. “It’s the Knidian Treasury at
the turn.”

“No—’Thenian!”

“No, don’t you remember the pretty marble ladies who hold up the porch?”

Still Dryas maintained his Athenian Treasury.

“Shu! You’ve never been there,” he said, “an’ I’ve been there lots o’
times.”

“I go every day,” announced the little girl.

At this evident whopper Dryas’s rosy mouth fell open in dismay.

“Never have you been there. You are only a girl.”

“I go there every day,” repeated Theria.

Quarrel was imminent; was averted only by Dryas scrambling to his feet to
seek old Medon as judge.

“Never mind Medon, I’ll show you how I go,” and, taking her twin
brother’s hand with an air of great bestowing, Theria led him up stairs
and forward to her father’s bedchamber, to its one window. Out of this
she leaned so far that only her chubby legs remained within. Sure enough,
so leaning she could see beyond the shoulder of a cliff a spur of farther
hill, and there in a bath of light the golden tip-edge of a little temple
and on a higher level a single pillar bearing a sphynx of lofty wings.

“I see it every day,” she announced again.

“Only a little piece,” said Dryas contemptuously.

“When I see that I see all,” repeated the child enthusiast. “Medon has
told me all.”

Dryas opened his lips to answer but thought better of it. Theria was a
most determined little person when once she had made up her mind.

They went back to the aula. Here ruin met them. Baltè, the old nurse, was
sweeping up their shrine of Apollo in great indignation.

“Whatever made ye litter up the aula like this?” She complained. “Rubble
and rubbish when the rain washed all so clean last night. Never ye mind.
I’ll be rid o’ _one_ of ye after to-day.”

Dryas did not notice this speech but Theria looked up in alarm.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Never ye mind. There; I should not ’a’ spoken.”

“Why shouldn’t you spoken?”

Such caution was unusual in Baltè. The threat sounded real. Theria caught
Baltè’s skirt.

“Is something goin’ to happen?”

“There, don’t you worry, darlin’. It won’t be you,” said the old nurse as
she hurried away.

Dryas had rescued enough stones to recommence his threshing-floor. To
tell truth, he had preferred this all along.

Theria sat beside him watching his play. The “something” was not going to
happen to herself. Then surely it would happen to Dryas. Her heart began
to yearn over her brother with that frightened tenderness which children
know. She leaned over and kissed him. Dryas wiped off the kiss in frank
disgust.

“Don’t,” he said.

She remembered the eagle. There was no bird so sure of omen as an eagle.

“Dryas,” she said softly, “I’ll tell you a story now.”

“No—please.”

Yet Theria lingered. Dreadful it was that she could do nothing for her
brother when the eagle would so soon be carrying him away.

“I wish you would let me,” she said faintly. “I’ll give you all my honey
cake at noon if you will.”

To such a bribe Dryas consented, squatting down in a chubby heap beside
his pebbles.

“It’s about baby Hermes,” Theria began. “First, he was born, and when
he was three hours old he got out of his cradle and walked straight up
Parnassos Mountain—to the very top.”

“He couldn’t,” objected her auditor.

“But god-legs is strong.”

“Presè’s got a baby three months old and it can’t walk yet. Its worse’n a
puppy.”

“Presè’s a slave. Slave legs is different.”

“But even a god, he couldn’t do it.”

And though Theria knew her story was correct, she did not press the point.

“And little Hermes found some cows,” she went on. “Oh, beautiful wild
cows with sharpy-sharp horns. All the cows were white and were eating
white flowers that grow in the meadows up against the sky.”

“Clouds?” suggested Dryas.

“Yes, clouds were their food,” went on Theria who knew the tale by rote.
“For they were the herd of Apollo. And the little baby called the cows
and they left their white flowers and came; for who can resist the call
of a god? And Hermes, swift of foot——”

“Three-hours-old foot,” interposed Dryas.

“—leaped down the path, and all the cows they followed him. And when he
came to the deep forest he sacrificed the cows to his father, Zeus, and
the smoke went up through the trees to heaven and smelt very sweet. Then
Hermes found a tortoise, and out of the tortoise and the cows’ pretty
horns he made a lyre—oh, the first, first lyre that ever was made. And
the baby Hermes began to play on the lyre—

    ‘Twink, twink,
    Twinky, twink, twink’

—Oh, god-music, as pretty as Father plays or Pindar when he——”

“Here, here!” came an unexpected voice. “It’s very well to compare Pindar
to Hermes but your father is another matter.”

The children scrambled to their feet with faces of delight. It was rare
to see their father at this hour. And Father always brought gaiety.




CHAPTER IV

ELEUTHERIA LOOKS OUT OF A WINDOW


Nikander was a tall slender man, a remarkable uniting of sensitiveness
and force. Twelve generations of his forbears had been priests of Delphi,
statesmen of wide outlook and ministers to the souls of men. Nikander was
a resultant type.

He sat down on a stone bench lifting Dryas to his knee, but Theria crept
into the hollow of his arm. Her fears took flight like scattered birds.
No harm could come to Dryas now that her father was there.

“And what day, think you, is this?” he asked. Birthdays were not so
important in those days and the children did not know.

“It is Dryas’s birthday,” he told them.

“Then my birthday, too,” exclaimed Theria, for though she was taller and
seemed older than her brother, she was his twin.

“Yes, yours, too.” Quite unconscious of his act, Nikander bent and kissed
the little girl. So bending, his face was the mature model for her own.

“And because it is the seventh birthday it is to be the first day of
school. Medon will take you, Dryas. He will be pedagogue. And here is
your little lyre. Father bought it to-day of the old lyre maker. See what
a pretty picture is here beneath the strings. And for you, my daughter,
what you have wanted so long.”

He drew from behind the bench the ropes and seat of a swing. “But I
wanted a lyre, too,” said Theria with wide, blank eyes.

“A lyre for a little girl! Oh, no, kitten. Besides, did you not ask for a
swing?”

“But, oh, Father, it is the lyre I want.”

“Theria must not be envious,” said her father seriously. “That would be a
new fault in my little girl.”

But her wide, astonished eyes disturbed him and again he kissed the child
before he hurried out.

Dryas with little cluckings of delight plucked at his toy, but Theria
stood very still. Since she was to have no lyre, was it also true that
she was not to go to school?

She seemed in the presence of a calamity which had been approaching since
all the days she had been alive, and now was come. With the vagueness of
her seven years, yet very deeply, she knew that not going to school meant
the parting of the ways between her and Dryas, the closing away from her
of precious things. Yet, strangely enough, in her surface, childish self,
she did not believe it at all.

Father had not said she could not go. Besides, she had always got what
she wanted if she persisted. She knew from her big brother Lycophron what
the school was like—a room or portico up near the Precinct, the master
teaching Homer all the day long—wonderful stories which one could not
forget, boys playing their lyres merrily then hanging them upon the wall
to go out and leap and race in contest in the sunshine. Lycophron had
gone to school since the beginning of the world.

Theria did not associate Baltè’s warning with this matter at all.

“I go to school to-day,” she began to say softly to herself. “Then I must
hurry.”

With a certain anxiety she crossed the court to Lycophron’s room. Yes,
there on the chest were his extra stylus and tablets and hanging on the
wall a small lyre which in a temper he had broken.

Theria climbed the chest and got it.

And in possession of these things confidence came to her. She was
perfectly sure now that she should go to school. She began to hum briskly
to herself. She went back into the court to be near Dryas lest when Medon
come he forget her.

Dryas was prancing about, hugging his lyre. He was not slow to taunt her.

“Ai: I’m going to school. You can’t go; you can’t go!”

“I can. Father said I could. I heard him.”

“When did he say it?”

“I don’t know when, but I heard him! ‘Daughter, you are going to school;
you are seven years old! Everybody goes to school then.’”

“He didn’t give you the lyre. He gave it to me,” gloried Dryas.

“I’ve a lyre, too, foolish one.” She held it out.

“Ai, what a broken thing, and it’s Lycophron’s. It’s none of yours.”

“If I had a lyre I’d play it, not hug it,” retorted Theria.

Here Medon came into the aula with sandals on. To Theria it was a
thunder-clap. She watched him steadily as he crossed to them, then with
loving gesture slipped her hand into his.

“But,” said the slave, “my darling is not going to-day. It’s Dryas who
must go. Poor Dryas!”

“Oh, no: you didn’t understand,” she reasoned with him. “Father wants
me to go.” She pushed back her curls with a nervous little gesture and
looked brightly up at him.

Medon dreaded a battle with Theria. The child had a storm-like temper.
To be sure it broke seldom, but it was always on some bright day like
this and nearly always had to do with going out of the house—a privilege
rare for little girls. Most girls did not expect to go out. Theria always
expected it, like a boy, and fought for it like a boy, too. Something
told him she was going to fight now. He must do his best.

“Medon will buy you a hoop in the market—a hoop, mind you, with bells—if
you will be good.”

“I don’t want that.” How tight she held his hand and how black were the
childish eyes gazing up at him. “I’ll tell you, Medon, you can give the
hoop to Dryas. School will be hard for Dryas. It’s going to be so easy
for me.”

“But, my dear little mistress, you cannot go. There are no girls at the
school.”

Medon felt the hand tighten sharply in his. The child was looking off at
a distance. Then with complete change she slipped her hand out of his.

“Yes, you and Dryas go,” she said.

She ran quickly up the stair to the women’s apartments—no doubt to cry
alone, and Medon, seizing his opportunity, fairly fled with his charge
from the house.

Medon carried the little boy’s lyre and very peacefully they walked along
the road toward the Precinct. They had gone some distance when Medon
heard running steps behind him, and, turning, saw to his amazement Theria
as if on wings, her black hair streaming behind, her chubby arms clasping
a lyre.

“I’m going!” she cried. “I will; I will!”

And then it was that Medon had to carry back along the road a strange
wild creature that fought and kicked and bit and clutched at his hair.

The neighbours hearing the cries ran out of their houses and shook their
heads at Nikander’s terrible child. Poor Medon was like to drop into the
earth for shame. Yet amid all the tumult he kept thinking of a mountain
stream which had been dammed back but which one day broke through and
rushed away—a mighty flood.

Nikander’s alarmed family—wife, slaves, and all—met them at the door.

“Now for what do the gods punish me?” cried poor Melantho, “that I should
have such a child! Look at her eyes. She is beside herself. Baltè, hold
her!”

But as Medon set down the little raging tumult old Baltè let her escape.
Up the stairs she flew, her voice like a clarion.

“Leave her be, dear mistress,” pleaded wise old Baltè. “Remember, she is
a twin child and it does grieve her sore to be separate from her twin.”

In the farthest room of the house Theria found refuge and slammed the
door. Here she threw herself face downward and beat the floor with her
fists; yes, and kicked, too, as her childish grief surged to and fro
within her. Her strength spent itself at last and she fell to sobbing,
suffering now as she had not done amid the curious enjoyment of loud woe.

Her thoughts now were not of the school nor of Dryas, but of her father,
the strange horror that her father should have done this and not seem to
care. Always before this had he mended hurts, not made them. Facing this
mystery her dearest faith tottered. Yet after a while even this dread
grew faint. Thoughts faded into fancies. Then she fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

She must have slept a long while for she awoke strangely quiet. Her
refuge place was a storeroom. Chests stood about full of things used only
at festivals. There were also great earthen jars of grain and wine.

The room was stone floored, stone walled, but its far end was hewn into
the native rock. Nikander’s house, standing on a side hill, was two
storied in front but here at the back melted to the roof in the hillside.
This room had a little low window—the only other window in the house
besides that in Nikander’s room.

To this window the little girl crept, and leaned her two elbows on the
ledge, her chin in her hands. The window showed her only the side lane
which led up between the houses to lose itself in the hill above. This
lane was wider than most of the lanes in Delphi, for it had been chosen
by one of the mountain streams for a bed, and now in the springtime
the foaming waters dashed downward between the house walls beside the
footpath.

There was no sound in the lane save the happy speaking of the waters. An
amber light lay over all as if the sun were setting, and in this rich
light everything stood distinct: ferns, rocks, and the tiny flowers on
the mossy roof of Cousin Phaino’s house across the lane. Every little
wave as it lifted in the stream turned golden and as it dived under again
seemed to peep at Theria and laugh. Presently a child came down from the
upper hills into the lane. What could so small a child have been doing
up there alone in that wilderness of crags? But what a lovely child he
was, what brave, erect little shoulders and rounded legs and what a
mischievous, dream-haunted face! How fearlessly he leaped along! He was
only a baby. Oh, why should he not leap? Wings were on his heels and two
golden wings in his cap—Hermes, and no other!

To Theria it was not strange that Hermes should thus stroll down
Nikander’s lane. Not strange, but it made her very glad. Now the dear
Hermes child paused by the stream, laid his tortoise lyre to his arm, and
began to play. Theria had never heard such music. It was clear like the
amber light and filled her with a joy that was to glisten softly down all
her years. Yet it was very faint, that music. She had to strain her ears
to hear.

Presently under its rhythm the stream grew more turbulent. The waves
dashed higher and turned to foaming white. And suddenly from each white
wave where it tossed in swift succession there swam out into the air
nymphs white as the foam, slender as flowers, immortally fair.

Theria knew it was right for them to come. Nymphs were always the
nursemaids of infant gods. Little Hermes must not wander alone, god
though he be. How delicately they kissed him, bending over him, then
rising, circling up and away as if carried by the breeze. Hermes was safe
now no matter how rough the way.

Suddenly a step sounded in the lane, “clump clump,” coming nearer.

The nymphs and Hermes stopped still, listing as hares do in the path.
Then instantly, thus poised, they vanished.

“Lentils—good lentils, who’ll buy?” came the call of old Labba, the
market woman, so tired with her day’s work, tramping home to her poor
scraggy farm in the hills.

Theria watched her. Poor Labba! She could not see the gods. Labba climbed
the hill and was lost to view. Theria looked again.

Yes—at once, as though bursting out of invisible pods, they came again,
and with them the music so elfin clear. The nymphs formed a circle and
danced, with feet which did not touch the rocks, around their baby god.
Sometimes they circled above the stream, sometimes swept near under
Theria’s very window. So they danced and danced.

Baltè, searching anxiously through the house for her nurseling, found
her at length in the far shadowy room. She was sitting by the window,
her head resting on the window ledge over which was strewn loose her
night-dark hair.

She was sound asleep.

“An’ I only wish,” said Baltè afterward to Medon, “you could ’a’ seen the
smile on her face. You wouldn’t ’a’ thought this very mornin’ she was
like a whole crew o’ mænads!”




CHAPTER V

THE TRADITIONS OF THE HOUSE


So Theria’s world was bounded by the house. Fortunate was it then that
the house was rich in memories. Rich otherwise it was not. No earnest
Greek beautified his own house when he could beautify instead the house
and temple of his deathless gods. So the walls of Nikander’s house were
of plain stucco, its floors, worn flags.

To be sure the furniture, handed down from olden days, was beautiful. The
bedsteads were chastely carved, their coverings were of home-made purple,
and Melantho’s chair in which she sat to spin was of exquisite shape and
balance. The tables in the men’s aula, where Nikander feasted his guests,
were of teak-wood brought from afar by some travelled merchant to the
Pythian feast. The vases in every room and put to all possible uses were
of a grace and workmanship which only the Greeks knew. They were of the
ordinary make, which everyone afforded, from the Delphi pottery below the
hill. Upon them were painted pictures of the heroes and the gods—Theria’s
charming picture books which sometimes told whole stories.

The plain old house had been built upon, lived in, and loved by a dozen
generations of Nikanders. It had absorbed within itself the beauty of
their daily life and seemed to give it forth again—a sort of fragrance to
be sensed the moment you crossed the threshold. The Nikanders were one
of those quiet families of exceeding excellence and highmindedness which
always exist in great numbers in the background of an age of genius.

Time had harmonized the house. The lines of wall and ceiling were no
longer plumb and level. The grey stucco had been stained lavender,
yellow, faint rose by lichen growths. No threshold in the house but was
worn deep by the tread of feet now passed beyond. In front of the little
altar to Hestia the stone floor was hollowed like a bowl, where father
and son, father and son had stood to offer reverent sacrifice to the
goddess of the hearth.

Into this atmosphere Theria had been born and in it her spirit grew,
keeping itself alive within the straitened, prescribed round.

But through the house were also wafted deep draughts of life from the
Oracle—that mysterious shrine which seems to us like some myth, but which
to the Greek was business-real.

The manner of divination at Delphi was peculiar in that it gave the
priests an opportunity to mould the divine answer without at the same
time losing faith in its divineness. The Priestess or Pythoness was a
simple girl comprehending nothing of the knowledge which she must impart.
In preparation for the day of oracle she was subjected to three days
of rite. She fasted, drank of the sacred spring, walked through laurel
smoke; and with her perfect faith in these rites, she must often have
been in the ecstatic state before mounting the tripod.

Then in the shadowy adytum beneath the temple she was placed upon the
golden tripod, the “High Perilous Seat” as it was called. The cold wind
blew out of the cleft below her and in ecstasy she spoke words she
knew not. It is undoubted that in her state of suspended consciousness
she often reflected as in a mirror the knowledge and judgments of the
priests. Her marvellous answers often filled priests and questioners
alike with awe. The priests afterward were allowed to recast the answers
into verse and to remould them. But in spite of the liberty which they
occasionally felt obliged to use in the recasting the priests sincerely
believed that the responses were genuinely from the god.

It was this mingling of faith and liberty which gave Delphi her power, a
power which was for the most part grandly used. At the dawn of Hellas,
from this eerie mountain glen the authority began to be exercised. It
continued down through all the glory of Hellas and for centuries after
her decline. Strong and real indeed must have been the religious impetus
which could outlast the race.

This was the Oracle which Theria’s kin had served with singleness of
heart. Her father, Nikander, served it now. Priest, yes, but priest in
the joyous, free fashion of the Greek. In performance of his priestly
duties to the Oracle Nikander had travelled far, studying the coasts of
the Ægean, Mediterranean, and Euxine seas, wherever lay the colonies of
Delphi’s founding. He had mingled with the barbarians or un-hellenic
peoples and had even learned some of their languages—a sort of knowledge
unknown in Greece. In Thrace he had sojourned with the rude tent
dwellers, in Egypt he had visited the stately temples of Isis and Osiris
and had seen the great Sphynx which so grimly faced the desert. In Persia
he had visited the court of Xerxes and despised its luxury. He had
returned to Delphi broadened and sweetened by his experiences.

Among the narrow one-city men of Greece the Delphian was not provincial.

Nikander was a member of that Council, presided over by Delphi,
called “Amphyction,” which for hundreds of years had upheld the only
international law that Hellas recognized. The Amphyctiony earnestly tried
to keep peace between the passionate cities which were its members.
Nikander personally had great influence in this Council and used that
influence for the constant uplifting of the policy of the Oracle.

Nikander brought with him into his home the very breath of the Oracle.
He spent little time at home, but when he did come his children ran to
him, for no one could tell such wonder stories as Nikander—stories of
shipwreck on savage coasts, of mountains that flamed and smoked, of the
great statue Memnon which stood in Egypt and sang when the sun rose. But
for the most part Nikander’s tales were tales of Delphi. Delphi was so
rich in tradition that Nikander needed never to go far afield for his
stories.

It was from her father that Theria heard of the beautiful coming of
her own ancestors to Delphi, men brought by Apollo himself to be his
worshippers.

“They were in a ship on a trading voyage,” Nikander would relate, “those
ancestors of ours, bold young men, unafraid of the sea, for they were
Cretan islanders. When suddenly there leaped out of the waves a Dolphin,
golden and bright, and lay on their deck. At once the wind changed,
speeding them toward the west. They tried to shift their sails but not
one whit could they shift their course. The men were sore afraid for they
knew they were in the hands of a god.”

“The Dolphin god,” Theria would murmur with Wide eyes.

“Yes, the Delphian,” her father made the age-old pun. “And they saw the
immortal creature shimmer with rainbow colours never ceasing. So the
strong wind blew them against their will first westward then northward
into our own lovely gulf and to our port of Krissa. Here the ship
stopped, held by immortal hands.

“Then at once the Dolphin disappeared and in his stead stood a young man
strong and beautiful with golden locks out-sprayed upon the winds and
eyes whose light was as the dawn of day.”

Theria would clap her hands softly, saying, “And he leaped upon the
shore, our dear Apollo, and beckoned the men with his hand.” She knew the
tale by heart.

Nikander would continue, smiling:

“And Apollo, lightly stepping, playing upon his heavenly lyre, led the
Cretans hither, right by the place where our house now stands and up to
the ‘place of golden tripods’ yonder.

“‘This is to be yours,’ he told the Cretans. ‘Here shall ye serve my
oracle.’

“Then the Cretans looked about them. They saw the sterile cliffs
and rocky hillsides on which nothing would grow. And they asked in
apprehension:

“‘How can we live in this place, O Lord Apollo? Here will no grain grow,
no cattle find fodder. Here we cannot fish.’”

The children laughed at this.

“Fish! O foolish, foolish Cretans!”

“Yes, foolish Cretans. So Apollo called them. ‘Do ye so love to delve
in the earth, and sweat? Do ye so love to be buffeted by salt water and
bitter winds? A secret I will tell you! Sit ye here, attend my worship,
and all the nations of the earth shall bring you gifts. My altars shall
smoke with the fat of lambs, my temples glow with golden things. But
your duty shall be to guard my temple and to receive kindly in my name
the tribes of men who gather here.

“‘But if any of you ill-treat the stranger, if ye do violence or speak
harsh words, then shall others be your masters and make you slaves for
ever.’”

“But we will never be slaves?” Theria would inquire anxiously. “We will
never do those wicked deeds and be slaved?”

“No, never.” Nikander would kiss the child who cuddled so close in his
arms and then with yet more fondness kiss his son Dryas.

Such was the ennobling tradition which the little girl Theria treasured
in her heart. But she knew, too, that the Delphi god had not always been
master of his shrine. Story upon story, faith upon faith went back into
the misty past where the chaste belief in Apollo was underlaid with
grotesque stories of Gaia—Mother Earth—and dragons.

It was from her nurse Baltè that she heard these older tales though they
were sternly and fearfully believed by all Delphians.

Baltè one afternoon found the little girl sitting by Nikander’s front
window gazing outward in silence. It was a place of wide prospect. The
house was one of the few which stood above the main road, and so steep
was the incline that the roofs across the way seemed but little higher
than the road itself. Theria could look over them and over other roofs
in sharp downward succession into the violet depth of Pleistos gorge and
then up to the fir-clad mountain beyond.

A storm of clear-edged cloud was sweeping along that slope with flashes
and mutterings. She watched wistfully its swiftness and its strength.

Baltè came from behind and kissed her.

“Now an’ why aren’t ye down in the aula playin’ with Clitè an’ Nerea?
It’s always I find ye by yourself at the window. It isn’t right for
little girls to be seen from the street.”

But Theria was full of questions. “Baltè, what does the glen find when it
goes down into the shadows? It always seems to stoop down and down.”

“The river, do ye mean, darlin’?”

“But I can’t see the river, I’ve tried so many days.”

“No, the glen is too deep to see the Pleistos.”

“Baltè, did you ever go across the river to the other mountain—far, far
over where Father Zeus has driven his clouds?”

“No, child, not I. What ever would I be doin’ there?”

“I’d like to go,” said the child.

“Don’t ye never! Do ye see that little rift-like all black on the
mountainside among the firs?”

“Yes, Baltè.”

“Well, down in that rift is the cave o’ Lamia—a woman the upper part
of her, but all the rest a _snake_. In the olden time she did come
hitherward and ravaged the country.”

“What’s ravid?”

“Oh, knockin’ down the houses and eatin’ the folk. So at last to quiet
her they did take a boy—oh, a nice likely young boy of the village—and
leave him for her in that cave.”

“What for?”

“To eat! Every day a boy!”

By this time Theria’s eyes were wide, and she reached furtively and
caught Baltè’s skirt.

“But then there came the hero Eurymalos an’ he walked right into the
cave, he did. An’ he caught Lamia and pulled her out, and cast her down
the cliff. Then she fell down, down, a-bumpin’ and bangin’ her head all
the way—right into the river Pleistos.”

“Paian be praised!” breathed the little girl.

“Yes, but them kind don’t stay killed,” said Baltè uncomfortingly. “Look
at the other one, the Python now. Apollo killed her long since. But every
fourth year the Sacred Boy has to go up there in the Precinct an’ kill
her again.”

“But, Baltè, that’s only a play to make a holy memory to the god.” Theria
felt sure of this, for not long ago her cousin had been the Sacred Boy in
the play and she had heard Mother say that if Dryas continued to do so
well in school, and if he grew graceful and fair, he, too, might some day
be the “Boy of The Strepterion Drama.” She somehow felt sure that Dryas
could not kill a real Python.

But Baltè shook her head.

“Don’t tell me!” she said stoutly. “Ye haven’t seen her. I have. I’ve
seen the switch o’ the Python’s tail, an’ heard her teeth grind, the
while she dies. An’ when she is dead, don’t they perform all the
purifications just as when old mistress died in the house? She’s real, I
tell ye!”

Theria was more than half convinced.

Yet even the Python and the boy-eating Lamia did not so strike terror to
the childish Theria as did the strange rites which through winter months
occupied the Delphians. These were no tales of the past but rites of
Dionysos which Theria herself could see.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the winter came Dionysos, a powerful god, to take possession of the
Precinct while Apollo should be away in the north. Then Theban women—a
large company—arrived in Delphi to greet him. Theria saw them pass and
knew that a like company from Athens was arriving at the other end of the
village.

A society of Delphian ladies never else seen publicly came crowding out
of their houses into the highway. From her favoured window Theria saw
these also, her own kinswomen whom she knew well, no longer sedate and
kind and neat, but with hair disordered, clad in strange spotted fawn
skins over their chitons. They came leaping, shouting, whirling around in
a sort of frenzy as though unable to wait for the rites which they were
about to perform. They were no longer themselves, they were possessed
by the strange god Dionysos. They were no longer called women, but
Bacchantes. They were being swept along by a terrible joy from which the
child shrank in shame though she could not understand.

On one such evening Theria watched them, saw the chill, dusky street
aflare with their torches, saw how the eyes of the Bacchantes caught the
light, staring like the eyes of panthers. Then in a frenzied, noisy rout
they rushed away.

Theria sat by her window quivering while the cold yellow light died out
on glen and mountain. Then quickly she left the window and stole down
to the aula where she sat close to the Hestia fire. One of those first
evenings of frost it was when instinctively men draw near to their hearth
and wish to have about them the home faces and the comfortable voices of
home. Yet the little girl knew that her Aunt Eunomia, her pretty cousin
Clodora, and the rest, were speeding half-naked up Parnassos, there in
the bitter uplands and the wild to rage madly to and fro at the will of
the god.

Lycophron burst into the room, rosy with the cold, rude as fourteen years
could make him.

“Did you see the women?” he shouted. “By the gods, I could hardly get
home for them. Free at last—that’s what they are, havin’ the time of
their lives. Dionysos is only an excuse. Hey, Theria, you are always
wanting to get out. Why don’t you join?”

Lycophron did not see his father who had just come down the stair.

“Lycophron,” said the father sternly, “how do you dare such insolence?
Let me never hear such from you again.”

And Lycophron disappeared more suddenly than he had come.

Nikander drew near the fire, absently warming his hands. Even at this
early time he was disturbed over his eldest son.

“Are they gone?” queried the little girl.

“The Bacchantes? Yes, my child. As I came up the street I saw far up on
the mountain their Bacchic fires gleaming through the dusk. It is cold
for the night of Bromios.”

Theria knew of what he was thinking—a little great-great-aunt of hers
who had died on a night like this, in the cold of the Parnassian rocks.
A tiny room next to Theria’s own had belonged to her and she was said to
visit it on Bromios night, a white, chattering figure trying in vain to
warm herself amid the purple covering of the couch.

Theria stole to her father’s side, slipped her hand In his, and drew him
down to whisper:

“Father, must I be a Bacchante some day?”

“God forbid,” spoke Nikander, then added piously, “unless the god demand
you, Theria.”

“But he will not demand me. Oh, Father, he will not?”

Again she was in the hollow of his arm and again felt safe even from the
god Dionysos himself.

“No, my daughter,” he said, looking into the sane little face. “I do not
believe he will.”




CHAPTER VI

THE GUESTS


So throughout the winter months Dionysos, that god who came from far
Asia into Greece, held sway in Delphi. Apollo was gone on his distant
mysterious journey to the land of the Hyperboreans, those happy,
luxurious folk who live on the farther side of the north wind. Theria
felt keenly this absence of her god: more keenly perhaps than she would
have felt the absence of any person in the household.

For with Apollo’s going the Oracle was silenced. No pilgrims came to
consult it. The pure, ordered songs of Apollo, the throbbing lyre, the
announcing trumpets were stilled. Instead sounded the nervous wailing of
Dionysos pipes. On quiet evenings Theria could hear them, and Baltè told
her of the furious satyr dances in the Precinct. And now the absence of
Apollo brought the rains and the cold. Yes, in the winter Theria missed
her god.

When, therefore, in the spring Apollo returned, the whole heart of the
little girl went forth to him in love. Theria knew well how her god must
look. Every vase and kylix in the house bore pictures of Apollo. And long
ago her child mind had selected, from among the beautiful youths she had
seen come by on pilgrimage, one who seemed to her like the god himself.
Always at the word “Apollo” Theria saw again that fresh-hearted happy
boy moving, flushed and expectant, toward the Precinct, and on his face
that same look of dear surprise, youth’s first response to life.

Apollo always arrived at Delphi on his birthday the seventh of Busious.
Then the whole Precinct and the town awoke to greet him with song and
festival. In Nikander’s house slaves ran to and fro on busy errands;
for of a surety guests would be coming from the ends of the earth.
The purples and the woven curtains came forth from Theria’s familiar
storeroom, and all the house glowed with the patterns and pictures of
tapestries. What joy to the little girl that busyness and commotion.

Past the house on the highroad now came throngs of pilgrims, more of them
every day. At these times no forbiddings or punishments could keep Theria
away from the window.

Here came men from Corinth, Thebes, Argos, and the islands of the sea.
Rich men on horseback with trains of slaves, poor men whose anxious faces
showed plain their question to the god. “Even the wolves bring gifts to
Delphi,” was the saying; and some of these with their heavy mountain
faces and clothes of skin seemed wild and wolf-like to the little girl.
Now would pass a delegation from some distant Delphian colony bearing the
tithe gift to the mother fane; for Apollo was founder of cities. It was
he who had first led the colonists to their distant lands over the misty
deep. Sculptors came accompanying their statues; poets brought their
songs. Now would pass an Ionian gentleman in long purple cloak, laughing,
gesturing; now a quiet young philosopher whose large-eyed vivid face
showed his spirit-quest. Philosophers were well known in Delphi and more
welcome than kings.

How eagerly the visitors talked as they came along. They had arrived
after long journeying to within sight of their goal. The broad Doric
speech, the melodious Attic, the barbarous dialects mixed with the speech
of Scyths, Sikels, and Gauls, all these she heard.

Among these passers-by were sure to be some who would stop and enter
Nikander’s door—guests of the priestly house. Often these were men
of high renown, but quite as often they would be poor, in threadbare
garments, who had came to the Oracle in bitter need. To these Nikander’s
ministry was almost un-Greek in its overflowing sympathy. An inherited
skill of kindness was his and his poet quality of insight was of no
peculiar race or date. Many a troubled wight came forth from Nikander’s
presence, serene to face the god.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the centre of Nikander’s as in every Greek house there was a
fast-closed door. Behind this door lived the women. They might, when only
the family was in the house, come through this door, but they had no
business or occupation on its outer side. At the appearance of a guest
the women must quickly disappear.

This door was at once Theria’s greatest grief and greatest delight.
Grief that it must constrain her at all. Delight in that she could steal
through it and catch glimpses of her father’s guests. Often though she
was punished for this Theria always did it. Who would not take punishment
for a glimpse of Æschylus, Kimon, Parmenides, or Pindar!

“Back to your room—quick, Daughter!” Nikander would command whenever he
noticed her. But often Nikander would be absorbed in his guest, and the
room would be confused with serving-slaves. Nikander would not even see
Theria’s little figure crouched by a pillar.

Of all the guests the Theban poet Pindar was the one whom Theria loved
best. Indeed all children loved Pindar. Not a child in Delphi but would
lift up eager hands to that radiant smile as Pindar passed. There was in
him an almost aggressive joy. The same vitality which makes a child leap
and run and shout—all this was in his adult nature. It shone out of the
clear deeps which were his eyes and trembled on his full Greek lips. He
seemed always just to have taken a deep breath as if joying in the very
air about him. His rather large mouth and his nose both were well-built
for breathing. Splendour was his—splendour of imagination. His whole
being exulted in response to spiritual beauty unseen by other men.

All Delphi adored him. They had a strangely spiritual custom concerning
him. Wherever Pindar might be in bodily comings or goings, the keeper of
the Apollo temple when closing the shining doors at sunset hour was wont
to call aloud:

“Let Pindar, the poet, go in to the supper of the god!”

Theria was a very little girl when she first saw Pindar. She was awakened
by a sweet commotion of music, and getting up from her bed she trotted
down into the front aula. The fateful door had been left open and she
stole through, a diminutive figure in her short chiton. She went direct
to Pindar.

The poet laid his lyre upon the table and lifted the child to his knee.

“There, there; I awakened you, little one,” he said tenderly.

“No,” she answered, “the music called me.”

“Called you, did it? And so you had to come?”

She did not answer but gazed up at him unwinking, her tiny hands folding
and unfolding in her utter joy at being so near to him. She was unaware
of the others sitting at the feast.

“Where do you get it?” she asked.

“Get what? The lyre? Oh, of the lyre-maker in Athens.”

She shook her curls.

“No, the song. Does it come out of the air?”

“Perhaps so, little one. Apollo gives it, surely.”

“Oh, will he give one to me?” she asked, her hands clasping suddenly
close to her breast. “If I make a prayer to him and a sacrifice—a big,
big sacrifice like Father’s? A sheep, and burn it all up with leaping
flame till it smells so good—so good?”

Her baby nose sniffed deliciously and all the men laughed.

“And where will you get your big sheep?” teased one.

“Nay, do not spoil her hope,” spoke Pindar quickly. He drew the lyre
toward her and instantly her chubby hand reached out to touch the
strings, sounding them lovingly, softly.

Pindar watched her, absorbed.

“The god will give you your song, darling. Apollo’s answer is already in
your eyes and fingers.”

“Do you think so, Pindar?” asked Nikander, amused. “Yet even so the child
must not stop our feast. Medon, will you carry her back to her nurse?”

Nikander expected that she would cry and struggle, but she leaned over
and kissed the lyre, then went away with Medon, quite satisfied.

Ever from that time Theria awakened at the first sound of Pindar’s lyre.
She would steal down as near as she dared. If the door were shut she
would press her ear against it in her eagerness to hear. If it were open
she would crouch in its shadow. The slaves passing to and fro with the
feast never told. Theria was a favourite with them.

It was Pindar’s habit to bring his songs to Nikander when they were
glowing new. Nikander, a poet who had never written himself forth, had
the keenest sense of poetic values and Pindar was glad of his judgments.
Sometimes an ode would be sung again and again before both pronounced it
right. Then Pindar would go out into the Delphic starlight humming the
altered, perfected refrain:

    “Harken, for once more we plough the field
    of Aphrodite of the glancing eyes,”

or

    “In anywise to slake my thirst for song,
    The ancient glory of thy forefathers summoneth me,”

or he would address his own songs, calling them

    “My lords of lute,
    My feathered arrows of sweet song,
    My golden pillars of sweet song——”

These were the familiars of Theria’s childhood and entered into the
fabric of her mind. Pindar, as he strode singing away, little recked of
the girl-listener drinking at his fountain and transmuted in all her
being by his supreme expression.




CHAPTER VII

WHAT GIFTS THE GUESTS BROUGHT


It was through a guest that Theria first came to visualize those distant
colonies of the west which gave so many gifts to Delphi and played so
important a part in Delphi’s life.

He was a simple-seeming guest, this young man from far-away Elea in
Italy. But child though Theria was, she could not but note his face. It
shone with an almost startling quietness, a robust and heavenly calm. The
soul of the man had been dipped deep and deep again in abstract thought.
Earthly things were washed away. The “Parmenidean Countenance of Peace”
was soon to be recognized throughout Hellas, for even the disciples of
Parmenides acquired this same look.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, as though it were an ordinary happening. “We
were nearly shipwrecked off Corcyra. Four days of storm. I thought my
earthly term was come. But I knew that I would at once rise from the sea
and begin my long progress toward the Eternal Source.”

“Would you have been glad,” asked the amazed Nikander, “to go on
pilgrimage to Hades?”

“No—no,” laughed Parmenides. “Too much to do here. Elea needs me.
The city is now in my hands to govern quite as I will. I govern by
philosophy. And, Nikander, we are happy in Elea! We are a little city
and on a far-away coast, yet even Athens has not our justice and calm.
Constantly I keep before the minds of our citizens the importance of
right, the unimportance of this world’s goods. They know they are in the
hands of _The One_.”

“I could not worship _The One_,” said Nikander seriously. “Think what
a lonely god—an Only One, sitting sole and wordless in Olympos with no
other god to speak to, to deal with, or to love. Or even to quarrel
with,” he added whimsically.

“But the gods themselves worship my god. They know the One who is above
them and controls.”

“Moira?” asked Nikander in a low voice. “Inexorable Fate?”

“No, Nikander, not Fate, but Love—creating all things—healing all things.
Love—the First—the Source.”

Parmenides’s eyes shone with eerie light. He was fairly launched now. He
began to recite his philosophy. It was—as was all literary expression
in those days—a poem. Nikander listened entranced, laying it away in
his retentive Greek memory which would give him back whole cantos of it
almost entire.

Theria, crouched in the door corner wrapped in a dark cloak, was content
to listen to the rhythm. Of the poem she understood not a word. Then she
grew weary of her stolen pleasure, but she dared not move from her hiding
place.

Presently Baltè began to call her through the house.

“Little mistress, little mistress, your mother asks for you. Little
mistress, she is ill and needs you.”

For, strange to say, in Melantho’s frequent headaches it was Theria’s
little magnetic hands which helped most of all.

“Apollo has blessed the child with his healing touch,” old Baltè was wont
to say.

But now Baltè called in vain, and at last, fearing that her charge might
be in forbidden quarters, she left off her call.

But the interminable poem went on. It mingled at last in Theria’s ears
into a soft humming. Torches were brought, and the evening meal. Priest
and philosopher lingered in ardent converse—that friction of mind upon
mind which the Greek men of that day so loved and which with its sparkle
and contagion of wit made the Greek look with contempt upon the mere
written page.

Nikander, strolling dreamily to bed at midnight, stumbled upon the heap
wrapped in its dark cloak, and lifted his daughter in his arms.

“Strange,” he murmured, “this continual disobedience. What can draw her
hither—I wonder?”

The childish face sleeping upon his arm reminded him of his mother—a
resemblance he had not noted before, and very tenderly he carried her to
her bed where Baltè was waiting.

It was from a guest also that Theria heard the first whisper of The
War—that steadily approaching war which was yet so far off that only the
wise felt its dread.

Theria was older at this time and understood more of what she heard.

Her father one day entered suddenly bringing with him a stranger whose
personality started her interest. Unremitting energy! That was the
keynote of the man. He talked continually. Theria heard him even before
he entered—the clear voice of the orator. His strange Attic dialect, his
swift words made him a little difficult for her to understand. Fair he
was, tall, blue-eyed, strong, something un-Greek about him. Nikander did
not even see Theria this time. He was too absorbed in Themistokles.

Their talk was first about the new play at Athens. Themistokles had just
heard the first great drama. His heart was afire with the excitement of
it.

“It is new, utterly new and powerful,” he exclaimed. “Prometheus, it is
called. Our Æschylus has outdone himself. The very gods come down upon
the stage. And actors! We have never had such actors, Nikander. But it is
the greatness of the play which creates them—the greatness of the play!”

“The lines!” pleaded Nikander. “Tell me the lines.”

And with ready memory Themistokles began. He gestured swiftly with his
hands. “Flashing hands,” Theria named them. He puzzled her. Surely he was
not Athenian—not quite moderate and serene—and his cloak with its border
of purple and gold was a little too conspicuous of beauty.

In the midst of a scene he broke off.

“But here we talk of the play,” he said. “When I want to talk of dear
Athens. Nikander, the Athenians are blind, every one of them, _blind_!”

“Gracious,” laughed Nikander, “no one else thinks so.”

“They will not believe that the Persian will come again. ‘Oh,’ they
boast, ‘We conquered them at Marathon, that deed is done.’ But the deed
is not done. Nikander, _you_ know the Persian will return. Ye of Delphi,
are you so unaware?”

He seized Nikander’s hand and Nikander sobered instantly.

“Indeed we are not unaware,” he answered.

“Oh, Nikander, the trophies of Miltiades will not let me rest. Such
trophies must be won again. May the gods let me win them!”

Nikander did not reply but Theria saw him search the man’s face, as if
anxiously measuring him for some great need.

“Have you news, Themistokles—fresh news?”

“No, only straws, but plenty of them. I keep a clever slave down at
the Piræus who has no other business than to listen to stories of the
ship-merchants and traders. Sailors know the way of the winds—the winds
of the future. They push in at every shore. The Great King they tell us
is now warring against Egypt, but our turn is next. Oh, it is surely the
next. Nikander, the armies which Darius brought against us seven years
agone were but a handful to those which his son Xerxes will bring.”

“I believe that,” said Nikander. “Ay, and the Delphian Council believe
it, too.”

“Good!” exclaimed the Athenian.

“It is not good. Do you know, Themistokles, what this belief breeds in
the Council? Fear; only fear! ‘Hellas cannot withstand the Persian.’ That
is what they are whispering here in Delphi. ‘Hellas is doomed.’”

Themistokles’s face took on a horror which startled the listening girl.

“Nikander,” he cried, “you will not allow Delphi to shirk. The Oracle
must stand by Athens!”

“I will stand by Athens and by all Hellas,” said Nikander solemnly. “I
believe Apollo will defend his own.”

Themistokles now began to talk of the silver mines of Laurium and how he
had been trying to persuade the Athenians to forego their yearly gift of
silver in order to build ships for fighting against the little island of
Ægina.

“Will so many ships be needed?” queried Nikander with sharp insight.

Themistokles leaned toward him, laughing softly, triumphantly. “For the
war with Ægina!” he said, low-toned. “Believe me, for that war the ships
will not be used. But when the Persian comes, he will find certain ships
in our harbour that will give him pause. Remember that, Nikander, so that
you may give credit to Themistokles who saw before the event.”

All too soon Themistokles took his departure. Afterward Theria heard the
slaves gossiping about the man. “He brought with him a purple tent,”
they said, “and furniture and many slaves, even for his short visit.”
Themistokles lived like a prince in Delphi.




CHAPTER VIII

DRYAS TAKES A ROBBER


There was no use mincing matters; Lycophron, the eldest son of Nikander,
was not satisfactory. Handsome in person, he had nevertheless always
been slow to learn and swift in evil doing, the bane of his Delphic
schoolmasters. At fourteen years his features had coarsened, his eyes
grown less intelligent. Now at eighteen that phase was past and he was
clever in a fashion which Nikander vainly tried to think creditable.
Nikander wanted to keep close to his boy in study and sports. Lycophron
was his first-born. Some day Lycophron would be priest in Nikander’s
stead, would take his chair in the Amphictyonic Council. Yet try as he
might, Nikander could never look forward to this succession without shame.

Lycophron now began to demand money for horses and a chariot for the
Olympian games. Nikander could ill afford so expensive a winning. He had
hoped that his eldest son would win the crown for leaping or running,
some act which would be reflected back in manly beauty and strength. Yet
Nikander managed to give Lycophron money for his horses. He loved his
eldest with a sensitive, intimate love.

But now came Dryas. Dryas from the first week of school had shown
himself a promising son of the ancient house, and Nikander’s joy in him
was beautiful to see. Always when Dryas returned from school Nikander
would contrive to be in the aula to greet him, to hear the latest Doric
melody the boy had learned, to correct the faults, or recite with him the
passage of Homer which had been the lesson of the day.

Sometimes Nikander would linger along the road, meet Dryas, and,
dismissing the pedagogue, would himself conduct the boy home.

Dryas was not always strong. Nikander summoned for him the best
physicians from Athens and on his ill days would sit beside him patiently
trying to ease the child. At such times Theria helped, knowing by that
curious instinct of hers what to do. And when the pain was eased, Dryas
would draw her face down and kiss her. Nikander was almost jealous of
the love that Dryas gave to his twin sister. As he grew taller, however,
Dryas grew also well and strong.

       *       *       *       *       *

One winter evening Dryas and his slave boy were returning from the
gymnasium, old Medon his pedagogue being lame and at home. All afternoon
Dryas had been exercising. Then in the gymnasium he had stood under the
pouring fountain, a chilly bath, and the slave boy had rubbed him to a
glow. He was full of life and of a sense of waxing strength. Dreams of
Olympian contests were in his heart as they were in the heart of every
boy of Greece.

“Come,” said he to the slave. “Let’s go out the eastern road. You have
the bow. Maybe we’ll bring down a hare.”

“It will grow dark soon,” ventured the slave. “And your father will be
coming to meet you.”

“It won’t be dark,” answered Dryas. “Come, I say.”

So together they walked eastward on the hill road. They passed the row
of outer temples and the hillside tombs. Sure enough, against all hope,
a hare leaped across the road. Dryas shot it, and the slave fetched and
slung it over his shoulder. Then they started back to town.

Twilight had fallen when they repassed the graves. The boys shrank close
to each other. Both slave and free were afraid of the spirits which
hovered there.

As they came to the roadside temples they saw a man dart quickly around a
corner.

“What was that?” asked Dryas sharply.

“I don’t know,” answered the slave. Dryas, with wide eyes of fear, backed
behind a rock.

“If he’s stealing from the gods we ought to stop him,” spoke the slave.
“See; we have our bow.”

At this word Dryas, ashamed of his fear, came out from hiding.

“Stay by me,” he pleaded, and the slave advanced first.

These small temples, being outside the Precinct wall, were poorly
guarded. The boys crept nearer and rounded the corner just in time to see
the man with some silver cups in his arms running down the hill.

The boys gave chase. The man circled around so as to come up the hill
again. The upper heights were always a fastness for robbers. The boys
still followed, and above the road overtook the man.

Dryas with a cry half like a sob leaped upon him while the slave at the
same time tripped his heels. The fellow went down like a log, screaming
in panic. The boys quickly possessed themselves of the cups. The slave
with his own leather belt tied the man’s hands, and together the boys
pulled the man down the road—he not resisting at all. They pushed him
along toward town.

At the edge of the village Nikander met them. In all his life Nikander
never forgot that shock—first the fear, then the joy—as he realized that
Dryas, spite of bleeding face and dishevelled hair, was safe and that he
had done a brave deed.

“Father, it is a robber,” Dryas was saying excitedly. “I caught him by
the outer temples. See, he had the silver temple cups.”

“My son,” said Nikander. “My son!”

At sound of Nikander’s voice the man fell down again, howling like an
animal in fear. And strangely, Dryas, too, broke into hysterical weeping.

“Don’t let them kill him, Father. Don’t let them kill the man!”

“But he has committed sacrilege.”

“Oh, no—no, if they kill him I’ll die, too. Oh, I’m afraid! Oh, he would
haunt me.”

“Nonsense, Dryas.”

Here the man tried to get upon his feet but tumbled down again.

“Pitiful Hermes!” cried Nikander. “The wretch is starving.”

Dryas, still sobbing, caught nervously at the man’s bonds and pulled them
off.

“Here, Son,” said Nikander. “Give him a drachma.”

The poor creature snatched the money and seeing the look of relenting in
Nikander’s face, sprang up the hill with sudden life. He was quickly lost
among the crags.

The incident soon got abroad in Delphi. The boys at school made a hero of
Dryas. They had always liked him.

Nikander, however, could not help recurring to Dryas’s curious,
passionate weeping. He told himself that it was natural. The young boy
should be pitiful. But the weeping had not seemed to be pity. Something
selfish, almost craven was in it. And a look in the slave boy’s face made
Nikander think that the slave had done as much or more of the deed than
Dryas himself.

Nikander pushed these thoughts from him and when Dryas’s praise came in
from every side, Nikander gladly forgot them.

For from this time the Delphians began to take notice of Nikander’s
younger son. His beauty was growing every day. He had a voice high,
clear, unearthly sometimes, and he played the lyre with firm touch while
he sang. He was only fourteen years old.

One day, as the priests broke up their council after the giving of the
Oracle, the old Akeratus, president of the priests, detained Nikander. He
told him that his boy Dryas had been chosen the “Laurel-Bearer” for the
next Strepterion feast. It was the greatest honour the Delphians could
give to a young Delphian boy. Then Nikander went home feeling that his
cup of joy was full.




CHAPTER IX

LAUREL FROM TEMPÈ


Theria’s joy, too, was full. The tie between Dryas and herself was very
strong and his happiness closely touched her.

But, oh, the further marvel! Theria was to go up to the Precinct to see
the sacred rite. She was older now. Had she not already dedicated her
girlhood toys to Artemis? Soon she would be a woman and for women there
were certain rare occasions when they might visit the temple place.

The new white himation which she was to wear she hung on a peg in her
room. Gazing at this, fingering it, she could almost realize she was
about to go to the Precinct. The joy caught strongly at her throat. Every
day she begged her mother to name over each temple that she was to see,
each treasury, each statue that flanked the Sacred Way until Melantho
clapped hands over her ears and ordered her out of the room.

Theria never moved quietly about the house. She always ran or skipped.
Now as she ran, she sang aloud or, leaping into her swing in the court,
she swept upward like a swallow, until she could see high over the
balcony into the second-story rooms. The whole house felt the contagion
of her joy.

“I’m to attend little mistress,” boasted Nerea in the kitchen. “By
Hermes, the best o’ the festival will be to see her face goin’ into the
gates.”

The Strepterion was a festival which like the Pythia came every fourth
year. At the Strepterion was performed the sacred drama, “Apollo Killing
the Python,” the very same which Dryas had acted in play when a baby, and
now he was to act it in earnest.

Midway in the Precinct was built a temporary hut called the Palace of
the Snake. And the snake would be there, a marvel of contrivance, his
ugly dragon head, with open mouth and teeth, resting on the threshold.
Dryas, arrayed as the boy Apollo, must in mimic dance and gesture fight
the dragon. A chorus of boys carrying torches would sing the story. Then
after the struggle Apollo must lift his silver bow and shoot the dragon.
It would die with great writhings and agony—a joy to the crowd.

Presently all the actors would come in solemn, silent procession down the
Sacred Way. They would pass out of the gate of the Precinct, through the
village, and away on the western road.

Thus would begin a long journey which would take from moon to moon.
Symbolically, the actors would journey to the land of the Hyperboreans
beyond the north wind. Actually they would trace an ancient way of
pilgrimage, the Pythian Way, to the Vale of Tempè.

At Tempè Dryas, as the Sacred Boy, would gather boughs from a certain
famous laurel tree, and bring them home to be woven into crowns for the
Pythian victors. For the Pythian festival and games always fell in the
same year, a few weeks later than the Strepterion.

All this was to be Dryas’s adventure. He would return to tell of its
wonders. He was a dear, companionable boy. Theria knew he would tell her
the whole of it.

On the morning of Strepterion she awoke before daybreak and lay in that
ecstasy of anticipation which only youth-time knows. Presently dawned the
light and showed her her white dress, still hanging ghostly on its peg.
She arose and went out into the court-balcony. Here she met Dryas. He,
too, had awakened early with the joy of the day.

“Good luck,” she greeted him. “The luck of Loxias.” And he answered
piously, “Apollo bless you.”

Between them they roused the whole family.

At sunrise Dryas must be clothed in his ceremonial robes. He stood in the
court near the Hestia hearth where all the family could see him, where
the slaves could gather proudly to look on. They brought forth the temple
himation, yellow with its border of gold, an ancient, precious thing.

Dreamily, sensitively, Dryas suffered them to put it on him, to unplait
his long hair that it might flow over his shoulders in the manner of
Apollo. Already he felt upon him the sacred character of the god he was
to personate.

Nikander advanced to place the golden laurel crown on Dryas’s head. He
came slowly, unlike himself, and in the ceremony spoke only the necessary
words—no more. He made sacrifice upon the hearth and then, stumbling a
little, stepped back.

It was time to go. The whole family were to walk behind Dryas up to the
Precinct. Theria stood hand in hand with her mother. Her eyes were like
stars.

“Son,” said Nikander in a low voice, “I cannot go with you now. I will
come up in a few moments with Medon. The priests will meet you at the
gate.”

“Father—but why?” A troubled look crossed the boy’s rapt face.

“I am not quite well. Just for a moment. I’ll be with you soon, my son.”

Theria darted out and touched his hand.

“Never mind, Daughter,” he said. “Make haste, all of you.”

Obediently the family formed in a sort of procession and left the house.

Oh, the golden sunshine of that early morning! The sweet cool air with
the blessing of the stars still upon it! Theria took thirsty draughts of
it as she went along.

The cliffs towered nobly about as if in prayer and along their face the
mists, white spirits new risen from the vale, came shouldering, sinking,
lifting, dreamily alive. So tall are the cliffs at Delphi that they meet
the blue and cut off from sight the snowy peak of Parnassos which is back
above them.

Now the procession turned the shoulder of a cliff. The Precinct burst
into view—the Precinct, a golden and many-hued Elysium lying on the slope
above the road within its quadrate wall.

It slanted against the hillside in the sunshine. Theria could see the
bright little fanes, the golden tripods, the zig-zag of the Sacred Way
dividing it in the midst, and the great Apollo temple at the top. The
Precinct seemed to spread itself generously before her sight—all of it at
once—as though knowing how dearly she loved it.

Above the Precinct were the cliffs again soaring terribly to the sky.

Now the procession was stopping. It was before the great bronze doors.
The doors were opening, showing a glimpse of the wonder place within.
Here a company of priests, with the old president or Hosios, received
them.

They greeted Dryas. Then—

“But where is Nikander?” they asked.

“He said he would join us,” answered Dryas. “He should be with us by now.”

“We will wait for him,” said the old Hosios.

And so they waited. Moments—a half hour and still Nikander did not
arrive. The priests began to stir impatiently. Dryas looked around with
anxious eyes.

Theria slipped back among the slaves.

“Baltè,” she said, “he does not come!”

“Hist, little mistress, we must not speak in this place.”

“But, Baltè, perhaps he is ill.”

“Medon is there, and Philo.”

Theria suddenly recalled that her father’s hand when she touched it had
been cold as ice. How curiously he had stumbled as he turned from the
crowning—an ill omen that. Theria had a sure instinct concerning illness.
She knew that her father was in trouble. All the joy of the festival and
of the out of doors folded its wings in her heart. She could think only
of her father.

Now she was dimly aware that the old Hosios had let open the gates and
bade Dryas enter. She caught Baltè’s hand.

“I’m going back home,” she said. “Baltè, come quickly.”

“But, little mistress, what a crazy notion is this?”

“I’ll be back for the festival. Oh, I’ll be back in time. But I must meet
Father.”

“But, little mistress——”

“Baltè, come at once!”

And Baltè, who never before had obeyed her little girl, came without a
word.

They hurried back along the road. Nikander did not meet them on the way.
Theria was the more terrified. Entering the house she heard music—the
music of the physician. She ran to her father’s room.

He lay gasping upon the bed, his fine face drawn like an old, old man’s.
His eyes, haunted with pain, turned toward Theria, but he did not speak;
perhaps he could not. The physician in the corner sang nervously the
healing ode of Apollo. Medon was clasping his hands.

“Oh, Missy, Missy,” he moaned. “The doctor gave the medicine and it did
no good. Now he’s playin’ the music. When he does that—it’s the end—the
end!”

The room was suffocating.

“Air,” thought Theria. “Father must have air.”

She stamped her foot at the physician. “Stop that wailing!” she
commanded. “Stop it at once.”

The physician was glad enough to obey her. If Nikander died it could be
the daughter’s fault.

Then swiftly, businesslike, Theria had them carry her father, bed and
all, into the street and sent Baltè for hot water which she applied. She
was trembling in very childishness of grief. Sometimes she flung herself
upon her father, kissing him, begging him to live. But nevertheless she
kept on with her simple remedies—remedies she had used before.

At last, so gradually that she could not tell when it began, the pain
abated. Nikander’s eyes grew clear and his breath came even once more.

“Daughter!” he spoke at last. “My darling girl.”

And Baltè, putting down the steaming pot of water, gave a shout of joy.

Meanwhile up in the Precinct the festival was going forward, but Theria
had forgotten it.

At length Nikander was strong enough to be carried back into the aula
where he fell asleep. Then it was that Theria heard the sound of pipes
and shouting in the street. Instinctively she ran upstairs to the window.

The sacred drama was over. Here came the actors—now a happy, laughing
rout. It was the custom that the Tempè procession leave the city in haste
so as to out-distance all evil. First Dryas came running in the beautiful
leaps which Greek racers used. His hair was streaming in the wind.
He held aloft his silver bow in triumph and great joy. Then came the
swift boy chorus with backward burning torches and beauty of fluttering
garments, then the sacred women having an awkward time of it to keep the
boys in sight. And the crowd laughing at them and shouting:

“Good luck for the journey. The luck of Loxias.”

So shouting, laughing, the picture of joyous life, they disappeared down
the road.

Ah, there was the last gleam of Dryas’s silver bow!

“At least,” thought Theria, “when Dryas comes back, he will have Father
to greet him instead of—instead——”

Then with tender happiness—or was it the bitterness of missing her one
festival—she hid her face, weeping.




CHAPTER X

A BOY CALLED SOPHOCLES


One hot summer morning Melantho and her daughter were sitting in the
upper room spinning. Or rather it was Melantho who was _sitting_. Theria
was pacing to and fro at her task, stretching out the thread with free
gesture, her fingers twisting, twisting like fluttering wings. Melantho
noted how tall the girl had grown. “Her awkwardness, too, is passing,”
she mused as Theria turned, sweeping the thin folds of her chiton
against her supple limbs. So might Iris have looked, the slender goddess
messenger, running to the divine threshold with news for the blessed gods.

But Melantho had no thought of goddesses.

“She will soon be old enough for a husband,” was Melantho’s thought. “I
must speak to Nikander about it.”

Theria sighed and paced again.

“Theria,” said her mother, “if you would sit down you would not be so
tired.”

“Tired,” spoke the girl, frowning, “Great Hermes, why should I be tired
except from this eternal sitting? There’s no breath in this room.”

“Theria, you grow more impatient every day. Do you suppose your father
can ever get you a husband if you frown like that?”

At the word “husband,” the girl gave her mother a startled, puzzled
look. She said nothing. Melantho’s thoughts ran in given channels. Her
next was of vegetables and fish which Medon must purchase this morning.

“Daughter,” she said, “go down and fetch Medon to me.”

Quick as thought, Theria dropped her spindle into the basket of snowy
wool and sped away.

The morning was full of sunshine. Theria carolled like a lark as she
tripped down the stair. Housed though she was, Theria never seemed
housed. Perhaps the effect upon generation after generation of her
forefathers of living out of doors, the strengthening, sweetening effect
upon mind and body, had entered into her and made her part of the open
air.

Through the inner court she ran and burst open the door into the outer
court of the men. Here pure amazement stopped her motion. In the outer
court stood the most beautiful boy Theria had ever beheld.

He had laid aside his himation for the heat, and stood in his short
chiton, slender, delicately erect, gazing about his new surroundings with
shy yet interested eyes. His hair, honey coloured, was cut short and
filleted as if for a holiday. He himself was bronzed by the sun as all
high-born boys should be. At sight of Theria he smiled.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “My father left me here to wait for him.”

“Oh,” said Theria, “I thought perhaps a god had done that.” At which
speech he blushed, and became a little lovelier.

She came toward him. She was not shy, for the boy was younger than she.
Besides, she was too delighted with his beauty to be shy.

“Whence are you?” she queried.

“From Colonos.”

“The grove near Athens?”

“Yes, the shady, sacred grove. The most beautiful place in the world.”

“More beautiful than Delphi?” she smiled.

“I think so, lady.”

“It is your home,” said Theria gently. “Therefore you love it.”

“My father came to consult the Oracle,” explained the boy. “He questions
about his ship which comes not back to us. He is now with your father in
the Precinct. For you are Nikander’s daughter, are you not?”

“Yes—his only daughter,” she answered with pride.

How modestly the boy questioned. His respect toward her was something new
in Theria’s experience. Both her brothers were brotherly contemptuous.
But this stranger was talking with her! To Theria this experience was
nothing short of an adventure. She felt it so. Mind and soul sprang up
vivid and intense. She began to ask her usual eager questions.

“How did you come to Delphi? Was it a long journey? Oh, was it by sea?”

“No, lady, by land—through Bœotia and over the mountains.”

“How many days?”

“Three days—we did not hurry. Yesterday at sunset we came to the Triple
Way.”

“Where Œdipus met his father.”

“Yes,” he answered, “where he killed his father. Of course you know the
story. Oh, lady, such a lovely place it is. Up there where the mountains
pierce the sky; the road runs among the clouds. Where the clouds broke I
could catch glimpses far beneath of the blue valley and the sun setting.
Far down I heard the tinkle of goat bells—the herds hidden below the
clouds. I seemed to be in the home of the gods. And do you know what I
did? I let the others walk onward and I stood there alone. The three
roads went this way and that from the place of my feet. Then I seemed to
see approaching along one road old Laius and his men, and by the other
road Œdipus, young and proud, fulfilling his curse. But before they met
I fled. Oh, I could not bear to think that he would kill his father all
unknowing! What if it had been my own dear father and myself? The curse
of Œdipus, that terrible curse, swept down over me with whirlwind wings.”

The boy put up his hand to his head with a whimsical yet solemn smile.

“It touched me,” he said, “and when I ran up to my dear father and
clasped his hand I was weeping. I would not tell them why. Yet I am
telling _you_.”

“I wish I had been there,” breathed Theria.

“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?”

“Often and often,” boasted the boy. “When we would stop by the road to
sup and pour wine to the blessed gods, then a slave would bring Pindar’s
lyre. A fine old one it is, always fresh stringed. He would sweep it with
his hand and the thing would tremble as if alive. Do you think my hand
is like Pindar’s?” he asked, stretching out his right hand. Slender and
brown it was, expressive as his face.

“No,” said the girl honestly, “but it is a player’s hand.”

“I’m going to be a poet some day,” ran on the boy.

“I wish I might be a poet,” said Theria.

“You! But you are a girl. For you will be the house and children and the
loom.”

“I hate the house!” cried Theria.

“What! The home of your fathers? How can you?” The boy was shocked.

“Oh, I don’t mean the home. I mean the house walls that keep me in.
Sometimes I want to scream and struggle as though I were tied down hand
and foot.”

“But nothing ties you down.”

“Do you call it nothing to stay all day twisting a miserable thread like
this?” Theria spun with her fingers. “When there is so much, oh, so much
in the world.”

“But do women feel that way?” he asked. “They always seem contented in
the house.”

“Would you be content?”

“By the gods, no.”

“But are we not like you, we girls? We are strong—we like to run and
breathe the air. Look at my arm, how ugly white. It has never seen the
sun.” She flashed out her fair arm—free of its drapery.

“That is not ugly,” said the boy gently.

“It is! It is! White as a Persian’s!”

“No, it is Greek,” maintained the boy. “By the gods, I’d like to see you
running brown and free like Artemis in the wood.”

“You don’t think I am foolish to want to run and leap.”

“No—no—no!”

Theria’s eyes widened with delight.

“You don’t think me foolish to read my father’s books?”

“Books!” Here the boy was puzzled. “Why should you read books? Poems are
to sing, not to read.”

“Oh, I sing them, too,” laughed Theria. “Far back in the storeroom, when
nobody can hear, I sing them. I have to make up the tunes.”

“I wish I could hear you; oh, I wish I could hear you.”

That any one should care for what she did! No praise could be sweeter, no
joy. So absorbed were they both that they did not hear the voices calling
through the house, “Sophocles! Sophocles!” until the searchers had
entered the open door—that door which should always be closed.

“Eleutheria,” came her father’s voice, sterner than she had ever heard
it. “The meaning of this! By Hermes, I must know.”

The two turned in confusion.

“Whatever made you think you could bring a stranger here into the inner
court? How long have you been together?”

Theria answered none of his questions. She faced him, her eyes black
lakes of astonishment. So intense a mood could not break at once.

“I have done no wrong,” she asserted. “How can you think I have done
wrong?”

“But you have. You are almost a woman. You cannot receive my guests.”

“_My_ guest he is, this Sophocles,” she answered with frightened face
but steady voice. “We have been talking together about Homer and Pindar.
Surely that is no harm. Where is our wrong?”

A low exclamation came from the corner of the room. Pindar himself was
there with Sophocles’s father.

The boy spoke, blushing, “I am the one to blame. I came in here to push
the swing—not thinking.”

“There is no blame,” repeated the girl passionately. “Don’t call it
blame.”

Had Nikander been an ordinary Greek father, Theria would undoubtedly have
received her whipping at this time.

“Go to your room, Daughter,” said Nikander quietly. “I cannot talk with
you here.”

And Theria fled in an agony of shame.

Pindar’s voice broke the silence.

“By the deep-vested Graces, Nikander, but I think we have broken into a
pretty dialogue. Would I had heard some of it.”

The boy, redder still, hid behind his father.

Nikander shook his head in whimsical despair.

“What am I to do with a daughter like that? I never know what she will do
next. She’s perfectly good, I assure you. She only breaks rules like a
colt.”

“She’s your image,” laughed Pindar. “Your own face faced you when she
spoke. Ay, and your spirit, too. By Artemis, did you mark how she fled up
the stairs with head held high?”

“She’s a twin, you know,” said Nikander. “The boy is more beautiful.”

“Ay, I know your Dryas. The coming beauty they say, and perhaps the
coming singer.”

Nikander’s face flushed with pleasure.

“The lyrists tell me so,” he assented.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus Eros brushed his wings across Theria’s fancy and flew away. No
business of his was this. But youth was here—fearful impressibility: A
breath, and youth is changed.

Who shall say that when in after years this boy sang of a woman and gave
her a new type of nobleness the image of this proud sweet maid of Delphi
did not float before him and make his creation real?

And as for Theria, the encounter was a peep outward into the world. From
this time she became more aware of the hurry of development outside in
the awakening land of Greece. From this time she felt it—the joyous
advance into the light, new art, new politics, new thoughts.

The amassing knowledge of centuries was converging to a focus and the
heart of the Greeks soared into a mental atmosphere never known before or
since. This intense point came in Theria’s lifetime. No wonder the light
of it penetrated all her walls and restrictions. No wonder she struggled
to be free to meet it. Her own youth was of the youth-time of Hellas and
longed to be merged with it as flame yearns toward flame.




CHAPTER XI

WHY NOT BE THE PYTHIA?


In times of war we picture every corner of a warring land torn with
passion, dark with fear, dyed with blood. But this is not so. In
Nikander’s household the four meals a day were served by quiet slaves,
the washing was done down in the Pleistos River as the good housewife
Melantho required it. Eleutheria received her daily lesson in spinning
and weaving and damaged more good wool than any maid of all the
generations of Nikanders. This indeed was Dame Melantho’s chief grief,
despite the fact that her little land was cowering under the heaviest
cloud of war that ever threatened a devoted country.

At every festival came crowding news of the great Persian king across the
sea preparing his army to invade and devour. Into every port came sailors
telling of the fleets of Phœnicians, Cyprians, Lykians, Dorians of Asia,
etc., all of which fleets were making ready to pounce upon Greece. Then
arrived the actual ambassadors of the King, demanding earth and water.
Which was to say: “Consent to slavery and the Persians will leave you out
of the fight.” Many cities gave these tokens immediately.

“Who, then, will resist?” “What will happen if any should resist?” “Will
the gods help?” “Have the gods forgotten their beloved Hellas?”

Such were the questions which poured into Delphi. These days Nikander
might be seen pacing to and fro in some lesche or near the Council House,
seeing naught before him, blind to the beauty of hills and far-glimpsed
vale. Then perhaps in desperation he would stride down the hill and along
the road toward home.

In the women’s aula Melantho would greet him with the small worries of
the day. A slave child was ill and she knew not what to do for it. She
must have more grain to store away in the storeroom or Nikander would
have to go without his special cake next winter.

“And will you have a cake now?” she asked. “And a little wine? Do, now;
you look tired.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

And so she went out to make the slaves do all in order.

Meanwhile, Theria came in and sat upon a stool near by. She spoke no
word but tried to untangle a thread from her distaff, parting wisp from
wisp with slender fingers, and watched her father with keen, quiet eyes.
Melantho returned chattering and Nikander ate his cake in silence, and
still Theria watched.

She knew that the Amphictyonic Council, that famous council of many
states, was meeting to-day in its house west of the town. Why was it
meeting now? This was not the season. She knew that her father had been
with it. He was one of the Amphictyons. There had been hot dispute, she
could see that in his face. But had he won? And what was the strife
about? She knew something of the danger which threatened the land. This
she knew in spite of the fact that Nikander had been strict in keeping
the news away from the household. He hated the aspects of fear: these
would come soon enough.

Bitterly Theria longed to ask questions. She knew that there was no use.
She knew that her father had come home for peace, for a respite.

After a while Melantho was called away, and Theria moved over beside her
father on the bench and slipped her hand into his. He sighed restfully as
she did so. Then care again settled like closing wings upon him. Theria
decided that he had not won in the Council—at least not for to-day. She
also decided that the controversy had been serious. She could not guess
that it had to do with the whole policy of the Oracle in the face of the
Persian attack. In that Council Nikander and one friend stood alone for
the defence of Greece. All the others stood for surrender.

Theria’s first instinct was the woman’s, to mend her father’s
disappointment by some diversion.

“Father,” she said, “I have been thinking all day of the birds that Homer
tells of on the Scamandrian plain.”

He frowned and came out of his dream. “What is Homer to you, child?” he
said impatiently.

“Nothing, Father; but I often think of those things. I love the birds,”
she added quietly. “They are so merry and move so swift, so swift. They
are kind, too.”

“Kind! What do you mean?”

“They come to me when I go to the window—oh, just a few moments at the
window, Father, to breathe the air. Then I call them their own calls and
they fly down out of the air, very timid at first. I put out my hand and
hold it still and talk to them. Finally, one of them is sure to flutter
near and sit on my finger with its little sharp claws. They watch me with
clever quick turnings of the head and chirp to make me laugh.”

She leaned forward—very child in this childish pleasure. “Father, tell
me what Homer says about the birds.”

“I am in no mood for Homer’s lines.” And indeed he was not. But presently
he began to say them—

    “As the many tribes of feathered birds,
    Wild geese and long-necked swans
    On the Asian mead by Kystrios stream
    Fly hither and thither joying in their plumage
    And with loud cries settle ever onward——”

“What a picture!” he commented. “I never realized before how fine it is.”

Did his nearness to the ardent Theria bring this realization? Who can
tell how mind may leap toward mind?

So they were sitting when Olen, the slave boy, came and stood beside them.

“Master, a consultant,” he announced, “at the street door. He will not
come in.”

Nikander rose from the bench, strangely refreshed, and went to the outer
aula. As Olen was following, Theria made him an imperious gesture and the
slave reluctantly left ajar the dividing door. Then Theria moved to sit
where she could command the outer room.

She saw enter a man with white, wrecked face.

“But I must not come in,” he objected. “O priest, I might bring it upon
your house.”

“My house is not afraid,” said Nikander. He sat down, indicating the
bench beside him, and the man sat down fearfully, like one unclean, at
the farther end.

“It is a curse, O priest,” he said. “I am under a curse.”

Very skilfully Nikander quieted him, urging upon him kindness and wisdom
of the Oracle, persuading him to speak. It was a terrible tale of this
man Corobios and his friend Pythias—one of those Greek friendships so
seriously considered that marriage was not allowed between the children
of the two.

“We were on a journey,” said Corobios. “Five robbers leaped from ambush
upon Pythias. It was him they were after, not me. I whipped out my sword
and struck at one of them. And just at that moment Pythias was thrown
in the struggle straight under my blade. It cut him to the bone. Oh,
if he had only lived to exculpate me! If he had only spoken some word.
But there was no time. I saw only his eyes raised to me in agony, in
reproach. O priest—in terrible reproach. Ah, I see them now! Wherever
I go I see them! The Eumenides are coming upon me. To my children’s
children will the curse run unless Apollo will clean me.”

How Theria loved her father as he leaned toward the man laying his hand
upon the shaking shoulder, fearless of the terrible curse which could run
so quickly from man to man.

“The Son of Leto will hear you,” Nikander said. “Our god is pitiful of
those whose hearts are clean. Do not fear. To-morrow you shall consult
the god. I shall see that you go in first of them all to the Oracle. Your
case is needy.”

The interview was long. For as the man grew quieter, Nikander did not
fail to sound him as to his attitude in the coming war. Every pilgrim was
so tested by Nikander. Thus Nikander learned the public mind.

At Corobios’s departure Nikander wandered back to where Theria sat. He
was quite unaware that he was seeking his daughter again.

Theria ran toward him with overflowing eyes.

“Oh the poor man, the poor man! Father, surely the Oracle will help
him—it must help him!”

“The poor man, hey! What do you know about the poor man? Theria, I will
not have you listening from corners—do you heed me?”

“But why did the dying Pythias reproach him? Couldn’t he see that
Corobios didn’t mean to hurt him? Couldn’t he trust his friend that much?”

“Probably Pythias didn’t blame Corobios at all. The eyes were in
death-agony, already unconscious.”

“But will the Pythia tell him that? After all, how can the Pythia help
him? Corobios is a murderer—poor man! poor man!”

“Corobios is not a murderer, Theria. Murder is of the heart’s intention,
not the hand’s mistake. Nay, his hands are clean; cannot you see that?”

Nikander was forgetting the proper reproaches for Theria’s eavesdropping.
The question of blood-guilt was a burning one at Delphi. It concerned a
brand-new policy of the Oracle: that sin was a thing of the heart and
not of outward accident. This moral advance is, in every age, the most
important and most difficult for the human mind to achieve. Nikander was
fighting more battles than the defence against the Persian.

“I wish,” said Nikander, “the people could see that the curse does not
come that way—without fault of the accursed. Corobios is not under a
curse.”

“Not under a curse?” repeated Theria. “Will the god tell him that?”

“How do I know what the god will tell him?” answered Nikander piously.

“Oh, if I were the Pythia I would pray the dear Son of Leto till he gave
me that answer.”

“But you are not the Pythia.”

On a sudden the wish of many moons sprang to Theria’s lips.

“Father, let me be the Pythia, the next Pythian priestess. Oh, Father,
you do not know how I can pray to the god and—and how——”

“Nonsense; the Pythian priestess is a stupid girl. You would never do.”

“But the Pythia need not be a stupid girl,” Theria was talking now
breathlessly. “Father, when I pray, Apollo answers me. He _does_.”

Nikander took her chin in his hand, lifting her pleading face.

“What a queer child it is,” he mused. “What do you mean by Apollo
answering you?”

“I don’t know, Father; but he does. Oh, with the coming down upon me of
something out of the air like wings—no, not like wings—but I know it is
the god.”

Her eyes grew mystic with a curious inner seeing.

“You strange Theria,” said her father. “If you saw all the visions of the
gods it would not make you a good Pythia. You know perfectly well that
the Pythia is a girl of empty mind. The mind must be vacant for the god
to speak through it. She is but the mouthpiece of the god. Besides all
this, she writhes in agony when the oracle comes upon her. Sometimes it
kills her.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it killed me, just so I were Pythia,” Theria urged
solemnly. “Just so I could speak for the god.”

“Well, you’re not going to be Pythia, my child. This whole question is
nonsense. It grows out of nothing but your eternal desire to be doing
something.”

Nikander was right. It was Theria’s burning desire to use the power that
was in her which kept her constantly urging. Her face turned tragic and
Nikander’s anger sharpened. He was under great stress.

“Now, no passion, mind. Theria, I have enough burdens in these terrible
days without your foolish notions. Pythia—faugh! I’d be disgraced to have
you Pythia. Silly girl!”

So he strode out of the house.

Theria ran to her room. She expected to cry but she did nothing of the
sort.

“I _will_ be Pythia,” she said, throwing her long arms above her head and
clasping her hands.

“I will be Pythia—no matter what——”

       *       *       *       *       *

The springs of poet inspiration are hidden and very strange. Could it be
this opposition which drove Theria to make her song—the prize song of
Dryas? The next day after these events that song came across Theria’s
mind like the flash. Anger was part of its origin. Longing for outlet was
another part. Strongest of all was the damming back of the birth-right
power within her until it welled higher than its nature and broke over
into song.

It was the following week that she showed her song to Dryas, and a yet
further week when Dryas sang the song at the Pythian festival and Theria
snatched it back again. The result was disastrous, as we have seen.

And after her father’s whipping, Theria strangely knew that she would
soon do something to deserve another whipping.




BOOK III

WITHIN THE ORACLE




CHAPTER XII

“THE PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS”


Theria awoke in the first grey of dawn. She sat bolt upright in her
narrow bed. A dream had awakened her, or rather a purpose, a purpose full
formed in sleep. Awake, even her bold mind could not have dared it.

Theria was going to dare to go out of the house! Out into the free
morning. Under the sky. Away through Delphi. Up into the beloved
Precinct. Oh, she would see all of it—this once!

The consequence? Never once did she think of consequence. She was simply
doing what she did as if a god had pushed her to it, feeling vaguely that
she was in the hands of her god. She sprang from bed and threw about her
bare lovely body her chiton, pinning it at the shoulders. How her fingers
trembled! Then around her supple waist went her zone, drawn tight; then
came cloak and sandals.

The key to the front door was in her father’s room. Nikander slept
soundly, but Melantho slept, like puss by the fire, with one eye open.
“If they see me they will whip me again,” she thought. “Well, what of
that?”

Noiselessly she stepped out upon the court gallery. Everything in the
court stood strangely distinct in the dawn. Would she ever see again
the little altar, the swing that hung motionless in its place? No one
could tell what might ensue if she went out. Theria stole forward to her
parents’ room.

Yes, they were asleep. The key was kept in the chest among the
book-scrolls. With an instinctive prayer, she opened the chest and put
her hand deftly among the metal cylinders. But one of them settled
noisily into a new position. It clattered like a chariot in her ears, and
she crouched terror-struck. Her father moved, sighed. The key was not
there. In desperation she arose and pushed her hands behind some clothes
on a peg. There, O Kairos! it hung. And grasping it in her hand, Theria
disappeared like a shadow, and so descended the stair.

The porter would be near the door; but at this hour surely in his lodge
asleep. And Medon was growing very deaf these days. He was hardly a fit
porter, but Nikander would not grieve the old man by taking away his
office. Theria had grace enough to feel a passing regret that Medon
through this escapade of hers might lose his beloved duty.

Now she was at the door, fitting the great key into its hole. Careful
Medon was asleep but lying almost across his door. Oh, if she could be
quicker! If she would not so lose breath! But slowly the door opened. It
did not creak—not very much.

She slipped through the crack.

Then, O Hermes, O gods of all open spaces and swift feet! She was
out of doors. She was under the sky. So high that sky that she was
dizzy looking up at it. Not the accustomed low ceiling of the room or
the narrow opening above the court. It was the lofty treading place
of the Immortals. All the air in the world met her first deep-taken
breath—fragrance a thousand fold—the uprising spirit of the morn meeting
her spirit.

She ran like a deer along the road in the grey silver light. A marvellous
place in which to be set free. A vast amphitheatre of hills, spaceful
and she in the midst of the space. On every side in a far-flung circle
rose dim mountain forms to the silvery sky. On a nearer hillside, aslant
like a picture, lay the precious sanctuary, framed four square within its
clear-seen walls. But within all was dim and confused, for the cliffs
which towered above it still had it in their shadow.

She stopped to gaze at it with that tenderness which we feel toward
things asleep and with a reverence born of twelve generations of worship.
Men of her blood and bone had here met the god and here had builded his
temple. Hers the Precinct had been long before she was born. Hers it
would be when she was dead a thousand years.

But how was she to get in? The Precinct was so strictly guarded, the wall
so high. Her spirit shrank as she thought of it.

Suddenly Theria heard a footfall coming toward her and quick as a
thought she turned down one of the steep streets. Once within the narrow
blackness she could see a little—could see the house doors set down and
down the terraces, and the Apollo statues standing pillar-like beside
each door. No one was abroad in the street.

She passed down the better section and came below into the slave quarter.
Here a stench met her which was almost more than she could bear. In this
fetid place doors were wide open and crowded slaves snoring within. The
sweat and weariness of slaves were the very smell of the place. Was it
here that Olen and the kitchen slaves had to come after their day’s work
was done? Now she passed some half-naked women asleep in the street.
Great pity for them swept her, pity for their slave life and slave
lowness. She stooped over one of them, gazing into her face.

The creature awoke with a howl of terror.

“Ye fool,” she cried. “Damned of Hades. If ye come home late as this
can’t ye keep still? Ho, I’ll trounce ye.”

The woman leaped to her feet. Theria fled down the street, turned the
corner, and fled down another, the woman in full chase, her cries
arousing the quarter. Here was real danger. This was the place where
thieves and ruffians hid themselves who came to rob the Precinct. But
even in her fright Theria had no instinct to run home. She only fled
farther away down the hill. She outdistanced the woman, who presently
gave up the chase. Then Theria found herself below the town in the depth
of the glen.

She was hurt as if the woman had struck her. Never had she heard
loathsome oaths such as had been flung after her. Their meaning filled
her with horror. Thus much had her cloistering done for her that it
had kept her whitely pure. She crouched like a wildwood thing amid the
bushes—confused, daunted. Then slowly her determination came back, and
she began to climb cautiously upward.

At last she regained the highroad.

While this low adventure was chancing a whole new world had been made—a
world of dawn, of faint rose and amethyst under an awakened sky, immense,
marvellous, holy.

Theria had emerged directly below the sanctuary. Its great wall towered
above her with glimpses over it of temple roofs. Above all rose the
great Phaidriades cliffs, colossal, shutting out the east. Their colour
now was the ripe bloom of a plum from their base up to where their
clear-cut summits met the zenith. Theria stood clasping and unclasping
her hands. She was a living spark of expectancy in that expectant morning
world. Here outside the wall near the gate stood the victor statues.
She could not but pause by one. She knew its place well, her supple,
young great-grandfather, who had won the running match for boys. There
he stood, long limbed, spare, archaically smiling at her and, for all
time, fourteen years old. Dryas also would have a statue here among the
music victors. Tenderly proud Theria marked the place for it near their
ancestor. In her present mood she had no jealousy or regret.

According to custom, ancient and immutable, Theria must now pass by the
Precinct and go onward some distance to Castaly’s fount before entering
the sacred place. She wrapped herself in her cloak and hurried forward.

She easily found Castaly—a pool glassy-still in its rock-cut basin at the
foot of the sheer cliff. It was quite deserted and hidden from the road.
Birds fluttered up at her approach. A solemn place.

She looked about her. In mortal fear she took off her cloak and dropped
her chiton to her feet. So, like a white nymph, very small at the foot
of the cliff, Theria stepped down into the sacred pool. She met the icy
water with a shivering cry, but she took the plunge. No one might enter
the temple who had not first bathed here. She came out tingling, touched
with ecstasy. For holy Castalia cleansed the soul as well as the body.
Quickly she put on her garments, quickly walked back to the Precinct.

She dared not even think now of the difficulty of entrance. One terrible
moment would decide. She mounted the six steps to the Precinct gate,
dipped her trembling fingers in the lustral bowl—then knocked. They were
great bronze doors opening inward.

At once came steps within and the clanking of heavy keys—the rasp of the
unlocking. Then the doors slowly, stingily, opened.

When she saw the keeper’s hideous face at the crack, her courage sank in
her.

“I want to come into the sanctuary,” said her faint voice. “I want to
pray to the god. I would like to make a sacrifice.”

“Ye can’t consult no priests now,” said the man. “They’re just gettin’
out o’ their beds.” Behind the man she saw the glitter of the armed guard.

“I don’t want to consult a priest, I want to pray—to pray for myself and
my house.”

“Women like you ain’t got no house. Now get along with you.” He was
shutting the doors. Desperately she laid her hand in the crack. “I pray
you, I pray you,” she cried. Then she tore off the himation which wrapped
her head. “Judge you whether I have a house or no”—lifting her face—“I am
a Nikander.”

“Great gods in Olympos!” quoth the keeper. “Ye sure be.”

He opened the doors slowly, hesitating even yet. The guard fell back.

“Line for line an’ feature for feature,” murmured the keeper of the keys.
“That daughter of Nikander’s. It’s crazy she is. I’ve heard o’ her.”

Theria slipped through the narrow opening.

She was within! Locked into a wilderness of beauty. Multitudes of little
temples, red, blue, and gold; multitudes of statues, some of hoary
eld, some glossy new; statues of wood, marble, bronze, standing under
graceful porticoes, or standing bareheaded by the wayside looking out
dreamily from life-like eyes.

And over all the still holiness of the morning the unearthly light whose
steady increase affected her spirit like a joyous, irresistible call.

A child set free in fairyland? Oh, Theria was more than that. A soul set
in heaven, if ever heaven came down to earth; and, in sooth, it sometimes
does. Theria’s soul leaped up from its depths. Suddenly she could not see
for the tears which filled her eyes. She brushed them away impatiently.
She must not waste one moment of her seeing.

Right at hand stood the Athenian Gift after Marathon—statues of Athenian
gods and heroes standing so friendly, mortal with immortal together in
their portico.

“Ah, Athena, thou art dreaming of thine own hill in Athens,” she cried,
moving closer. “No, thou must not. Be happy here, dear Athena.” Bred in
the worship of images, Theria quite forgot that all these were not alive.

Here was Miltiades. He who nine years ago had won the battle of Marathon.
He was a noble statue in the new manner. Almost a portrait, with his
curling beard and fearless eyes. Theria touched his robe.

“It was thou who saved Hellas,” she said seriously. “Oh, thou couldst do
it, thou hast the look.”

Suddenly Theria realized that the light was much increased. She had told
her name at the gate. That would mean quick capture. She must hasten.
Before her the white Sacred Way zigzagged boldly among the treasuries up
to the lordly temple of Apollo above them all. In Delphi there is neither
near nor far, but only below and above.

Swiftly Theria chose out what she must see and what she must pass by,
perhaps never to see again. For though she might some day walk here in
processions she could never linger as now. Every object had its story,
“history,” she would have called it, for she believed them all.

Here near by was the Argive bronze horse given to commemorate the Wooden
Horse which Odysseus made and gave to Troy. Everyone knew that tale. And
here was the Sikyonian Treasury. Theria must see that, because it was
the first little temple at the wayside and was very old. It was round
with a circle of chaste pillars upholding the roof. She mounted the three
shallow steps. The doors had been just opened, for some god had destined
her to go in. The little circular cella held many treasures, but of these
Theria saw only the central one—a book unrolled upon a marble table. The
antique lettering was of pure gold. Eagerly she began to read. No one had
told her of this book. It was the epic poem of Aristomache of Erythrai,
a woman! Aristomache had won the prize at the Isthmian games. Of course
it was long ago. But a _woman_ had won it! The poem, how lovely, how
much more noble than Theria’s; but a woman’s, a woman’s! Theria would
try again, try to reach the high goal this woman had set. Oh, she would
try soon! She was heartened and came out of that treasury with shining,
purposeful face.

Theria had lingered here longer than she had intended. In haste she had
to pass the treasuries higher up the way, the Knidian—a little temple
exquisite as a jewel lifted high upon its tower-like foundation, its
porch upheld by tall, long-haired maidens—“Korai,” she called them.

She began to meet caretakers on the way, yawning after their night watch,
going to their homes.

Now came the first turn upward of the Way. Here stood her beloved Naxian
Sphynx, the one the top of whose wing she had always glimpsed from her
window. How wonderful now, close at hand, high on her high pillar, her
breast covered with brilliant feathers, her blue wings flung up lofty to
the sky, her woman’s face dreamily smiling. Ah, well she kept her wisdom
to herself, Mistress Sphynx! Theria knew she was dreaming tenderly over
the silent dead. For she was Gê, mistress of earth and underworld.

Theria climbed dreamily higher up the Way, passing now the
threshing-floor where Dryas had enacted the play. Memories, stories,
faiths—all these swam together in her mind until she dreamed herself away
and became part of the poesy about her.

Now the Sacred Way made its last steep turn. From here the whole Delphic
Vale burst into view. The Way here ran upward and clung against the
wall-like foundation of the Great Temple, but on its outer side was a
veritable Olympos, full of gods and godlike men, statues which would
remake art if we could but see them now.

All were in action. Achilles on horseback and his beloved young Patroclos
running beside the horse and gazing up at him. Apollo and Heracles both
grasping the tripod (for they had once had a quarrel over it). The mother
Leto and sister Artemis were trying to quiet the angry god, and Athena
was quieting the boisterous hero. The eyes of these statues were set with
living coloured stones and looked in anger, command, compassion, whatever
they willed. No wonder Theria shrank from them a little afraid.

Suddenly Theria was aware beyond the statues of the great depth of
vale—the Pleistos a silver ribbon visible for miles, the hills away and
away, and ah! the direct golden sunlight in long level shafts flooding
the vale. The sun had risen high over the mountain. Her time was almost
spent. She fairly ran up to the remaining Way to the platform of the
great Temple.

She stood breathless, awed before the greatest temple of all Hellas. It
was pure Doric. Grandeur spoke from its mighty columns, repose from its
perfect roof. It was at once solemn and tender—man’s thought of God made
visible. And indeed the god breathed forth in every line of it. No mere
thing of white marble was this. Gorgeous it faced the sunrise, crimson of
column, blue and orange of architrave, and golden griffined at eaves and
peak.

The doors were newly opened and he who had opened them was busily
brushing the threshold with a laurel branch for broom. He was singing
softly to himself. Happy young priest at his happy task!

Theria came softly nearer. She knew what was in the temple, every bit of
sacred furniture and age-old thing. She wanted to see each object, to
treasure it in her heart for ever. The young priest saw her and stopped
his sweeping in amazement.

“May I go in?” she asked.

“You know very well you may not,” was his answer. Unlike the rude porter
he knew that Theria was a lady. “I cannot imagine, Despoinia, how you
managed to come up here.”

“I cannot imagine either,” she answered. The joy of it overcame her and
she laughed a gay ripple of laughter. This angered the young man.

“You had no business to come here,” he said severely. “You have disobeyed
in coming, that I know, or you would not be alone.”

Just at this moment an eagle circling down from the cliffs above made a
swoop like a falling stone for the altar where the early sacrifice lay.
Instantly the young man seized a bow, near at hand for such adventure,
lifted it Apollo-wise, and shot the bird. The he bounded down the temple
steps to seize it.

And Theria quick as thought darted into her beloved fane. How lofty it
was within, the flickering light from the hearth-flame playing everywhere
and meeting palely the day that poured in at the eastern door. This
hearth-flame was eternal and must never go out. An old priestess was
tending it. Theria paused by the famous navel stone which marked the
centre of the earth. Who knows how many thousands of years men had
worshipped it. It was a rude stone, but immeasurably holy. Two golden
eagles were perched either side of it—commemorating those whom Zeus had
sent to meet at Delphi. Farther within, near the Statues of the Fates,
was Pindar’s chair, waiting for him always to come and sit and sing
inspired songs—the songful Apollo welcoming the human singer and giving
him of his own divine fire.

Theria bent and kissed the chair for the love she bore the poet. As she
did so her shoulder was seized and roughly shaken.

“What do you mean by coming in here when I had forbidden you?” said the
furious priest.

Theria was too startled to speak.

“Answer me!” he shouted.

“I had wished for this,” she faltered. “Perhaps I can never come——”

“I should say not.”

Theria came to herself and stood like a tall goddess.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” she cried. “How dare you?”

But the priest seized her shoulder again. “Get out,” he stormed. “The
priests even now are coming up the road with visitors. Get out, I say.”

Theria had no time for either dignity or resistance. The youth pushed her
out of the cella, across the temple porch and down the steps.

She fled across the platform. A single glance showed her the whole
Precinct below. The little shrines, unearthly in new golden light, the
bronze tripods all aglitter. Yes, and the Way! The priests coming up the
Way. She was in terror—not of punishment, but of more unkindness. She was
almost sobbing.




CHAPTER XIII

IN PLEISTOS WOODS


She sped across the road and hid behind the Phokian offering. She could
hear the priests’ pleasant voices talking of Delphi. From where she
stood a little path set out here behind the shrines and treasuries. She
followed it to the Precinct wall and went searching for a side gate.
Found one at last. The keeper was almost asleep.

“Let me pass out,” she commanded. “Let me pass at once.”

The man spat. “Now, Missy, this here lock’s rusty. You go on down to the
big gate. It won’t be far.”

“I will not go to the great gate. Be quick or I shall have you punished.”
Theria’s voice had a ring of command. Besides, she did not speak the
dialect of women, but the speech of men.

“I will, Missy; I will,” hastily said the man, fishing the key from his
belt and fitting it. Noisily it creaked. Theria twisted her fingers in
nervous fear. She could hear footsteps again. The Precinct was filling.

“It’s awful rusty, Missy: I can’t—— Ho, Hermes! there it goes.” The door
swung open and Theria darted out.

Her Precinct hour was over. Where now to go? What to do? She was bitterly
lonely. “Dryas can come to the Precinct whenever he will,” she thought
heartbrokenly. “And Father brings him there and tells him all things.
But I—I am hounded out as if I were a thief.”

She would not go home! No, she would not go home—not yet. She crossed the
highway into the eastern end of Delphi town, and passed down through it
to the glen.

The glen was deeper here, even wilder than where she had seen it below
her home. It was so steep that no buildings could cling. It was given
over to wild olives and laurel trees with gnarled roots, and to huge
rocks, the gift of earthquakes from the cliffs above. Theria pushed
doggedly down through it, tearing her hands, bruising her feet. At last,
after a special tumble, she kirtled up her long chiton, pulling it up
through her belt, took off her himation and formed it into a long roll
which she tied about her waist. She was amazed at the ease this gave
her. No wonder the Goddess Artemis could leap after the stag in this her
special costume.

Now she was in the midst of stark, slender pine trees which soared from
the vale into the height to feather out against the sun. She paused with
upturned face.

“Are they always so solemn-thoughted, these dryads here?” she asked
herself. For of course each tree had its dryad and the mood of the tree
was the dryad’s own mood. “Do they always pray so seriously to their
father Zeus?”

Theria would never willingly have come into the forest. No Greek would
have exchanged the man-beautified sanctuary for this wild. But once here
the forest mysteriously received her. She who had never before known the
sweet ministration of trees began to be strangely quieted. The forest
distances, infinite yet hidden, mobile, shifting with her every step,
what a relief after the rigid walls of her house. How twilight-dim
it was. Yet sunlight filtered through the dimness—pools of gold among
the tree roots, shatterings of gold on boles and boughs. Beneath her
feet, which had never trod aught save floor and pavement, was the deep
pine-needle mass springy under her step. She looked down, wondering at
it; a carpet no hands had ever woven, or perhaps a carpet woven by some
delicate god.

So the forest silence entered her heart—the silence which is not silence
at all, but the deep breathing of all living things. She seemed to have
grown wings which would make her essentially free no matter in what house
of stone or clay.

But no, it was not the forest itself which received Theria. She could
never have conceived such a thought. It was rather the thousand delicate
dwellers of the wood—dryads, fauns, satyrs, nymphs. These were touching
her with unseen hands. These were they who dogged her footsteps with
invisible service, who ceased from their gay dances, slipping into
invisibility, that she might move across their place. Did she not see
their lairs among the ferns, and the footprints perhaps of Artemis
herself where she had crushed the starry mosses? Most of these beings
were sinister. They could lay spells upon you. They could whisk you away
into sleep. But to-day they had no mischief in their hearts. They were
only kind.

Gradually came sweeping across the silence the voice of a rushing stream.
Theria pushed forward eagerly to behold it—a lovely living thing,
leaping, running, singing, between its banks. It was the same little
stream she had seen falling down Castaly’s gorge, here set free on the
hillside. Who has not been touched by the immortal force of moving water?
Surely Theria was touched by it. She knelt by the stream, stooped her
dark head low, her breast among the fern, and drank. The ineffable
fragrance of the waterfall met her—a fragrance new to Theria.

Did not the gods breathe fragrance such as this? Ha, the nymph
Castalia—her veritable presence!

Theria sprang to her feet, hiding her face. At any moment Castalia might
be visible. No, no; Theria would not spy upon her.

Fearfully she said the accustomed stream-prayer, then took off her
sandals and waded across. No Greek would cross a stream without first
asking its pardon. Once on the farther bank she quickened her step, and
began to breathe again. A narrow escape was that from a supernatural
sight!

So noon came lordly into the sky, and afternoon. Theria found herself
in the enclosure of Athena Forethought, the farthest shrine of Delphi;
or its first, if you came from the east. The Forethought Fane, a little
circular temple, was far above her on the road. She could scarce see it
for crag and tree. Here, weary with wandering, Theria sat down to rest.




CHAPTER XIV

THE POOR SLAVE


And here so late, she met the adventure of her day.

Sounds of distress brought her quickly to her feet. She hastily wrapped
herself in her himation. She peered down the slope and could see the
figure of a man moving wildly about among the trees. Now he lifted
convulsive hands on high, now spread both arms abroad and groaned. Greek
woe never repressed itself. It rather flung out, wind-swept, fiery, real.
“But,” thought Theria, “this must be some physical agony.” She remembered
her remedies at home, yet what could she do for the man in this wild
place?

She started down the hill. Nearer at hand she saw that the man was a
slave, rough bearded and clad in an old slave cloak. Her adventure with
the cruel woman of the morning came back to her. A slave might hail from
any barbaric coast. Wild deeds, wild, unthinkable crimes were committed
by slaves. Theria stopped in fear but at that moment the slave saw her.
His arms dropped to his sides, he gazed at her wide-eyed, terrible—then
suddenly pathetic.

“Forethoughtful One,” he faltered, “hast thou come to punish or to save?”

What did the man mean? The “Forethoughtful One” could be none other than
Athena herself. Theria laughed outright.

“Surely you do not think I am the goddess?” she queried.

The mistake was not unnatural—Theria, slender amid the slender trees, the
light behind her, and all in the Athena Precinct. However, the man looked
a little ashamed.

“Forgive me, Despoina, my lady. I am beside myself, I—you startled me.”
He was still wondering at her. “You are a priestess?”

“You can see I am not,” she answered, businesslike. “You are ill. I
thought I might help you.”

Again he wondered at her. Then his face changed back to its misery.

“I am not ill, Despoina, not bodily ill. My courage is gone! The gods
know how I shall ever pick it up again.”

“What took your courage?”

He began to pace again.

“A slave’s tale; a miserable slave’s tale. Why should you hear it? Oh,
Mistress, you can do nothing, nothing.” Yet he burst out with the telling.

“My freedom money. It is gone! Gone, I tell you. My damned master knew
all the while where it was hid. He let me work and hope and hoard it. And
now when all but two drachmæ are there”—he held out his hand with these
last coins—“he came and seized it. The beast! How can the just gods let
such a man walk the earth?”

Theria came nearer, interested, absorbed.

“You mean that you earned the money to buy your freedom?”

“Yes, Despoina—to buy it from Apollo.”

He was referring to one of the noblest customs of the Oracle. Both of
them knew it well. A slave might sometimes be so fortunate as to get
money to buy himself from his master. But the Greek master could seize
him again and once caught, the slave had no redress. But Apollo of Delphi
would buy slaves. They could come to his temple and pay the money down to
the god. The terms of the transaction were engraved on the stones of the
temple foundation for all men to see. Then the slave went free, protected
by this divine ownership. No former master would dare touch him. Wherever
the former slave might go, he was under divine protection, Apollo’s ward.

“How long did it take you to earn the money?” she asked.

“Four years, Mistress. Oh, gods! four long years. I cannot do it again,
and, if I did, would not my master seize it as before?”

“How did you earn it?”

“My work is in the pottery, lady—the pottery there below the hill toward
Kirrha.” He showed her his hands marred with the clay. “It is I who make
the best pictures on the pots.”

“I like those pictures,” spoke Theria. “They are beautiful, those gods
and men that you make.”

Tears ran straight down the man’s dirty cheeks. Praise was rare for a
slave.

“Do you think so?” he queried. “Do you think so, my lady?”

Theria did not answer. She was thinking.

“My father, now. If you could bring your money to my father, each drachma
as you earn it.”

“Do you mean me to begin all over again, my lady? Then I will. If only
my master does not take me away from the pottery. He wants me for a body
servant. He is always threatening to take me for a body servant!”

“But to be a body servant is easier,” said Theria. Privately she was
wondering what sort of a body servant this uncouth man would make.

“I hate to be a body servant,” he said loathingly. “Besides, I would not
then know where to turn to earn extra money.”

Suddenly Theria clapped her hands with a cry of delight. “I have it! I
have it!” she said. “I can help you myself.”

The man gazed at her as if his faith in her goddesshood had quite
returned.

“I have jewels,” she went on, moving her hands in her excited telling.
“They are ancestral jewels and were given me at my birth. I am supposed
to give them to my first daughter at birth. Well, my first daughter can
do without them. They are rich pearls. They are worth more than the price
of a slave.”

“Lady, lady! Oh, they would free me at once!”

“Yes, free you at once. But the matter is dangerous. The priests may
think you have stolen the jewels. If they do, call for Nikander’s
daughter.”

“Yes, blessed one.”

“And when you go to the Precinct ask for Kobon as your priest. The Kobons
are angry with us and have never been in our house. Kobon will not
recognize the jewels.”

“Yes—yes,” he said as if in a dream.

“But how to get them to you. Mother will not allow me, Father will
not—Baltè, no; no slave would dare to do it for me. Besides, I hate to
let slaves know anything. They are so apt to tell.”

The man started out of his dream.

“I will not tell, Despoina.”

“You,” she laughed. “No, of course not, you will be hastening off as far
as you can go. You will be free.” Then she added quite unintentionally,
“Yes, you will be free and I will be in my room again. Shut in—always
shut in!”

Of course Theria did not say this to the slave. She said it to herself,
because on a sudden she felt weak and discouraged, felt her capture very
near. The slave, however, took note of her saying.

“How strange,” he said. “How strange—I never thought——”

“What is strange?” she demanded.

“I never thought, Despoina, that wives and maidens cared to walk abroad.
They keep the house and seem all content.”

It was the same comment that the lad Sophocles had made, the very same.
It roused her sudden anger and flood of speech.

“Oh, yes. Be content, be content! Even a slave dare mock me with that.
And you yourself, what do you want with _your_ freedom? Why aren’t
you happy making pots? What is the difference between making pots and
spinning wool? What is the difference between obeying a master and
obeying a father, brother, uncle, cousin; every man that is your kin?
What have I to look forward to? What to do—to do?”

The man fairly trembled before her outburst.

“Despoina! Dear, dear lady,” he kept trying to make her listen. “I—fool
that I was not to understand the beautiful one. Despoina, hear me!”
Something in the man’s ardent voice frightened Theria. She stumbled to
her feet. But the man came nearer.

“Despoina, ah, poor lady, you have been away from home many hours, have
you not?”

“How dare you question me?” She walked away. She was dizzy, staggering.
The man was following her. What would he do, seize her? Carry her to
Nikander’s house for reward? Perhaps do worse than that? “Do not go,” he
urged. “Mistress, you are famished. Forgive me, but we slaves know the
look.” He snatched from his wallet the rough brown bread, the day’s slave
ration. He pushed the bread into her hand.

“I pray you eat it. Not fit for you. Oh, I know that, but if you do not
eat you will faint here in the wood.”

She turned to him. Then suddenly she laughed.

“Hungry? Why, of course, I never thought of hunger.”

She sat down, broke the tough bread, and began to eat. The man ran down
the hill to the stream and returned with a little cup (one from his
pottery) brimming with fresh water. As he offered it he trembled and
spilled it awkwardly.

“Forgive me, lady. I am not a house slave.” How breathless he seemed from
his short run. “Dear lady,” he added gently as to a child, “do not eat so
fast; I will guard. I will let no one come. I have cheese, too, but I was
afraid to give you that. I could not eat their cheese at first myself.”

But she took it eagerly. It was atrocious stuff, smelling horribly and
perfectly green of colour.

“Isn’t it strange?” she said. “It tastes as good as the daintiest fish. I
never was hungry like this before.”

“My lady was never in the forest before,” said the man. “The house breeds
no appetite.”

“I have been long without food,” she confided to him now. “I ran away
before dawn and I never thought to eat. I walked up into the sanctuary
and saw all the gods and temples and golden tripods. Oh, if they take
me home and whip me now and put me in the dark, they can never take that
away from me.”

“Whip—great Zeus, who would dare do that!”

“No one, no one,” she quickly answered. “Of course, that was only jest.”

But his eyes still held the horror of it as he watched her.

“Do you know,” she said, as she finished the last morsel, “this bread has
given me all the rest of my precious day. With my hunger I would have had
to go home.”

“May it give you your hours,” said the slave devoutly. “You who are
giving me a life of freedom.”

Something in his manner of speech caught her notice. It was well tuned
and he used quaint words which she had never heard before.

“You have not always been a slave,” she concluded.

“No, Despoina, that is why it is so hard to be a slave. And when I saw
the years ahead once more I cursed the gods. Then you came, and I thought
you were Athena come to punish me for the cursing. Even now, dear lady,
I would not be amazed if you were to grow suddenly tall and rise upward
through the trees.”

He made an eloquent gesture. Then his eyes grew fixed, staring at a place
up the hill.

“Who is that?” he whispered sharply. “Do you know them?”

She followed his look.

“Baltè!” she spoke almost with a sob. “And Dryas, my brother.” Then she
collected her thoughts and began to talk quickly.

“The jewels! I have not told you how to get them. There is a little
street beside Nikander’s house. And a window in the house that side.
Come at twilight. I will throw them down to you.”

She had hardly said the last word when the slave disappeared among the
bushes. Then she forgot him. Dryas was there with his scorn, Baltè with
her tears. She had to face both.




CHAPTER XV

THE SHATTERED CUP


Bitterness and confusion were Theria’s portion when she reached home.
Melantho was ill from anxiety and stormed alternately at Theria for her
misdeed and at poor Baltè for not taking better care of her. Dryas was
very superior and very wrathful. The slaves whisked hither and yon, some
delighted with the fuss, others scared as to which way the storm might
strike. Lycophron treated everything with amused scorn, whether of Theria
or her tormentors could not be told. Nikander was away.

“But the whipping he’ll give you when he comes,” declared Melantho, “will
make that other whipping seem a caress.”

Theria waited in a dumb terror. Not of the whipping, but of her own
reaction to it. She would fight back. Oh, the disgrace of that! Deeper
than all was the fear of losing the last of her father’s love.

She had been sent to her room and poor Baltè watched her like a Cerberus.
No chance to be throwing jewels from windows even if Theria had thought
of it. As a matter of fact, she forgot it utterly.

It was next morning before she met her father.

His face was darker than she had ever seen it. He seemed to look at her
strangely and from a great distance.

“Oh, yes, Theria,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I am in too
great anxiety to care whether you are punished or not.”

“Father,” she exclaimed, instantly concerned for him alone. “What—what
has happened to you?”

“The Medes are at our door, child,” he strainedly answered. “And at
present I see no one who is going to resist them.”

She laid hand upon his arm, but he hurried away out of the house.

All that day Theria was in disgrace. Her mother set her an extra long
task of weaving and with extra severity made her ravel out all her
mistakes.

These were many. Theria could think of nothing but her father’s worried
words: “The Medes are at our door.” The phrase rang over and over again
in her ears. The Medes were the Persians. Did Father mean that the Medes
were in Phokis—or on Mount Parnassos itself? How soon would they fall
upon Delphi? Oh, if she could only question her mother. But her mother
would know nothing about it.

In the midst of her worry her promise to the slave concerning the jewels
flashed across her mind. “But it was last night I was to give him the
jewels, last night, poor slave. He must have come—and gone away again.
Will he come to-night? Oh, surely he will.”

She went immediately to her room and took from her jewel box a necklace.
It was of pearls strung upon horsehair. A mother-of-pearl amulet depended
from it. This she tried to remove, for it was characteristic, easily
identified. But a sound along the corridor made her swiftly hide the
necklace and all in her bosom. Moments alone were rare to-day. She must
have the jewels ready. Of course the adventure pleased her. She was young
and she was—Theria!

After the family had dispersed from the last meal of the day she sped
away to the back storeroom. There at the window she waited. Never had
so many steps sounded in the house, coming near the door, passing and
repassing; never had the lane reëchoed so loudly the footsteps from
the highway. Again and again she thought people must be entering the
lane itself. Once Nerea came into the storeroom to fetch wheat for the
kitchen. But it was by no means unusual to find the little mistress
sitting at that window, and Nerea went innocently away.

Down in the lane the shadows crept closer. Deep twilight now. There
among the jagged rocks at the lane’s end was a denser shadow. Suddenly
bird-swift the shadow darted forward and stopped under her window. She
leaned out.

“Hist! is it you, slave?”

The bearded face uplifted itself, the hands as well. She could see this
in the dimness.

“Oh, marvel of kindness,” came the low voice, “I knew you could not fail.”

“But I forgot yesterday. Hold your hands up close together. Careful, now.”

She dropped the pearls and he caught them easily. But he stood still in
his place.

“They did not whip you yesterday, Despoina? Tell me they did not,” he
whispered.

“Of course not, Fool! Go quickly, you will be caught. Go!”

He flung his hands upward again. Poor creature, the gesture was a very
speech of gratitude. Then he slipped back to the enfolding rocks.

Theria suddenly recalled how once she had found a bird in the court and
had taken it to this window to set it free. Even so had it flung itself
off and was gone. Her fancy pictured the slave hiding for the night
among the rocks; then, at break of day, hurrying down to the Precinct
to purchase freedom from the god. Ah, by to-morrow he would be miles
and miles away. He would not wait for the jewels to be questioned. That
problem would be hers.

She went off to bed singing softly a little tune.

Next afternoon Olen, her father’s slave, came into Theria’s room. He
seemed furtive in his errand.

“I was to give you this,” he said, and handed her a small two-handled
bowl. He was for hurrying out, but Theria stopped him.

“What is this, Olen?” she asked.

“You know best, Mistress,” he said, hiding a smile.

It was a shallow bowl, one of those made in the pottery below the
hill. Within the bowl was a delicate figure of the goddess “Athena” so
the letters said above the figure. She was bestowing something upon a
supplicant who stood before her.

“Who gave you this bowl, Olen?” asked Theria, puzzled.

“A man, Mistress, a sorry-looking slave with clay matted in his hair.”

Theria turned the bowl about. On the under side was an unburned painting
of a youth standing tip-toe with arms outstretched as if to fly. The
drawing was exquisite, but exquisite drawings were common in Greece.
Above the youth was scrawled:

    Eleutheria gives freedom.

Theria blushed slowly, angrily red. She held forth the bowl and broke it
to shards against the house wall.

“Olen,” she said sternly, “never bring me messages. Never bring me
gifts.”




CHAPTER XVI

GATHERING THE THREADS


Nikander had spoken of the Medes but in a voice so low that none but
Theria heard.

Theria, Nikander knew, would not give way to fear. However, she did give
way to curiosity. She questioned Medon, but Medon would tell her nothing.
“Your father has forbidden us, Missy,” was his word. She plied Olen with
questions, but Olen backed away from them with a skill which slaves
acquire. As for Baltè, she could only say:

“Oh, darling, it is tribes and tribes of men, all the men in the world
coming against our Greece. And the king at their head is a god. Where he
will he knocks a mountain over, like _that_, an’ when he will he makes
the sea dry land for his tribes to walk over. He is goin’ to burn every
city of Greece.”

Theria, what with her love of her land and her love of mere knowing, felt
actually ill from all this bafflement.

Late in the afternoon she caught Lycophron walking across the aula.

“Lycophron, stay with me! Talk with me only a little while. I’ll have
Olen bring wine and the fresh cakes.”

“Now, Sis, what are you up to?” he asked. Her eyes were wide and starry.
At such times they had the look of being new opened like a child’s.

“And Circe put wine before the Mariners,” he quoted, laughing. She
finished the lines.

“You rogue,” he said. “I believe you know the whole of Homer by heart.
Very improper for a girl.”

“No, I don’t; I only know most of the Odyssey. But don’t talk about that,
please. Oh, please tell me of the war.” She caught his arm pleadingly.
“Nobody but you will ever tell me anything. I am not afraid about the
war.”

“But you’d better be,” he said shortly.

“Old Baltè says the great king is a god who makes the land a sea and the
sea dry land.”

“Well, do you know, that is truth—almost. Xerxes has dug a canal across
the peninsula of Athos, behind the stormy mountain, to give safer passage
to his ships, and he has built an enormous bridge across the Hellespont
for his tribes to walk over. They were nine days and nights passing over
the thing, a constant stream. It seems foolish for him to transport so
many men to Greece. He could conquer our little states with a fifth of
that number.”

“Do you mean he brings too many?” queried Theria keenly.

“Gods, no! The great king knows what he is about. He’s an enemy to be
reckoned with! I don’t say we should throw up our hands and _Medise_ all
at once. But surely we should treat with him before we try to fight him.
Why should we go out with a handful of men and ships to be butchered?
Schutt!” he snapped his fingers scornfully. “That Tempè business! Do you
know about Tempè?”

“No,” breathlessly.

“Well, they started out—the Athenians and the Spartans together and——
Now, Sis, you may as well know that the Persians are coming really
against Athens and Sparta. Them only. None of the rest of us are in this
fight at all. And I say there’s no need of our throwing ourselves into it
like geese. Well, they start out, these Athenians and Spartans, and go
to the Vale of Tempè where they say there is a pass where they can keep
the Persians from coming through. And when they get there they find _two_
passes into Greece instead of _one_ pass to defend. So back they come
like whipped curs. I can hear the Persian king roar with laughter when
he hears of it. This was last week. The news of their fizzle is all over
Hellas. It’s taken the heart out of everyone. You’ve seen a hare sitting
with ears up ready to run. That’s the way we are!”

“Oh,” breathed Theria. She was leaning forward, drinking the news. “That
is what ails Father. That Tempè failure. Not that he is scared,” she
corrected herself. “But so troubled, so deeply troubled.”

“Yes, he’s troubled. The difficulty with Father is, he is trying to butt
into a stone wall. I suppose he’ll see after a while, the old dear!”

“Don’t call him that, Lycophron. Father isn’t old. What do you mean by
butting a wall?”

Lycophron stretched out his hands, yawning: “Oh, Sis, you want to know
the history of the Oracle since the time of Gaia,” he said. Then suddenly
a shrewd, purposeful look came into his eyes.

“Look here, puss. If I tell you about it will you try to help Father?
Father’s going against the Oracle. The Pythia says one thing but Father
thinks another.”

Now Theria’s faith in her father was second only to her faith in her god.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she exclaimed. “How can you say that of Father?
Father is——”

“Now, now; don’t get so hot all of a sudden! Wait till you hear: Athens
has sent to Delphi asking—‘Shall we fight the Persian and if so how
will we come out?’ The Pythia gave them a discouraging answer. Then the
Spartans came. Discouraging answer again. Something about ‘a king shall
die to save you.’ But not clear. Now Father wants them to keep on asking
again and again until better answers come. That’s pretty near sacrilege!”

He paused a moment.

“All the answers are the same, Sis. The answer to the Cretans: I heard
that myself, heard the priestess give it. Confused, of course, but after
the priests deliberated over it, clear as a whistle. ‘Keep out of the
fight,’ it said. ‘Do you want to be whipped as the Phokians whipped you?’

“Now Father is horrified at that. He says the Oracle meant nothing of the
kind. He had a terrific argument against all of them in the Council. He’s
making enemies right and left. What worries me is that man Kobon. The
Kobon family have always hated us and Kobon—well, he’d like to destroy
Father. Now here is his chance. Sooner or later he’ll do it unless Father
stops what he is doing.”

Theria was speechless with horror. Lycophron leaned toward her earnestly.

“Look here, Sis, why don’t _you_ talk with Father? You. I can’t talk to
him any more. He won’t listen to me. Try to tell him what I’ve told you.
Of course he’ll be angry. He’ll say you know nothing about it. But it may
count if you tell him you’ve been warned. He’s bitter discouraged now. It
may count. Will you do it?”

“Yes, oh, yes!” she said.

Lycophron kissed her. He was really an affectionate fellow and considered
his sister a charming child. Then he hurried out of the house.

Her father was in danger! Her father might be destroyed! This fact
overtopped all others in Theria’s loving mind. Even the impending war was
dim in this presence. And at nightfall Theria learned that her father had
gone away from Delphi. He had gone on some mysterious business. Lycophron
had seen him depart but even he did not know Nikander’s destination.

For the next two weeks Theria was well-nigh impossible to live with. Her
temper took fire at everything.

“I cannot sit and spin,” she declared. “Ah, gods; but I cannot!”

She threw down her distaff, defying her mother’s authority. In her room
she paced up and down, maddening for activity. “If only Father were
here,” she would repeat. “If only here, so that I might plead with him to
keep out of danger.”

But if Nikander should come, would she dare to question him and his
state policies? Never in her life had she doubted her father’s wisdom.
Theria had in some way gleaned a knowledge of Nikander’s far-reaching
powers—Nikander who seldom thought in terms of the individual but nearly
always in terms of the state. But now his statecraft was bringing him
into personal danger. That very danger made him seem to her in the wrong.
Yet to question him face to face, that seemed to Theria the height of
impiety. What could she, an ignorant girl, say to so wise a statesman?
Yet persuade him she must. He was in danger—in danger!

From this perturbation Theria found her old solitary place in the back
storeroom an only refuge. Here she could at least breathe the air, could
see the turbulent stream, could watch the gradual increase of nooning
light or its golden decline.




CHAPTER XVII

A YOUTH UNDER THE WINDOW


One evening she had sat there until the violet twilight gathered and the
stream down in the lane ran uproarious among the damp mists. Presently
she heard footsteps and looking down saw emerge from the hill a youth, a
beautiful lithe fellow, walking with that swift grace that youth is heir
to. He looked directly to her window and threw out both arms as if in
surprise and greeting.

Theria retired at once. She was quick enough for adventure, but not this
sort of adventure. She had no taste for romantic secrecies. But the youth
stopped under her window.

“Lady,” he called, low but intensely. “For love of the gods do not go
away! I have not come to harm you.”

Something in his tone—earnestness, a tragic need—brought her back to
the window. There he was standing with upturned face, beautiful in the
twilight. But now having her in sight he did not speak. He only lifted up
his hands toward her with an energy as though he would spring upward.

Could this be her cousin Agis or Caramanor, one of those with whom she
had played as a child? Was he bringing her news of her father? He seemed
to have come with purpose.

“What news have you, Cousin?” she asked anxiously.

“The news that I see your face—your face!” answered the astonishing
fellow. “Oh, all my happiness harks back to you. All my freedom to be a
man is of your making. Do not wonder that I thank you—that I must see
you and speak my thanks to your face. Every breath waking and sleeping I
thank you.”

“But who are you?” asked Theria, amazed. “Are you mad? You have nothing
to thank me for.”

He was the more delighted.

“Ahai, my lady! you do not recognize me. Nay, forget the one you saw
before. You with your jewels have made me a new man.”

Then Theria’s mind leaped back over the two weeks and she guessed.

“But, love of Leto, you cannot be that slave!”

“No, no; I am not he, I am free!”

“I don’t believe you are that slave. You have no look of him. You are
straight. You are young.”

“I had almost forgotten I was young. I had kept that disguise so long.
And how I hated it—the dirt, the miserable matted beard, the stooping. It
took me days to stand straight again.”

“Was it not bad enough to be a slave without making yourself like that?”
said Theria disgustedly.

“Dear maid, I had to keep so. They would certainly have sold me into
Persia. There is great price in the East for beautiful men.”

He said this frankly of himself as a matter of course. Indeed there was
something startling in his beauty—an ethereal quality, though he was
manly too, but now so full of delight that he seemed like a child. He
began hurriedly to tell her of himself.

“Dear lady, I was not born a slave. You will believe that. I was taken at
sea by pirates—the whole ship seized. They put us below in the dark hold
of their ship and fed us on nuts. That first night I blacked my face
with the nut-hulls. I exchanged garments with the meanest man among us.
I——”

“But why?” asked Theria.

“I had heard the sea-robbers upon deck above talking of me—and how
they would sell me to the Persian Court.” A horror crossed the youth’s
sensitive face. “Lady,” he said, “the Persians would have shamed me and
made me worse than slave. I would do anything to escape that. In the
morning, when the pirates came down looking for me, they thought their
beautiful youth had jumped overboard. Stupid Phœnicians.”

This Odyssey was holding Theria fascinated. She forgot all the
proprieties. She forgot that the youth might be love-making. Her mind had
moved so many days in a doomed circle that now it spread wings of new
life.

“But you got home again. How ever did you manage that?” she questioned.

“For long I was a galley slave. But one day, when the ship stopped at
Corinth, I won the captain’s attention and told him of my skill in making
gods of stone. Then he sold me to an image maker, and the image maker
again to the owner of the pottery here. Oh, those days at the pottery!
Those endless days! The dirt, the sweat, the low talk, the beatings if
work was not swift enough. For I was not a swift worker. I had to make
even those poor slight drawings as beautiful as I could. My only life
was in them. I would dream over them. Then the overseer would beat me.
But those days are over. Think of it, lady. Can you think how happy I am
being away from that?”

“Great Hermes, yes! And then you went up the Precinct with my jewels?”

“Yes, blessed one. The next morning after you gave me them the good god
freed me. I came down out of the Precinct gate knowing that I was free. I
went straight to Argos. I think I sang all the way. Argos is my home.”

His face saddened unexpectedly. “Dear lady, I had been long away. I found
that my father was dead and also my lady-mother, for grief at losing
me—and—and I found something worse than that—even than that. Great Hera!”
he lowered his voice. “Argos had Medized. My father’s dearest friend
confessed it to me. The Argives say they are bargaining for the headship
of the All-Greek army. They are really doing nothing of the kind. They
have Medized. They have made a real compact with Persia—nothing less!
Lady, I had lived so long in dread of Persian slavery and there at home
to meet it again! But I will not meet it,” he cried with sudden energy.
“I will not! So I have come back here to Delphi. But I loved Argos so
dearly!”

“Of course you did. Your home! Dreadful! Argos Medized!” Theria hardly
know that she spoke.

“I’ll fight the Persians here. Here in Delphi. You will surely need every
man you can get. I shall become a Delphian. I have a little fortune,
lady,” he added, very businesslike. “My father’s good friend saved it for
me. I can buy citizenship in Delphi.”

Then suddenly the moral of the tale was out.

“And, lady, with my fortune and my citizenship, I shall ask your father
for your hand in marriage. But not against your will. I will not enslave
you who have made me free. Oh, dearest lady, love me, love me, love me!”
he hurried on. “Cannot you see what the Cyprian has done to me toward
you?”

Theria rose from the window as though the youth had struck her.

“How dare you, how dare you?” She gasped. “Words not meet for a maid to
hear.”

“Lady,” he called so loud that she came back to her window for very
caution. “Hush, hush,” she whispered. “Will you disgrace me?”

“No, no; lady, I pray for you, I bless you to the immortal gods.” He beat
his palm against the house wall for emphasis. “Can you stop the stream of
Castaly flowing down from the cliffs?” he questioned passionately. “No
more can you stop the stream of my love. It will refresh and bless you
whether you will or no. Ah, what I would do for you, dear child, if I
only might.”

He tossed With a skilful fling a bunch of fresh ferns into her window.
Then he was gone.

If the stream of Castaly had indeed fallen on Theria’s head she could
hardly have been more shocked. She stood in the middle of the room
angered into tears, hurt, strangely frightened. How dared the man return
her kindness in this fashion? When a man wanted a friend he took a man,
creature of his own mental stature, not a girl.

Well did Theria know that love-making was disgraceful and not for
high-born maids. Pure girls dreamed of marriage, of course, but not of
love. Theria had dreamed of neither. She picked up the scattered ferns
and tossed them out of the window. Their delicate scent of the wild wood
met, her as she did so. Suddenly she longed for her mother’s touch and
voice, even her scolding voice. She hurried out of the room.

But as she went to sleep that night she remembered only that Argos had
Medized.




CHAPTER XVIII

GATHERING MORE THREADS


The next morning Nikander returned to his home. He retired at once to
rest after his journey. Theria met him as he came forth again from his
room in the late afternoon. It was plain that no sleep had been his. He
was haggard. There was something in his face which cut Theria to the
heart. She put herself directly in his path.

“Father,” she said, “I know your trouble. Do not hide it from me. You
think I cannot help you, but, oh, let me try.”

The love outgoing from her face and from the little trembling gesture of
her hand—these he could not choose but see.

“You say a great deal when you say that you know all about my trouble,”
he smiled.

“Don’t laugh at me, please. I am a grown woman. I am sixteen years old.”

“What is it you want to know, child?”

“About the Persians,” she said breathlessly. She was daring the question
now. What a fool she felt herself to be! “If they’re really coming
against only Athens and Sparta couldn’t the other states stand aside—and
keep out of it—wouldn’t it be best?”

His face went black.

“Theria, who has been talking to you?” he demanded.

“Nobody, Father. We hear things in the house. We can’t help hearing them.
I heard, too, that Argos has Medized. I wanted to tell you that. The
Pythia’s answer had nothing to do with it. They Medized long before. They
are in actual league with the Persian!”

Nikander looked as if she had dashed water in his face.

“By the thundering Zeus, how did you know that? The priests only made
certain of it last night.”

“It’s because I want so much to know, Father, that I learn. And I know
that you are in bitter danger from Kobon. Are you sure”—she caught her
breath before the plunge—“are you sure you are right? Are you sure that
_all_ the states should fight the Persian? Wouldn’t it be better to treat
with the Persian just as the Oracle bids us do?”

This time his eyes flashed with anger. “Am I to hear myself flouted,” he
said, “by the very women of my household?”

She suddenly threw both arms about his neck in a passion of tears.

“No—no—no—I am not flouting you! Kobon! He may kill you. Any day he may
kill you.”

“That side of the question is not to be dwelt upon,” he said severely. He
put his arm about her, but his face was like a mask.

“Come with me,” he said.

He led her into his room and shut the door. She could not tell whether he
would punish her or not.

“Do you know what is meant by ‘treating with the Persian’?” he demanded.

“No.”

“It means to be his slave, to submit to his rule in ways that would ruin
the freedom of Greece. We Greeks could meet in our Councils—oh, yes, we
could _meet_! But the Councils would count for naught. The Great King’s
word would be law. It would mean that we would be called out to fight the
King’s battles, not our own—that he would take our young men to his court
and make eunuchs of them, take our young girls for his concubines. Don’t
you think that any state of Greece should prefer death to such a fate?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she whispered with wide eyes. At last she was to know the
truth.

“Yet this is the fate you tell me Argos prefers. I suppose,” he added
whimsically, “you know all about the Council at the Isthmos of Corinth,
from which I have just come.”

“No, nothing of that.”

“Then I will tell you. Athens, Sparta, and all the lesser states who want
to defend our Hellas have sent representatives to this congress. They are
making our plan of defence. They have sent envoys to all the doubtful
states of Greece, begging them to join in the fight. Now, here, my child,
is my grief and should be yours—these states, Argos, Crete, and others
sent at once to our Pythia to ask whether or not they should enter the
war. And in every case the oracles have been negative. It has been so
when there was no need.

“You know, my child, that oracles are not always clear! Just as prayers
to the gods are not always answered. And when the oracles are not clear,
surely it is because the Son of Leto wishes us to use our own wisdom in
the interpretation thereof.

“These oracles to Argos and Crete came forth in confused utterance and
could have been interpreted into splendid words of courage to those
states. We could have _forced_ them to join the League.”

Nikander’s voice began to ring with his message. He forgot it was only to
his daughter, Theria, that he was speaking. She meanwhile thrilled and
quivered with the sudden enlightenment. Yesterday she had been for the
moment persuaded by Lycophron. But this from her father was the truth, so
clear that she ought to have known it without any telling.

Nikander went on:

“But all the priests were for bending the oracles the other way. They
fashioned them into drivelling nonsense, only adding enough of sense to
warn the states away, to make them afraid to fight.

“Oh, that our Delphi should come to this.

“The priests themselves are scared. Many of them have visited Persia and
remember its vast power. I, too, have visited it. What of it? Cannot they
see that in a pass like this the gods will fight on our side?

“But among all the priests, only Timon and I are for the nobler part. I
am not accustomed to failure. I do not know how to bear it.”

His head bowed, but it lifted again quickly.

“But we have not failed yet, Timon and I. There are yet Athens and Sparta
for us to help.”

Suddenly he seemed aware of his daughter. He took her hand.

“Athens and Sparta prefer death to the Persian rule. They are going to
fight the Persian though he be twenty times their number. Do you see
nothing fine in that, my child?”

Her wide-open eyes answered him.

“Up till now the Oracle has disheartened them both. It shall not
dishearten them again. Athens and Sparta will certainly visit the Oracle
once more. If I have to die in giving them the message of the god, that
is a small matter. The message shall be given.”

Theria moved toward him in awed, shining acquiescence.

“Father,” she said clearly, “if you have to die that way, I will not cry
out any more.”

Nikander framed her white face in his two hands.

“My darling child!” he said in a kind of amazement. “How strangely you
understand.”

She felt his hands tremble; then he smiled almost merrily.

“But I do not intend to die, Theria. I intend to win!”

Her trust in him now was too complete for her even to urge her own help
upon him.

“I will not ask you again, Father, to make me Pythia, but if I can help
you that way or any way, you will let me—you will let me?”

“Persistent Theria! You cannot help me by being Pythia. How many times
must I tell you that the Pythia is the empty mouthpiece of the god.”

“Yes, Father,” she consented.

“You can help me,” he said, “by keeping up the courage of the household.
Do not let the slaves talk. Don’t let your mother cringe and worry. Most
of all, do not be surprised at anything. I’ll tell you now the fullness
of it. The Persians will come to Delphi. No amount of treating will keep
their greedy hands off this rich spoil. Our streets will know their
footsteps, our temples and households their desecration.

“They are a great horde. All the armies of the past taken together will
not make the sum of them. Yet we must fight them. There is no other
choice, my child. Can you keep a brave heart and stiff will?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes.”

She went back to her room exalted and actually refreshed. The danger was
so great, so certain, that it bred not fear but only a deep solemnity.

Nikander, however, walking out into the street, was not encouraged by
this conversation, but miserably cast down.

He had received sympathy; but not from his sons had he received it. The
fullness of Theria’s understanding but made him feel the more keenly
their aloofness. This poor child, a daughter! wanted to help him by
becoming the Pythia—futile effort! Yet the only one open to her. His
sons, had they desired, might have been already in the priesthood,
fighting by his side for this—the greatest cause the Oracle had ever
known.

Meanwhile, he must fight alone. In bitterness of heart he made his way
through the midsummer heat up toward the Council House.




CHAPTER XIX

THE SONG RE-SUNG


Theria’s first thought was to deal with Lycophron. That afternoon she met
him in the outer aula. He questioned her first.

“Sis, did you speak with Father?”

“Yes, and oh, Lycophron, Father is right about the oracles. You haven’t
quite understood. He explained——”

“Shu!” he interrupted. “I might have known it would turn out that way.
You take Father for a god.”

“Don’t talk that way, Lycophron. You know yourself how wise he is. You
know how the priests have always looked up to him.”

“Do they? Now? In this crisis?” he demanded.

“No, but that is the more reason we should stand by him. We should think
and act with him. Lycophron”—she caught the corner of his himation,
twisting it in her fingers—“you could really go into the Council yourself
if you wished. You are old enough. Your vote would help his.”

“But I wouldn’t vote his way, Puss.”

“Do talk with Father,” she pleaded. “He will make you understand. He
talked of it with me” (she said it proudly). “How much rather would he
talk with you. He would make it all clear.”

“Now, Sis, it’s you that are butting into a wall. Father and I don’t
agree in these matters. You’re a smart little girl, but don’t try
to meddle in things too big for you. By the way, when are you to be
betrothed?”

She paled quickly and Lycophron laughed. Theria’s reluctance to marriage
was a curious streak of idiocy in this quick-witted sister of his.
Lycophron thought it comic.

“Great Hermes, what a face you make!”

“Father hasn’t said anything about betrothal, has he?” she queried.

“Well, I won’t say whether he has or not,” he teased, “but I shall remind
him. I met Theron the other day, ‘When am I going to get my beautiful
wife?’ says he.”

“Oh, Lycophron, please, please!” she begged, all in a tremble. “Don’t
remind Father, do not tell him what that man——”

“Why, Sis, you little fool, a betrothal is a fine festival. And you would
be coming right down among the men. It would be the merriest time you
ever had in your life—and you the centre of it all.”

“Who would want a merry time,” she retorted, “when the Persian is coming
to tear us to pieces?”

“No; don’t you be scared to death like Dryas.”

“You know I am not scared!” she said so indignantly that Lycophron patted
her shoulder approvingly.

“There, there, Sis, I won’t remind Father. But, honestly, I do think it
is a shame that he forgets to betroth you just because he is so busy in
the Council.”

“I’m glad he forgets,” she said vehemently. “I’m glad he forgets.”

After a moment she asked with anxiety:

“But is Dryas really scared?”

“He doesn’t say so, but I can tell that he is. He turns white about the
lips.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry,” she answered. The break up of the family
front was more serious than she had supposed. “But,” she concluded,
“Dryas will stand by Father whatever happens.”

       *       *       *       *       *

For a week Theria kept away from her storeroom and its beloved window.
Cruel, that the impudent stranger should deprive her of her refuge. The
storeroom was her place of intimate solitude. It was saturated with
her thought, her dreams, her songs. The little window and the lonely
street—all were hers.

But after a time her fears lessened. Surely the youth would not keep
coming all this while, or if he did, she had only to tell her father.
Nikander would punish him thoroughly. Yes, and perhaps his daughter also
for being at the window at all. Oh, but the youth must have forgotten.
Why need she be anxious? The evening was very hot. The air seemed to
press down heavily into the amphitheatre of the mountains. One could
hardly breathe.

Theria found her window. Darkness had fully come and the hoped-for
breeze. She had sat there some moments before she realized that the
Argive youth was in the lane below. She shrank back, but his first word
startled her into speech.

“Lady Eleutheria, I have asked your father for your hand,” he said. “But
oh, dear maid, he tells me that you are betrothed.”

“I am not betrothed! I am not betrothed!” she cried vehemently. “There
has been no betrothal.”

“Thank the good gods for that,” was the devout answer.

Foolishly she began to argue.

“But that does you no good.”

“No, but at least it does not snatch you quite away. I have learned to
hope, Eleutheria. When I was in the galley-hold all day rowing until my
back cracked, then it seemed as though I could never be glad again. But I
am glad; thanks to you. In the same way I shall hope that some glorious
fate will bring you to me, though so far from me now. I shall make you
love me.”

“But I do not love you,” said Theria desperately, “and you must not come
here any more. This window is my solitude. You shall not come to it.”

“Do not say that,” he pleaded. “You cannot imagine the joy it is to
come. I have worn a path on the hillside coming, coming to you. And as
I come my heart lifts and lifts as with a dawning light. Ah, you do not
understand it; nor did I, dear child. It is something stronger than
I—than you—— Each morning,” he hurried on, fearful lest she leave him,
“when I awake and remember that I am free, then your cry comes back to me
that you are shut in always, always, without hope. My heart breaks. I,
too, had been shut in without hope. Therefore, I long to free you.”

“You compare me to a slave,” she said sternly.

“No, no,” he cried. “If I could only take your hand and show you the
beautiful temples of the gods, the cities which I know, the sea. Lady,
have you ever seen the sea?”

“No,” she answered, very low.

“Once I had a friend. He was taken prisoner with me on the pirate ship.
But he died of the wounds he got shielding me—and I still love him. I
thought I could never love any one in all my life as I love him; but you,
dear maid, you are more than that friend. It is strange to say that. But
you are my friend and my life. I am no longer my own.” His voice changed
with awe. “Dear lady, it is not Aphrodite’s passion that is come upon
me, it is the gift of some god loftier than she—perhaps Eros the Creator.
Try to understand.”

Just here the moon sailed clear of the housetops over the way and filled
the narrow lane with light. She could see him standing there, his head
thrown back to see her—his golden hair bound and crowned. His very
standing was elastic, spurning the ground. So much had his few weeks of
gymnastic restored to him of Hellenic health and attitude.

She could see the curious, searching light in his face—a light of
tenderness such as she had never known but which she recognized as all
maidens do. Oh, why did her heart leap? Was she, too, in the power of a
god?

Now he startled her yet more.

“Dear lady, I am coming to this house to-morrow night, I am Nikander’s
guest.”

Delphians, though proud as Olympians, were yet the most cosmopolitan of
Greeks. They were taught by the Oracle to receive all men hospitably.

Theria’s dread increased. What would her father think? What might not
this strange youth tell!

“I shall ask to hear that song,” added the youth. “The prize song which
you made for Dryas, your brother.”

“I made no song,” she asserted, loyal to her house.

“Oh, yes, you did. All the Precinct whispers that. But I shall know, dear
maid, whether the song be yours. If it came from your spirit, it will go
to mine.”

Steps were heard in the lane. She cried out a low warning. Her anger
swept back again that the youth should thus bring her into fear. But he
was gone almost before her cry. He was among the hills.

Theria turned, dazed, from the window. There on the moon-lit floor lay
flowers strewn, one bunch upon another—faded ferns, fresh anemones,
violets half dry. Evidently a gift for every day. If the youth came in
this fashion sooner or later someone would see him. They would punish
her. Worse! They would laugh at her. A street song, a vulgar old catch,
struck across her mind, one of the common gibes at women:

      Always as of old——
    They roast their barley sitting as of old
    They on their heads bear burdens as of old—
    They buy themselves sly dainties as of old—
    They still secrete their lovers as of old.

Ahai! so she had thought herself different, better! She was like all
other silly women. No wonder the men gibed. Only for a moment had she
been guilty, but it was such a vivid, unforgettable moment. The moon had
shone so bright upon him, the youth had looked so impossibly beautiful.
Fool! The youth was plainly mad. Never would she allow herself to see him
again.

Wrathfully she gathered all the flowers at one sweep and flung them far
out of the window. Theria had heard of physical love. She had heard of
no other kind. How was she to understand this sudden placing of her upon
a pedestal? How should she guess that the youth through the suffering
of slavery, through the purity of his gratitude, had stumbled upon an
emotion old as creation, beautiful as dawn, strong as life, which the
Greeks had utterly quenched and set aside?

Next day, sure enough, a feast was preparing in the house. Theria watched
fearfully. Was the Argive really coming among the other guests? She tried
to keep out of her father’s way, but she had to face him at luncheon.

Nikander, where his family was concerned, was very frank and childlike.
“Well, Theria,” he said, “what do you suppose has happened? A young man
comes asking for your hand.” Theria’s heart thumped so that she had to
stop eating.

“His name is Eëtíon.[2] He is from Argos, one of the handsomest youths I
ever saw. What do you think of that, Daughter?”

[2] Note: pronounced A-e-teé-on.

“I do not know,” she managed to falter.

“My dear, why tremble?” smiled her father. “The youth does not concern
you. But the fellow is curiously headlong. Of course I did not discuss
dower with him. But he offered it. He said: ‘I want no dower. I have seen
your daughter in a festival procession. Her beauty is enough without
dower!’ Now in what procession could he have noticed you, Theria? I do
not quite like it that he should have seen you.”

“I do not know,” she said, again bowing her head. She was in mortal fear
lest he see her fear. But he turned to Melantho—

“By Hermes, Melantho, I do like the youth. He quitted Argos because he
is too loyal a Hellene to stay there. I like that. Timon knew the young
man’s father, says the family is one of the most upright in Argos. The
boy shows his race. Beautiful fellow, astonishingly beautiful.” (The
Greek could not but dwell on beauty whenever he met it.) “The children of
such a youth would be glorious children.”

“But, Father, must I—must I marry an Argive?”

Nikander threw back his head with laughter. It had been weeks since
Theria had heard him laugh.

“No, Theria, your children would be glorious, but they would not be
legitimate. Eëtíon has purchased citizenship in Delphi, but he is still
metic, a foreigner. Of course, you will not marry him.”

Nikander voiced the pride that was in every Greek citizen—the pride and
the isolation. No man could take full citizenship in a city not his own.
No marriage with a foreigner (born say fifty miles distant) was counted
legal by any government. This fact, instinctive in Theria’s mind, had
steeled her heart against the Argive. Oh, what right had he to come to
the house even as her father’s guest? She dared not object. She was not
supposed to know of his coming.

The dinner guests assembled early. Theria and her mother had their supper
upstairs. Then Theria went off to bed so as not to hear anything of the
feast. But she could not sleep. She did not want the youth to hear her
song. She tossed and tossed on her hot couch. What must they be doing now
at the feast? Talking of the war? Ah, yes, that surely. They would not be
singing songs in these war-troubled days, even at symposia. If she had
only dared to ask Dryas not to sing. But was he singing? Oh, if she only
knew.

Impatiently she rose and crept to her father’s room. Here came up the
mingled voices and laughter from the men’s court. Oh, what was that? Why
were they suddenly silent? That lyre, tuning. Then clear and fateful came
the sound of Dryas’s singing,

    “Fair, fair on the mountain the feet of Apollo striding.”

The thing always thrilled her; so intimately hers. “I shall know, dear
maid, whether the song be yours. If it came from your heart it will go to
mine.” The Argive’s saying was ringing back upon her. He was down there
now, listening, close to the singer. Almost she could see the listening
in his face. And oh, the song was giving him what she did not want to
give—her intimate, sweetest thought. He would grasp it all. Had he not
asserted that he would?

She clapped hands upon her ears and fairly ran back to her room. He had
no right, that Argive foreigner, to read her soul that way. No right!

She lay in her bed trembling. It was long before she could reason with
herself and believe that this was a foolish, childish fear.




CHAPTER XX

LOVE IN THE LANE


Theria paced to and fro in the large upper room, weaving. She had
unskilful hands for this craft also as well as for spinning. Her figures
of gods were stiff, her colours never true. But these days the long task
was grateful. The whole household seemed hushed, as before a storm. Even
Melantho now knew how near the Persians were. She, too, must be told.
“Last week they were at Pydna, to-day we hear they have reached Larissa
in Thessaly.” So the vast armies approached nearer, nearer, fateful,
certain, awful, and the tiny land toward which they came seemed crouching
with arms upheld to ward off a blow.

But Melantho was unexpectedly quiet. She had taken charge of the house as
never before. And there was need. The slaves were irritable with fear,
disobedient. This morning Olen had run away.

As for the Argive youth, Theria had not seen him since the night of
Dryas’s singing. She had forsworn her beloved window. Better so than to
see him again. That one moment of piercing beauty in his face. Ah, that
had taught her the danger. Tender-conscienced child that she was—she was
remorseful for every moment that she had lingered at the window listening
to his speech. Those moments were not worthy of Nikander’s daughter. One
day she went into the storeroom to fetch a book-roll which she had left
there. The floor again was strewn with flowers, faded and dewy fresh, as
though thrown there each day.

That the Argive youth should keep coming. This haunted her. Patient,
persistent, each evening, lonely in the lane. How was she to drive him
from her thoughts?

She looked up from her weaving. Her father had opened the curtain of
the doorway. He came toward her. There was in his face a finality which
brought her to her feet.

“Father! The Persians!”

“No, child,” answered Nikander’s low voice. “The delegation of Athenians
is in Delphi.”

“Yes, Father, I knew that.”

“They have received their answer from the Oracle. Child, the message
needed no interpreting priest. It was fearful and fearfully clear. The
Pythia in her own voice, in ecstasy upon the tripod, warned them out of
the shrine. ‘Quit Athens,’ was her cry. ‘Flee afar; fire and sword shall
come upon your city—and not yours only, but many cities. My temple sweats
blood; get ye away from my holy place; and steep your souls in sorrow.’”

“Father, how dreadful; horrible!”

“The priests, of course, are horror-struck. But they are triumphant, too.
They have prevailed over me. The Athenians! Theria, the Athenians dare
not go home with that message. We have told them, Timon and I, not to
go home with it. That message would put their armies to rout before the
Persians should strike one blow.”

He stopped. His face took on a deep regret, almost abhorrence. Then he
said hurriedly:

“Theria, I have come to make you the Pythia. It is a last resort.
You say you can pray. God grant you can! Oh, my child, put into this
consecration every effort, every spiritual strength you know!”

She was so dazed that she could only stand before him trying to say “Yes.”

“You will leave the house early to-morrow morning. You will have your
days of rites and preparation. But the Athenians will await your days. We
will enter the Precinct as supplicants—you and I. The Athenians also as
supplicants. Supplication may win the god.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes. But his
mind was far away, wrapt in the purpose for his state.

“Theria, the honour of the Oracle, the very saving of Athens and of all
Hellas are in your hands. Pray, pray!”

At the door he paused again with bent head. “You will have your wish now
to stay a virgin. And you can never come home again.”

She was alone. It is in such moments that one grows old. Maturity is not
of years but of such experience. She was neither happy nor sad. What she
had desired so long seemed strangely impossible now that it had come to
her. There was no exaltation for the great task.

She kept naming the task over to herself. “I am to win the good
oracle which will save Athens. Apollo will give me a good answer if I
supplicate.” But she felt very dazed.

Now she laid aside her hated weaving. It was the last time. The Pythia
did not weave. Greater tasks were hers. Theria’s home which had seemed so
prison-like, that, too, she was leaving for ever. Very quietly she walked
along the balcony to her own room and there stood thinking.

How distant her father had seemed. The great state-sorrow weighed him
down. He was beyond thought of her. Yet there had been something tragic
in his face as though he were laying her as victim upon the altar rather
than lifting her to the tripod.

A fearful thing that tripod. It stood in a dark cavern, and the breath of
the god rushed up from a gulf below and filled her who was set there. How
would it feel—that breath upon her? What would it do to her, that ghostly
thing? She shook her shoulders as if to free them of a load.

Oh, dear Paian, what if it did harm her? That was nothing, nothing!
Could she win the good message? Could she by prayers, importunity, and
ritual-supplication win from the god the better fate for Greece? Apollo
had already given forth the terror and warning. Could she push that evil
back as with her two hands?

All the courage, the confidence, which had so easily been hers sank out
of her. Her heart, which had been like a pool reflecting the sky of the
god, was suddenly empty. She longed to go to her mother to hide in her
arms. But Melantho (how well she knew) would only weep and add weakness
to her own. Her father? It had been her father’s detachment, his way of
laying the task impersonally upon her, forgetting the daughter upon whom
he laid it—it was this that made her lonely. She thought of Dryas, of
Lycophron, of Baltè. She could only hide her face in her hands, rejecting
the thought of each. And the black loneliness grew at each rejection.

“Is there someone else? Isn’t there any one else?” she thought wildly.

And like answer to her thought came the clear picture to her closed eyes.
The Argive standing in the moon-lit lane with face upturned to hers.
“Can you stop the stream of Castaly? Even so will my love refresh you
whether you will or not.”

She lifted up her face timidly in the empty room. Ah, he had loved her.
He had come again and again with his love. So faithful, so patient, and
how true he was to Greece! How ready to fight for Hellas! If she should
go to the window to-night, would he give her strength—strength for her
fearful duty? But how could he? Would he reach up his hands? What could
he say?

Suddenly she was trembling so that she had to sit down, clasping her
hands, unclasping them again. How could he do anything except to put
arms about her as she had longed for her mother to do? But these arms
as they stole about her spirit were not like Melantho’s. They thrilled
her, brought her near to weeping. They were the arms of love, the love
he had told of, the love that understood the inmost of her heart. She
began to long so intensely for their comforting that she was frightened.
The barriers of her coldness went down at once, leaving her as tender as
young spring. Unconsciously she reached out her hands in the dim room.

Then a panic assailed her. Perhaps he would not come. Perhaps her long
refusal had broken even his faithfulness. Perhaps he would fail her for
just this one evening. Then it would be too late. To-morrow she would be
locked in the Pythia House. Then even to see him would be sin.

To-night! Oh, could she go down into the lane and greet him there? But
how? The house wall was too high for her down-clambering or for his
ascent. The front door was guarded by Medon.

She would ask Baltè to take her. Surely on this her last night at home
Baltè would be kind.

Meanwhile the news of Theria’s departure was noised through the house.
Melantho was excited, bewildered, frightened. She was closeted with
Nikander. The slaves were weeping. One after another stole to Theria’s
door, the men awkward in their grief, the women and girls throwing their
arms about their little mistress in stress of tears.

Theria waited till nightfall before she asked Baltè.

“Just to go out into the lane a little while, Baltè—to stand near the
stream.” Baltè sometimes had taken her there. But always of a morning
when Baltè was doing her washing.

“Not in the evening, little mistress. You know your mother would not
allow it.”

“She will not care this time. Oh, Baltè, you will have no more chances to
please me!”

“But surely I am going to be with you in the Pythia House, little
mistress?” cried Baltè, frightened.

“There, Baltè, don’t cry. Of course you will.”

But Baltè had already consented to her little mistress’s wish.

The two entered the lane at nightfall, climbed the short steep path
beside the stream to the very wall of the cliff.

“But, Missy, I should think you would rather stay down near the highroad
where you could glimpse the folk passing.”

“Not to-night, Baltè. It is only the air I want and to be still, very
still.”

She slipped into a cleft of the hillside and drew Baltè with her. How
quiet it was. A cricket chirped above her on the hillside, lonely in the
stillness. At the opening of the lane the highroad was half hidden by the
rocks.

“Missy, it’s growing late. We mustn’t stay too long.”

“Oh Baltè, wait—wait.”

Never in her life had Theria known fear such as this—the fear of the
Argive’s not coming. It choked her. It tasted bitter in her mouth. But
why should he come? Oh, why should he, to her who had been only cruel,
who had thrown only contempt from her window—that window which now stared
at her dimly at a distance like some vacant fate——

What was that? Oh, Paian, a stir in the bushes above her, a form in the
dusk that walked swiftly and stopped under her window. Ah, dear gods, how
intently he gazed up where he thought to find her!

She slipped from Baltè’s hand and sped like a freed bird toward him.
Lightly she touched his arm. She could not speak.

He wheeled—saw her.

“Gods in Olympos! My lady!”

The Argive’s hope had been largely boasting. He had never imagined a
thing like this that she should greet him in the lane. Now he saw her
changed face. His voice broke with tenderness.

“Eleutheria,” he whispered. Her timid hand reached toward him.

Then the arms that she had dreamed of were about her, wonderful, amazing
in their love. She had not known they would tremble. She had not known
they would seem so strong. All thought for winning courage for her duty
left her—all thought of asking anything. She only longed to give him the
gentleness and affection she had so long denied him. She lifted her hand,
touching his cheek. It was wet with tears.

“I have been unkind. Oh, I have been cruel to you.”

“Never cruel,” he said. “Only a child whom the gods must teach.”

“They have taught me. They have taught me,” she answered.

But now Baltè recovered from amazement, and was shaking Theria’s arm.

“Oh, Missy, Missy, come back with Baltè. Wicked child, you deceived me.”

“Yes, yes, Baltè,” she said, tender even toward her old nurse, “I will
come. Eëtíon will not harm me. He is good, good.”

At this confession of faith the youth kissed her afresh.

But Baltè was not to be baulked. “Missy, please, please, for Apollo’s
sake,” she cried, again shaking Theria. “How can you, you who are to be
Pythia to-morrow?”

“Pythia,” repeated the lover. “What does she mean? Theria, that is not
true!”

“Yes, I am to pray for a good oracle from the god. Oh, Eëtíon, I feel now
that it may be granted me.”

“But you! Great Hermes, you cannot be Pythia. Your father will not allow
that!”

“But Father commands it. He says it is the only hope of saving the
Athenians. I must do it!”

“Theria, no, no!” he said wildly. The horror of the thing broke over him
and the horror of her being torn from him, for ever beyond his reach.
“What a frightful mistake. Nikander should know better. You are not
fit for a Pythia. The tripod will kill you. It will destroy your mind.
Theria, you must listen to me!”

She was listening indeed. His misery was sweeping down her high mission
as the gale sweeps down the grain. She clung to him, saying no word.

“I can take you away from it. Oh, it is a horrible fate. My darling, for
the god’s sake let me save you. I’ll take you to the islands. No one will
find you; no one.” He was drawing her toward the hill.

That moment her spirit returned to her.

“No, no, Eëtíon. You cannot save me that way. Oh, you know you cannot!”

His hands dropped to his sides, his head drooped.

“Yes,” he faltered. “Not that way, but how, how? You must not be Pythia.
You are not fit for pythiahood. I have seen the present Pythia—pale,
weak, and above all, empty, ignorant. Oh, darling Theria, you cannot be
made like that! I must save you!”

“You _have_ saved me,” she said, childlike. “I was afraid and you have
made me unafraid. Because you love me, just because you love me. Oh,
Eëtíon. Death lies both ways. For the Persians will kill us if they get
into Hellas. Only the god can keep them back. I must pray to the god. I
must pray to the god. I know he will hear me. Must I not go when I know
that? Oh, Eëtíon, help me—help me to go!”

He took her face between his hands, gazing into the brave depths of her
eyes.

“Always you make me remember that you are Eleutheria,” he said in a low,
awed voice. “If you were like other women I could not so love you—oh, do
you believe how I love you—love you?”

Then before she could answer—

“Go,” he said hastily. “While I can let you go.”

She bowed her head and started down the lane. But he caught her back with
passionate kisses. He knew it was the last time. There in the narrow lane
pure love, neglected and chilled by Greek custom and unknown to Greek
sullying passion, burned high and clear like an altar flame.

Baltè was beside herself with fear. Yet if she gave the alarm what a
punishment there would be for her darling! Only the dread Cyprian could
know when they would have parted had not a step echoed from the highway
and Medon’s deaf-hollow voice called:

“Baltè, ye fool. If ye don’t come in I’ll lock the door on ye. What time
is this to be stayin’ out in the night with the little mistress?”

And at this Baltè gathered her nurseling in her arms and almost carried
her into the house.




CHAPTER XXI

A PROCESSION OF SACRIFICE


Next morning it was Nikander himself who came to awaken his daughter. The
house was full of the bustle and awe of the departure. The dawn was yet
grey. Melantho brought a white festal robe and for one long hour she and
Baltè dressed the young candidate, pinning the robe at the shoulders,
clasping the girdle, drawing the soft fabric up through it, full over the
breast, then adjusting the long straight folds to the sandalled feet.

Melantho brought the casket of jewels.

“Where are the pearls?” she complained. “You should have the pearls
to-day.”

Theria put her deft fingers among the jewels, stirring their glitter.

“Please leave me without jewels, Mother,” she said quietly. Then she
added, “Oh, Mother, let me give them to the god. Apollo loves gifts. He
says if one gives one’s all it is as great as the bowl of Crœsos. These
are my all. Perhaps they will help.”

So they crowned her with red roses and hung a great garland of roses
about her neck. Baltè thought she had never seen any one so beautiful as
her dark-eyed darling.

But Nikander, coming to look at her, was touched with anxiety.

“Daughter,” he questioned, “your hope is yet strong in you? Do you feel
that you can reach the god?”

“Yes, Father, I was never so sure as to-day,” she answered him.

He took Baltè aside.

“What is it? Her eyes?” he asked anxiously. “It is almost a fatal look.
Is she well?”

“Yes, Master,” said Baltè. “But Master must remember that she is leaving
her home. That is awesome for a maid.”

“No doubt; yes, indeed,” he agreed.

He went to his own room and brought forth a cup of his most delicate wine.

“I want roses in your cheeks this morning, Theria,” he said as he gave it
to her. But the roses came before she drank.

For as she took the cup she noted its picture—the same that was on the
cup that she had broken—Athena bestowing upon a worshipper—the same
delicate sureness of drawing—unmistakable!

“My dear, you are spilling the wine,” admonished Nikander, steadying her
trembling hand.

Slowly she sipped it, bringing herself to speech.

“Father, give me this cup to take with me.”

“You strange child. It is a common thing from the pottery under the hill.”

“It will be from home,” she faltered.

Nikander went off for reassurance to his Wife. “Will she be homesick,
think you?” he asked.

Left alone, Theria stole away to look at the places that she must see
no more—her father’s room, the aula, the balcony. She had to walk
slowly, stately, in her robe. Already she seemed far away from the free,
swift-moving Theria she had been. Last of all she came to the dusky old
storeroom. Here, strangely enough, it was not its recent memories that
came to her, but the memory of that far-off day when she had wept there
as a child and had seen the nymphs and baby Hermes in the stream.

Then suddenly the sharp scent of violets met her—sweet, dewy, fresh, new.
With a low cry she gathered the flowers from the floor; then, stumbling
over her long robe, she hurried from the room.

The Nikander family left the house in silent procession. They were
all crowned with laurel and carried with them the necessary things of
sacrifice—the flat baskets with grain of barley, the torch lighted from
their own dear hearth. Lycophron led the victim, a white goat whose
gilded horns were crowned with flowers.

It was a solemn going. Theria had never thought that she could walk
toward her beloved Precinct with so heavy a heart. A breeze, rare in
summer, caught her festal skirts and fluttered them about her. Across
the sky raced splendid clouds whose huge silver bulks but made loftier
the blue sky-spaces between them. Midsummer had laid its silence on the
morning birds but doves on her cousin Clitè’s roof cooed and strutted in
the sunshine.

And now they had reached the Precinct. How easily the great gates opened
to her this time. Did the keeper remember that other morning, she
wondered? When he had refused to let her in?

“Father, who are those splendid-looking men?” she asked. “They seem
waiting for us.”

“They are waiting, indeed. They are the Athenians.”

Theria’s heart rose at the sight of them. At sight of their anxious faces
her personal sorrow retired before their larger sorrow. She wanted to
call out to them, to tell them how sure was her hope. But of course she
could do no such thing. The Athenians greeted her father solemnly from a
distance.

Now the priests gave into all their hands great boughs of trees.

“Do not speak again, Daughter,” said Nikander. “We are suppliants now.”

And bearing their solemn boughs with which to constrain the god and with
their baskets, their torch, and their slow-moving victim, they went up
the Sacred Way. The Athenians went with them. Kindly the little temples
watched them go, kindly the gods and heroes beside the way.

Before the great altar in front of Apollo’s temple they stopped. The
altar was alight, smoking in the sunshine. The flute player began a slow
Dorian melody. The priest brought a great silver bowl of water and,
lighting a new torch at the altar flame, plunged it hissing into the
bowl. With the water thus sanctified, he sprinkled the worshippers. Then
lifting the bowl high with the swift gesture of long custom, he dashed
the water full upon the goat. It shivered in all its limbs!

Good omens, good omens all. Theria’s confidence soared upward with her
simple faith.

When the goat was sacrificed, Theria was sure that its outgoing life
was mounting invisibly to please the Son of Leto. In her enthusiasm,
she kissed her hands to the god and stood so with her arms uplifted.
Nikander, gazing upon her, felt more hopeful than for many weeks.

When the ritual was done, they laid the supplicant boughs upon the altar.
Her brother and her mother kissed Theria good-bye, a sorrowful parting
but quiet as befitted the temple place. Then Nikander took Theria’s hand
and, Baltè following, led her around the back of the Great Temple to the
Pythia House.




CHAPTER XXII

IN THE PYTHIA HOUSE


The old house-mistress received them; a stubby little person, most proper
and severe, who fixed her eyes upon Theria intently and disapprovingly.
As she let them in, a curious suffering sound came from a farther room.

“It’s Aristonikè, the Pythia,” vouchsafed the mistress. “She has been
like that ever since her last oracle—the one to the Athenians. She stands
it worse and worse, poor child. It’s good we’re getting another to help
her.”

Again she looked Theria up and down.

“Your slave woman can come with me,” she said, referring to Baltè. “Wait
you for me there.”

She was one of those old servants whose trustiness and efficiency are so
great as hardly to be borne by those who employ them.

Nikander and Theria were left in the little room, unknowing for how long.
Beyond the corridor the poor little Pythoness kept up her incessant
moaning.

It did not frighten Theria. From her stronghold of perfect health she
could not think of herself as being thus laid low, but it filled Nikander
with horror. He was glad when Theria began to speak.

“Father, the Athenians look so bitterly anxious. Is their task the
hardest of all? Harder than that of the Spartans?”

“I think so, child.”

“But why?”

“Because they are not only doing their own task but keeping the Spartans
to theirs. Then, too, Athens city itself is almost sure to be destroyed.”

“Father!”

Theria leaned forward in her usual absorbed fashion. Nikander suddenly
realized how he would miss Theria’s questionings at home. Of late, he had
actually cleared his plans by talking fully to Theria. This he did not
acknowledge even to himself. Yet it affected his mood. He was tenderly
frank in speech with her.

“Athens destroyed!” she repeated.

“It will all depend upon the battle in the north. The battle which we
hope will bar the Persians out of Greece. We have decided now to hold
them back at a place called Thermopylæ, the narrowest pass anywhere in
our northern mountain barrier. The pass lies thus,” he gestured, “between
steep mountain and sea. It is scarce six feet wide.”

“How far from here?” she queried.

“Seventy-five miles by mountain road. The Spartans, we hope, will march
thither. The Athenians’ ships will hold the strait at Artemesium. Land
and sea will fight at once.”

“But if we win,” exclaimed Theria, “then Athens will be safe!”

“Yes, if we win,” he repeated. “If we lose, the Persians will march
direct upon Athens and upon us.”

“Oh, could the Athenians do nothing? Nothing?”

“Nothing to save their city, my child. Even Themistocles says that in
that case the citizens must flee to the isle of Salamis.” Nikander was by
this time lost in the subject uppermost in his heart. “But the Athenian
fleet would fight. They are very confident of their fleet in Salamis
Bay. They can tempt the Persians into the small bay where skill will
count more than numbers. The crowding of the Persian ships might—— But,
child, why do I tell you this? I have the habit of it because you never
tell what is told you. But this is most seriously secret.”

“And you know I will keep it so,” she said with a little dignified uplift
of her head which gave him a sudden pleasure and pride. Silence fell
between them. They sat impatiently waiting, the courage of one of them
oozing fast. They could hear again the moaning of the Pythia with now and
then a miserable, delirious scream.

At last the old house mistress appeared.

“You are to come with me,” she said to Theria.

Nikander rose and took his daughter’s hand for good-bye. But as he kissed
her a bitter tumult seized him. He hid his face in his cloak and hurried
from the room.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHILD PRIESTESS


Theria’s room was small, hardly more than a closet. Like all Greek
bedrooms, it was windowless, but opened on a sunny court.

She was glad to be alone. The coming three days seemed hardly enough for
her prayers and importunities to her god. The Athenian danger possessed
her. She felt inspired and strong. She stood in the middle of the room
lifting her hands. They almost touched the low ceiling.

“O Paian, dear Son of Leto. Am I not thy supplicant? A supplicant thou
canst not refuse? Have I not given all my jewels, Apollon, Apollon? If I
had more I would give all to thee.”

Here the old house mistress entered without prelude.

“You are to take off that gown,” she said, “and put on this, the simple
garb of the Pythia.”

She held forth a sort of long shift. It was fine-fluted in the ancient
fashion and yellow, the accepted colour of the Apollo priesthood.

“Send me my tiring woman,” said Theria.

“Your tiring woman is gone home. You will have the usual temple slave.
The Pythia has no touch with outside folk.”

“Baltè is not outside folk. I will refrain from all speech with her, if
that is the rule, nor will I allow her to speak.”

“That makes no difference,” said the old peasant woman, joying in her
authority. “It is against the law.”

Theria’s heart bounded with anger.

“How dare you mistrust me, woman? Have I not the good of the oracle at
heart more than you? Go at once and fetch me Baltè.”

The house mistress bowed and went out. And presently the Pythian slave
appeared, very timid, and eyeing her, secretly amused.

Theria looked hard at her.

“Go out,” she commanded. “How dare you enter my room when I have not sent
for you?”

The woman withdrew but Theria was conscious that she lingered in the
court.

Never in all her life had any one dressed Theria but Baltè. It was quite
unthinkable that any one else should do it. Theria was a spoiled child in
this.

Awkwardly she unpinned her white robe herself, folded it away, and donned
her Pythia habit.

But anger is the arch destroyer of prayer. Theria could not pray now.
Besides, she was mortally hungry.

In her excitement last night she had eaten almost nothing. Now she must
fast for three days to come.

She supposed, of course, that the hunger would grow worse and worse. She
walked up and down the room when she should have remained still, saving
her strength.

“What do I care for hunger?” she kept saying proudly. “For mere hunger
when Athens is in danger of burning!”

But it was only by an effort that she could hold her mind on Athens. Her
thoughts kept rising, floating away like clouds.

Eëtíon, where was he to-day? Somewhere in the Precinct? Was he thinking
of her? Surely of naught else. Word after word of his came flashing back
to her, snatching her breath with joy. Now his very touch, his trembling
kindness filled her with a new and terrible longing. Only one dear hour
of love in all her long life would she ever have to treasure and remember.

Suddenly with a wrench she brought her thoughts back to the present.

“Love of Leto, how the poor little Pythia moaned in her room across the
court.”

It was impossible for Theria to be near suffering and not try to help.

She hurried across the court and entered the room. Aristonikè lay upon
a couch, her eyes staring and bright. She was thin as a blade of grass,
looked a mere child with her poor little cheekbones so prominent and
white and her tiny chin so pointed. Theria came and stroked the pathetic
face.

“Poor little Aristonikè, poor little girl,” she said.

The wandering eyes fixed themselves upon her.

“Who?” she whispered.

“I am Theria, daughter of Nikander. Where is your pain, dear child?”

“Not anywhere—all over.”

“Are you hungry?” asked Theria. This thought was so present with herself.

“Aach,” said the little creature, turning with disgust.

The slave who sat at the bedside answered for her.

“She will not eat these many days, Mistress; and she never sleeps, never,
after an oracle.”

Theria gave a low-toned order to the slave, who presently brought hot
milk. To Theria in her hunger it smelt like nectar itself. Aristonikè at
sight of it hid her eyes.

“But if you will take it,” pleaded Theria, “I will send out your slave to
buy a little living bird for you, a linnet in a cage.”

Aristonikè uncovered her eyes. “Will it sing?”

“Ah, how it will sing! high and low and chittery. But you must awake
early in the morning for then it will sing best.”

As Theria talked she fed her the milk and Aristonikè sipped it before she
knew.

They were still at this when the old dame Tuchè appeared.

“Mistress Theria here! What are you doing in this room?”

“You see what I am doing!” Theria answered.

“You are to keep your own room. I supposed you knew that.”

Theria rose in alarm.

“Have I broken the ritual? Oh, I hope I have not broken it.”

Aristonikè began to moan again.

“Do not go, oh, lady, do not go.”

She caught Theria’s dress, clinging to it as with little claws.

“I did not think the god would mind,” spoke Theria anxiously. “Is it not
for his priestess to heal if she can?”

Old Tuchè’s armour was not without its flaw. She loved the little
priestess child. She gazed at Aristonikè and her face curiously changed
as if some sweet were trying to mitigate its sour.

“Well, mayhap ye can stay, Mistress Theria,” she grudgingly consented. “I
don’t say it’s not irregular. But, well, it’s to-morrow an’ next day for
your silence. Is the child eatin’?”

“When you stopped her she was eating,” Theria made answer.

So Theria stayed. Aristonikè gazed at her, and slow tears began to pour
down sideways from eyes upon her pillow.

“What use is it to be better?” she said fatally. “Whenever I am better
they come again and, oh, they put me in the smoke and then it begins.”

“What begins?” questioned Theria.

“Oh, the ecstasy of the tripod,” she whispered, frightened.

“But, Aristonikè, I am Pythia, too. Did you not know that? I am going to
the tripod in your stead. Then you will grow well.”

Again the little claws caught at her, but in a sort of protection.

“No, no, not you!”

“Yes,” said Theria, nodding confidently. “I am strong. Me it will not
hurt. Think not of the tripod, little one. There, there. You will not
weep any more.”

And presently beyond hope, the tired little priestess, with her hands
clasped in Theria’s strong ones, fell asleep.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE HIGH, PERILOUS SEAT


When Theria awoke next morning she did not at first remember where she
was. For the first time in her life she opened her eyes upon a room not
her own. Then she noted over in the corner a woman dressed in the yellow
robe of the temple. As Theria turned her awakened face the woman solemnly
advanced, holding aloft two golden vessels. She offered one, a cup of
water. Theria knew that this water was from the sacred spring Cassotis,
which bubbled forth near the temple.

Apollo, himself, had troubled that spring. That was the reason it
bubbled. His touch was upon it still. Theria drank in fear while the
priestess murmured, “Apollon, Apollon.”

Would the ecstasy fall at once? It sometimes did fall upon the Pythia
after this single draught.

Silence followed while the priestess searched Theria’s face. Theria
paled, knowing well what she searched for. Then the priestess presented
the second vessel, in which were leaves of laurel.

These Theria was required to chew. How bitter they tasted, intensely
so in her hungry state. She rose from her couch, swayed as she stood.
Without a word the priestess caught her and nodded her head in
satisfaction. It was the beginning of what the priests wished for. How
strangely Theria’s fingers tingled and, as she stepped, how heavy were
her feet. She tried not to be terrified, but she was a healthy young
thing. She dreaded the supernatural.

The old priestess dressed her.

“You must make sacrifice at the altar now,” she said.

She led Theria out of the house and into the glory of an amethystine
morning. They came out upon the lofty temple platform and the whole
Precinct lay below, little pillared temples bathing their feet in the low
level rays of light, brazen statues, golden tripods flashing like struck
cymbals in the dawn. The white Sacred Way was drawn clear as with the
swift finger of the god up zig-zag through his own treasuries.

A trumpet sounded. It cut the pure air, a flashing shaft of sound; then
echoed, echoed from cliff to cliff into utter clarity and sweetness—a
note from Elysium.

Theria stretched forth her hands in enthusiasm of love. Every vestige of
her dizziness disappeared.

“But this way is the altar,” corrected the dame, and led her to it.

Here Theria performed long rites, offerings of barley and wine, long
silent prayers. Then she was led back into her room.

“Do not move from here,” said the priestess. “Be silent. Try to think
of—nothing.” So she left her.

Never would Theria forget that day, the interminable hours, the slow
change of the slant sunlight in the court, the trying to pray, succeeding
at last with upsoaring faith, sleeping; the awakening to realize that it
was still only morning. Then again the waiting, waiting.

The third and last morning Theria was so weak that she longed to cry,
longed as she never supposed she could long for Baltè to come to her.
Baltè surely could make her well.

To-day, as yesterday, she must preserve through all the hours the holy
silence.

Again came the old priestess and dressed her. Then a procession of
priestesses led Theria down to the Castalian spring where they gave her
the sacred, purifying bath.

The shock of the cold water restored her. She realized with a start that
now, if ever, she must seize the will of the god. She began to struggle
with petitions. When she entered her room again it seemed to reel round
and round her head. Surely this meant that Apollo was approaching
nearer—nearer. The face of the god with solemn eyes and wide-flung hair
became suddenly so vivid before her that she could not tell whether it
was an image in her mind or the real presence of the god. Her home, her
father, Eëtíon were all infinitely far away. Numbly she realized that she
was passing into the ecstatic state.

Once again it was morning—the morning of the oracle. Theria’s mind awoke
crystal clear, drenched through and through with hope. She smiled so
happily at the old priestess when she came in that the dame bent and
kissed her. Then, since this was against custom, the woman was quite
shocked at what she had done.

Now the hour of the oracle was come. Dreamily Theria was conscious of
being led into the temple. Knew that her hair was hanging loose, the
sacred veil and crown upon her head. Ah, the dear, dear temple! There
were the splendid golden eagles, the navel stone, first of Delphi’s
treasures, Pindar’s chair which she had kissed. And over yonder the
Athenian consultants waiting with awed faces. Oh, the god would help
them. She was sure, now, sure!

Suddenly the priestesses kindled to exceeding brightness the eternal
flame on the altar; put into it many branches of dry laurel. The cella
was filled with smoke, especially the space behind the altar where within
temporary screens the priestesses waved the half-extinguished laurel
branches.

The priests pushed Theria into this enclosure. How sweet was the smell of
the smoke. So smelled the little altar at home, the—— Oh, it was choking
her!

She started forth from the screen. They pushed her back again. She began
to struggle and to gasp—they held her—oh, fatal consequence! Their
roughness made her angry. Weak as she was she fought them back. It was
almost unknown that the Pythia should have such strength at this stage of
the ritual.

At last they brought her forth, her eyes streaming, her nose also, her
lungs burning as with fire. Down the rough-hewn steps they led her into
the dim holy of holies. Bed rock was the floor and in its midst the
narrow opening of a cave. Over the blackness of this abyss stood, solemn,
tall, and terrible, the brazen tripod. From the blackness below would
rise the breath of the god.

In awe-stricken silence the priests and Athenian consultants, again
lifting on high their branches of supplication, filed into the small dank
place. They filled it quite and ranged themselves with religious care.

Theria saw everything: the golden statue of Apollo, the special laurel
tree in its tub; and there was her father looking as she had never seen
him, his face set, white as chalk. She must not fail him—all the life of
her dear Hellas hung upon her now.

Great Apollon! Akeretos, the priest-president, was lifting her up to the
high seat of the tripod!

Now she must shake the laurel tree. For in the laurel was the life of the
god. Yes, she was shaking it. The consultants stood waiting, waiting.

Suddenly she had a queer sort of panic. She had been expecting
forgetfulness so intensely for so many hours. Now instead of
forgetfulness everything became horribly clear—all memories, all
thoughts, home, Eëtíon, nonsense rhymes which Baltè used to sing her.
Great Paian! she must not laugh.... That would be sacrilege.

And oh, they were waiting, they were shifting their feet. The Athenians
stole glances at each other. Their eyes were despair. How her father was
gazing at her! Oh, if she could only pray! A moment more and they would
take her down from the tripod.

She had failed!

Flashingly a temptation crossed Theria, a temptation as old as magic—as
old as priestcraft or the first mumbling worship of primitive man.

She would _make_ the oracle. Make it herself! Better that than for Athens
to go unanswered.

The god! He might strike her with his arrows. Nay, he would instantly
destroy her.... Better that than let Athens go unanswered!

She stiffened straight as a reed on her tripod and flung her hands on
high, cupping the palms as if to receive a gift. Never had the Athenians
seen anything more beautiful. Athena, their own virgin goddess, might in
some divine appearing be of this likeness.

And her voice, the intense, meaningful voice of the singer:

    “Apollon, Apollon!
    Apollon emos.
    Ah idou, idou!
    Ships, ships—see—see!”

Oh, how fatally clear she remembered all her father’s words. All that he
had told her of the Athenian policy.

    “Sails, galleys of the glancing sails. To Salamis,
    Ye Athenians. Fight at Salamis.
    Oh, more ships. Strange, strange ships—locked in the land.
    Down—down—down!”

She was keen as a hawk. She saw her father start with horror. He was
remembering his inadvertent talk with her. She must not be too exact, she
must not let him suspect what she was doing. She began to mumble. Baltè’s
nonsense rhymes would do while she was gathering thought. Her message
must not be too hopeful. Now she had it!

She broke forth into hexameter verse. Once in a long while the Pythia did
this and it was considered more exact. The priests could not remake it.

    “Pallas cannot prevail to appease great Zeus in Olympos,
    Though she with words very many, and wiles close-woven entreat him.
    But I will tell thee this truth: and clinch it with steel adamantine:
    That when all else shall be taken—all that the boundary of Cecrops
        holdeth within,
    _A bulwark of wood_—this Zeus will grant to Athena the goddess,
    Sole to remain, a defense to you and your children.

    “Salamis, thou the divine!
    Thou shalt cause the sons of women to perish.”

She began to sway, holding her hands still above her, repeating,
“Salamis, thou the divine.” Then mumbling at nothing.

Surely now the god would strike her. This greatest of all sins upon her——
He must strike her.

She crouched, as if avoiding a blow.

Then she achieved her one Pythian act: She really fainted quite away.




CHAPTER XXV

BITTER CONSEQUENCES


Day after day Nikander came to the Pythian House to inquire after his
daughter.

“She has recovered,” they told him. “She eats once more; but there is
upon her the apathy that follows the utterance.”

“What does she do?”

“Gazes for hours at nothing,” was the reply. “The usual thing. Though it
is not usual that the apathy come so soon. She has gone but once to the
tripod. Aristonikè now, not so strong a girl was she, but she went many a
time under the ecstasy before this apathy attacked her.”

Nikander went home with heavy heart. He dared not tell Melantho his
anxiety. Melantho’s way was to increase trouble by bewailing it. And
Theria was but one of his deep anxieties.

His two sons these days seemed to have constant business in which they
gave Nikander no part. This was natural for Lycophron. He was wild and
loose-living. It would be a sorry day for him if he had to tell his
father all his doings. But of late he and Dryas had become very intimate.
From morning to night they were together. Even when in other company,
Nikander saw glances pass between them. Lycophron was the worst possible
example for a soft, gentle boy like Dryas. Yet Nikander did not like to
break the brotherly tie. He still loved his eldest son.

Meanwhile, of course, Theria’s ailment was far different from what
Nikander supposed.

It was no exhaustion of nerves from indulging in trance and supernatural
sight. It was agony of mind.

Apollo had not killed her! This was her chief grievance. The mighty
Immortal had allowed her to contemn his shrine, to deceive his
questioners. Yet he did nothing—and continued to do nothing. What sort of
a god was he?

And the Athenians had gone joyously home with their oracle. So the old
temple dame had told her. They were treasuring it as the word of the
god. They were acting upon it. The whole city was moved in effort to
understand and fulfil the sacred words, Theria’s words!

She laughed hysterically.

She could talk to no one of what she had done. The oracle must remain to
help the Athenians as best it could.

And what of all the oracles, age long, multitudinous, the pride and
wonder of her childhood? Were they all like this—fraud and deception?

This thought beat down Theria’s spirit as with strokes of a sledgehammer.

“No—no—no,” she would say aloud.

Those oracles had helped the poor—they had punished the wrong-doer, they
had founded colonies and controlled states. And surely Aristonikè had
genuinely felt the god-possession. Had it not wrecked her, body and mind?
But the doubt remained, tormenting all the golden preciousness of all the
reverences of her life.

The Precinct, the beloved Precinct itself, where men brought grateful
gifts to the god. What a mockery! Were these wistful worshippers all
deceived? Did Apollo sit in Olympos and _laugh_ at them?

And Theria was wretchedly lonely. Hour-long, hour-long, with nothing
to do, not even spinning. The home faces, home voices, not a thousand
paces distant, were all to her as far as the pillars of Heracles.
Farther—farther! for it is conceivable that loved ones might return
thence, but her dear ones could not come to her.

And while she sat mid the windowless walls there happened without her
knowledge the most glorious single deed of Greece.

Sparta was ever grudging. She did not much care to bar the Persians out
of all Greece. She would have preferred to meet them on the borders of
her own Lakonia. If all her sister states should then perish why should
Sparta care?

But one Spartan cared supremely to keep them out of Greece. Her king,
Leonidas. So Leonidas, with the few soldiers which the Ephors grudgingly
allowed him, marched for Thermopylæ.

Nikander, Lycophron, Dryas, Eëtíon—all the men of Delphi—saw one day
the file of bronze-clad soldiers coming up the Delphi road, led by the
twinkling flame of their sacred fire. They came with set faces under
their helmets, their new polished shields glancing in the sun.

They paused only to do honour to Apollo, then moved onward up the
Parnassian road. Three hundred men and a few timid allies to meet a
million Persians at the narrow pass!

Those who saw them never forgot them. Nor has the world forgot.

But Theria within her walls knew nothing of these things. Theria had come
upon a new dilemma.

The day of oracle came around again. Aristonikè was too ill for the
tripod. Theria must serve again.

Of course she would not deceive again. Indeed she had no knowledge with
which to deceive. Besides, she had determined that she would never again
speak upon the tripod. She wanted to cry out against it, to tell the
world what a mummery it was. Yet in spite of all this she was compelled
to undergo the preparatory rites. She had to fast, chew the laurel, pass
through the smoke. When she did not go into the trance, they tried her
over and over again until she was well-nigh dead.

“I knew she could not do it,” she heard old Tuchè saying in the court.
“What ’mazes me is that she went under the first time. She’s not the kind
for a pythoness.”

Well, then, they would cast her aside, and for Theria they could not
do so too soon. Then her life would be spent in the Pythia House. She
thought of her lover and of the rich life that might have been hers,
even of the “glorious children” that her father had spoken of. But now
she would be but a useless vessel, cast aside. Theria had no joy in her
helpful Athenian oracle. Her whole world was overshadowed because her god
was gone.

One evening she was sitting in her room, “gazing into space” as Tuchè had
described it, when the old slave who had tried to wait on her that first
day brought her her supper. Now Theria had never received this woman.
Tuchè had been obliged to send her a young girl whom finally, because
Theria needed such service, she accepted. Now why did the old slave
come again? Doubtless Tuchè had sent her merely as an annoyance. Tuchè
disliked the new Pythoness.

“How dare you come here again?” Theria said to the old slave. “I will not
see you; I——” She rose to her feet.

But the old slave, trembling much, set aside the supper tray and threw
off her cloak.

“Baltè!” Theria cried, and with outstretched arms ran to Baltè’s bosom.

“Be quiet! There, there, my darlin’, don’t cry so, blessèd, blessèd—my
little bird!” whispered Baltè, stroking the dark hair.

And Theria gradually brought herself into control, but her heart seemed
breaking with joy.

“Baltè, Baltè, I never thought I could be so glad again. I never
thought——”

“And just for seein’ old Baltè’s face,” said the slave proudly. “Here,
eat your supper. Ye’re that thin and white.”

They talked in whispers, or rather in low, even tones, for Baltè well
knew that whispers are most conspicuous of all sounds.

“How did you get to me, Baltè; how, in Apollo’s name?” Even the divine
name seemed strange to Theria now.

“Been tryin’ ever since that old Chimera took me away from you. What’s
she, to be takin’ care o’ my darling?”

“Yes—go on.”

“I couldn’t get in. The slaves were that pitickilar. Then I went to
Lycophron and I begged him. I says, ‘Give me money to get to my darlin’.
She’s dyin’ for the sight of a home face.’

“‘How do you know that?’ says he.

“‘You know yourself,’ I says. ‘Could she feel any other way?’

“Then his eyes grew soft like and he gave me not silver, but gold.

“‘Bribe ’em, Baltè, and get in,’ says he, laughin’. You know the way he
does. ‘There’s no slave in the world but will take a bribe. When that’s
gone come to me for more’.”

“Good, dear Lycophron,” said Theria, loving him tenderly.

She leaned closer. Already her face was changed by this touch of home.
She asked lovingly after father and mother, even each slave of the
household.

“Tell me, Baltè——” she said at last, then stopped. It was the first time
she had ever spoken this name to any one.

“Did he ever come again—Eëtíon who met me in the lane?”

“Shame upon you. Do you think I’d be bringin’ you love messages, you, a
priestess of Apollo?”

Theria hid her face, shivering.

“No—no. Oh, Baltè, I would not want messages. How can you think that of
me? And I did not mean to ask.”

Poor child, only her own sense of right would uphold her now. She had no
longer any fear of the god.

When Baltè rose to go Theria threw arms about her.

“You’ll come again. Promise that you’ll come again.”

“Surely will I. Oh, there, I’m most forgettin’ the message Lycophron sent
you. ‘It’s an oracle,’ says he, laughin’. ‘I can give oracles as well as
any one. You tell Theria: “Keep up heart. Argos has become Delphi for her
sake.”’ It’s a queer message that.”

“‘Argos has become Delphi,’” she repeated, puzzled. “Argos, Argos. Could
it be the Argive?”

Theria began to laugh softly, her eyes full of tears, clinging to Baltè
and kissing her.

“Darling old Baltè,” she said. “Darling, dear old Baltè.”

“He said you’d like it,” said the old slave, nodding her head.

Oh, dangerous message. Lycophron did not look ahead. He meant to be kind.




CHAPTER XXVI

“PRAY TO THE WINDS”


Next week happened what Theria most feared: An important oracle was
required. Theria learned by chance that it was important. Old Tuchè in
her excitement over it forgot how loudly she was speaking in the court.

“This time an oracle they _must_ have,” she was asserting. “It is a
matter of state. The new Pythoness can’t get it. I wonder what they’ll do
with her, anyway.”

Theria was in despair. Should she refuse to try? Feign illness? Then a
new pythia would sit upon the tripod to babble at nothing or to give
some dread, discouraging word. Nikander had placed Theria in the Pythia
House counting upon her prayerful help. Should she step down and leave
him without that help, or was it her duty to go upon the tripod and feign
again for Hellas’s sake?

But gods in Olympos! she did not know the question nor who was asking it.
She could not deceive if she would. She would refuse to try.

Upon this decision Theria found relief for her troubled mind. No more
should they starve her and push her through the smoke. She could rest.
She no longer cared for anything but to be left alone.

That evening, like a light among shadows, came old Baltè again.

Theria’s first question concerned her father.

“Master is sad, very sad,” the old nurse told her, “but so is everyone
sad. It’s like a storm gatherin’ on Parnassos—those Persians coming. And
everybody is afraid like as when they hear thunder and the darkness comes
closer. Oh, darlin’, if I could take you out of this house and keep you
in the fastness of the mountain. There it will be safe. Only there.”

Again the danger brought to Theria its dark and solemn peace.

“Poor Baltè,” she said. “How could I live in the mountain with Delphi
destroyed? Could I be a peasant all my days?”

“You could never be a peasant,” said old Baltè proudly, “and you would
always have one slave. Old Baltè will last long.”

“Dear Baltè,” she answered, and kissed her. Baltè was a Helot from Sparta
and some high Spartan blood ran in her veins.

But Baltè had more to tell.

“Yesterday came a runner. Poor lad, he was sore spent. Your father
brought him in from the highroad and gave him wine and made the slaves
rub him well. Then he sent him on his way to Sparta wi’ another runner to
help in case he fall.”

“Whence came the runner?” asked Theria.

“From Leonidas at Thermopylæ. He was to beg the Spartans to come quick
and help.”

“Those laggard Spartans,” cried Theria. “Why do they not go to help their
king without his begging and summoning?”

“Leonidas is already fighting the Persians—he and his Spartans,” said
Baltè proudly. “So few against so many. Only three hundred Spartans
and a few allies. If the Persians beat they’ll be comin’ straight
here—straight to Delphi.”

“But is there no one to help Leonidas—no one at all?”

“The Athenians be helpin’, so they say. The Athenians’ ships, Missy.
But the Persian ships be twenty to one. Oh, dearie, if only a sea storm
would fall upon the Persians. Medon keeps wishin’ for a storm. Medon was
a sailor long ago and he knows the ways of ships. He says the Athenian
ships would be safe in the Eubœan Strait where they are now. But the
Persians be outside around some rocky points up there. A storm would
wreck them sure.”

Theria suddenly awakened to the fact that her heart was overflowing with
interest. Just as she used to do when she was pent up at home and could
do nothing, would beat her hands together, agonized because she could do
nothing. Now that some power was in those hands, would she abandon it?
She trowed not! Oh, if she only knew the question before the Oracle!

But she could in no wise find this out. Then she must give her oracle as
best she might not knowing the question—trusting that it must in some way
concern the fate of Greece.

She would pray for that storm which was to help the Athenian ships.
Baltè’s word showed her the way.

Theria might doubt the voice of her Golden God, she might almost doubt
the existence of Apollo. But the things of Nature—the sea, the mountains,
the winds—these she could see or feel. These to her were persons,
clear-imaged, well known, and having much power. They were gods nearer to
men in whom all men must believe. To these Theria still could pray.

When the day came she once more mounted the fateful tripod.

This, then, was the oracle which Eleutheria the Pythoness gave to Hellas:

    O ye who are born in the bright air,
    Driving the ships as thistles in the harvest,
    Shepherds of clouds, piping to white flocks so loud a tune,
                Children of Thrace
                      All Hail.

                      Boreas,
    Thine are the whirlwind-footed steeds;
                      Zephyrus,
    Thine are the tossing locks and head full-winged;
                      Euros,
    Thine are the rounded cheeks piping no visible flute;
                      Notos,
    Thine are the blessings and cursings;
                      All Hail!

    Men of Delphi, men in the terrible need,
    Men upon whom is descending a host like the sands of the sea,
                Pray to the winds!
    And ye Men of Athens, men of the swift-moving galleys,
    Men of the long oars smiting the hoary ocean,
                Pray to the winds!
    And pray most of all to your brother by marriage
    Because of Orithyia, daughter of mighty Erectheus,
                Pray to the winds!

That oracle is famous. Never in all the history of Delphi was an oracle
received in such dire need. Never one which to the Delphians themselves
was more precious. For it was the Delphians themselves who had asked the
question and to whose hearts the oracle gave courage and hope.

They sent messengers at once, carrying the precious words of courage
northward to the ships of Artemisium and to the little band of heroes at
Thermopylæ, and eastward to Athens city, crying:

“Apollo, the Son of Leto, is on our side. He bids us pray to the Winds.”




CHAPTER XXVII

THE MESSENGERS


Aristonikè was dying. No more did she notice even the linnet, Theria’s
gift, which sang so sweetly in the solemn house.

A fever burned through all her limbs. As evening came on old Tuchè was
fain to take her out of the close house and lay her in front of the door
on the high temple platform.

And because the little maid would not go without Theria, Theria came
also. So they two sat, Theria and Tuchè, on either side the couch.

Little do the young consider thoughts of the old. Theria did not guess
that Tuchè hated her because Aristonikè loved. The little Pythia was
Tuchè’s nurseling and Tuchè was cut to the heart to have her turn to
another in her last hours.

But Theria, holding the hot little hand, had thoughts afar off. Her
soul was in bitterness because she had again deceived her god. That was
yesterday and she was yet weak from the ordeal. She wondered if Eëtíon
would cease to love her if he knew what she had done. Certainly her
father would not love her, nor would any of her kin.

Far below lay the sheer abyss of Pleistos valley. Nearer at hand Delphi
itself nestled into the gigantic half circle at the mountains’ base.
Precinct and town seemed floating in a violet mist. For the day was
nearly done.

But this was the hour of the Phaidriades, the glory of the cliffs. Theria
turned and looked above to where they stood facing the west. The setting
sun poured his light direct upon these high embattling walls turning them
to gold, to beryl, to amethyst. They gave forth light again as with a
shout, a clashing of golden cymbals, and a prayer. They hushed the spirit
of the gazing priestess.

As the reflected light retired upward with the sinking of the sun one
spot on the cliff held the glitter. It was the famous votive chariot of
Gelon, a chariot of polished bronze.

It stood on a high ledge of the cliff, its four bronze steeds prancing
with that lightness of poise just learned by Greek craftsmen. In the car
stood the naked chariot victor and just behind him the charioteer holding
the reins, his living eyes watchful of his steeds.

But to Theria it seemed that he was driving them over the ledge, was
driving them into the sheer abyss and that he did not care.

Would the gods so drive her Delphi to destruction? Would Atè (doomed
Fate) tread Delphi down? Whose feet are delicate because she steps upon
the heads of men, and on whom she steps she bows to the dust.

Ah, the Persians were so near! At Thermopylæ. Were they victorious? If
so, they would march directly upon Delphi. They were not one week’s time
away. The doom of Delphi pressed so close, so sure.

Even the temple guardsman seemed to feel it as he paced his beat. Now
he walked slowly, dignified in his armour, now he hastened with nervous
steps to and fro.

Aristonikè awoke, complaining. “The thirst, the thirst. Tuchè, bring
water. Not warm water; cold, fresh from the spring.”

Tuchè rose up, flattered that her dear one had asked this of her, and
went upon the errand.

No sooner had she disappeared than the guard halted short in his beat,
looked about him—then almost ran toward the Pythia House.

He touched Theria’s shoulder and she rose with a cry. It seemed as though
her thoughts had suddenly become visible, for there beneath the helmet
was the face of Eëtíon. Pale white he was. Then flushed with unbidden joy
as he touched her.

“Eleutheria,” he whispered. “I had to come. Your oracle to the Winds. The
Delphians have sent it to Artemisium and the fleet and also to Athens. It
is precious beyond words, for it will hearten men to victory. Nay, the
winds themselves will answer it; for what god could resist so insistent a
prayer.”

“Yes,” she whispered—wondering that he should come to tell her this.

“But your brothers! Oh, beloved, it is no happy tidings I bring you.
Your brothers are in league with the Persians. They are with the Persian
spies. They have gone after our Delphian messengers to kill them on the
road.”

“Oh, Eëtíon, no, no!” she interrupted him in low voice. “Not my
Lycophron! Not my Dryas!”

“Yes, it is true. I saw them start: Lycophron toward Thermopylæ and
Dryas toward Athens. If it become known in Delphi it will mean the ruin
of Nikander’s house. But your father will have to know in order to stop
them. He would not believe me. But you he will believe because you are
Pythia. Send for him at once, Theria, tell him to dispatch swift horsemen
to save the oracle for Greece. I go now on instant business.”

He paused for a moment, gazing into her face. “Hera be thanked that I
have seen thee. O thou peer of gods, thou sister of the dawn.”

He bent and kissed the edge of her sleeve. He dared no more. She was
priestess of Apollo.

Then he was gone. Before she could answer or think of answer he was gone.
He knew that to linger might likely be her death.

Theria’s thoughts whirled like a falling star.

She must send for her father. Yet her father could not have speech with
her. Eëtíon did not know this, not being Delphian.

And even if Nikander could have speech, would Tuchè send for him? Tuchè
refused regularly her every request. And Theria could not give reason for
this request without betraying her brothers.

Meanwhile, Lycophron and Dryas were hastening to their doom and to the
doom of Hellas. For Theria ardently believed now that the prayer to the
winds would avail.

What could she do? Like a sword’s stroke came the thought: “Run home
yourself, Theria. Now while Tuchè yet lingers in the house. There is no
time to lose.”

Aristonikè was sleeping again. Theria snatched a dark himation which lay
for cover on the couch and wrapping herself, head and all, ran to the
protection of the temple-colonnade, along this she hurried, the columns
would conceal her, soon an angle of the cella would intervene.

Then she reached the Sacred Way and walked not too fast so as to avoid
question.

Her weakness from yesterday’s ordeal was instantly gone. She only prayed
that Nikander might be at home, that his action might be swift. And now
for the highroad; now for the familiar street; now for the dearest house
which she had thought never to see again!

Medon tottered to his feet at sight of her. More natural would it have
been to see the ghost of his little mistress than herself.

“Is Father within?” she asked, but did not stay for answer. She sped into
the aula and, oh, thanks be to Kairos, Nikander was there.

He, too, looked upon her as upon a dire spirit. Only madness could have
brought her. But more terrible than his wildest conjecture were her words.

“Father, Father, it is bitter news I bring. Lycophron, Dryas. They have
Medized and are fled with Persian spies. They are gone to hold back the
Oracle message from all the Hellenes.”

Nikander sprang up, seizing her wrist, searching her face.

“Child, what madness! They are not gone away.”

“Oh, are they in the house—now?” She almost sobbed with relief.

“I saw them both only an hour ago.”

“Oh, but within the hour they are gone far. Dryas to Athens, Lycophron to
Thermopylæ. Father, search the house. Send after them quick, quick.” She
seized both his shoulders, shaking them as if to waken him to the sorrow.

“Where did you get this information?” Nikander was pitiful of her strange
mistake.

“I cannot tell you. It came, it came.” Her eyes looked so strange and
glittering, her whole aspect so bordering on delirium or even ecstasy,
that Nikander touched her gently.

“Was it by some prophetic power?—vision?”

Theria was so upwrought that she spoke out her first instinctive thought.

“No—no prophecy. Do not speak of prophecy. I am not deceiving. This is
real, real.”

The words escaped the door of her lips. She was aghast at the net of
lies closing about her. Of course if she should tell her father it was
prophecy he would believe. But she would not lie to him, not even——

She did not know that as she thought these things guilt stood manifest in
her face.

Nikander caught her arm, roughly, asking the thing he did not want to
know—the thing he had been suspecting for many days.

“Theria, your Athenian oracle—Great Zeus in Olympos, have you deceived in
all your oracles?”

She sank in a heap on the floor.

“Father, Father; the need! It was such bitter need—and no ecstasy would
come. The Athenians—the—the——” Her weeping choked her speech.

Nikander was too horrified to answer. With hand before his eyes he kept
repeating: “Great heaven! great heaven!” Suddenly he lifted his head
again. “If the oracle is not from the god, why, in Zeus’s name, this
pother about it—the words of a girl?”

“Father—but it is important. The Athenians will offer true sacrifice to
the winds. They will be hopeful in their prayers, in their fighting. The
oracle gladdens the fighters.”

But Nikander’s mind had never left his sons.

“Theria, who told you this vile tale about your brothers?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you. I——”

“If it were from some good source, you would tell me.”

Theria dragged herself up to her knees. “It was a good source. Oh,
Father, the truest, the best, the kindest.” Poor Theria; even to speak of
her lover set her white face aflame.

But Nikander was pushing further. “Theria, I begin to believe what the
slaves have been telling in the household, that you have a lover. Now do
not lie to me. Your lover brought you this news.”

Theria was utterly broken down. She could only moan, “But he told me the
truth. He told me in order to save them. He told me because he loves my
house and you and he wants to save us from ruin.”

“Great Paian, what a heap of sins on one girl’s head! She has deceived
on the tripod, not once, but twice. She has a lover—she a priestess of
Apollo. Now she has fled the Pythia House (which she ought never to have
left) to bring a monstrous lie against her brothers.” To Nikander the
shock of all this was terrible beyond belief. But worst of all, he feared
that the vile tale about his sons was true. Oh, if he could crush that
fear out of his mind. It must not be true. It could not——

He paced up and down the room beating his hands together weeping,
sobbing, as only those can who, but once in a lifetime, give way to grief.

“My children all against me. But no, it cannot be true. Ruin for them,
ruin for me. It cannot be. No!”

Theria crept weakly to her feet and followed him, but as she touched him
he reeled from her.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried.

Suddenly his agony was transformed to anger.

“You—you—tell that tale, oh, how easily! It is not true. Leave me. I am
beside myself. Your sins are more than I can bear. And now you add yet
more. You will ruin my sons.”

“Father, Father,” she pleaded.

“My poor wicked Theria. What place is there for you anywhere? Not at home
here, not in the Pythia House. Oh, I know not what to do for you. No, I
will never believe that story. Leave me before I go mad!”

He was so beside himself that he did not notice when she shrank away from
him and staggered out of the door. Indeed he continued to speak in the
same words, “Leave me—I will not believe you. Leave me!”

Suddenly she touched his arm again, or so he thought. He uncovered his
face to find Medon standing before him—Medon with eyes astream with tears.

“Master, Master, I knew that if the little mistress appeared it was some
terrible thing. Master, I know what she has told you. You called so
bitter loud upon your sons. I know, I know!”

“Leave me, Medon,” said Nikander angrily. He was still pacing up and
down. But Medon did not leave.

“Master, I had not the courage to tell you. But I can follow the little
mistress’s telling. Lycophron, Dryas, oh, you must haste to save them.”

Nikander stopped his pacing, and gazed into Medon’s face as though he
comprehended not a word of what the old man was saying.

Medon piteously went on, “Lycophron and Dryas thought I could not hear,
but I heard them talking; oh, I heard too well. And the men who have been
with them, they are spies, Master. The slaves have long been whispering
that those men were Persian spies. To-day I was very anxious. All day I
have watched. And this afternoon I followed Lycophron to where he had
swift horses waiting and those men were there. I do not know where they
were going, but it was on some wicked errand. For when Master Lycophron
saw me, he caught me. He threatened to kill me if I told. The men wanted
to kill me at once. Oh, Master, haste! haste, there is no time to lose.”

“Yes—yes,” said Nikander, dazed into bitter quietness. “Yes, Medon, thank
you.”

He stood quite still while his thoughts raced. Then he ran out of the
house to summon youths of the nearest kin who owned the swiftest horses.




CHAPTER XXVIII

AN OUTCAST ON PARNASSOS


Theria stood still in front of the house. She was stunned as one must be
when life turns a sharp corner and shows undreamed-of paths of dread. “No
place in the Pythia House, no place at home—anywhere.” Her father’s words
were true. She did not feel sad nor terrified. She did not feel at all.

She looked down the twilit road toward Kirrha, the port. No, in Kirrha
they would find her and kill her publicly. She must not die that way. The
Pleistos glen also was out of the question. The hills! Her true hiding
place was the hills. She turned swiftly into the little lane and threaded
its shadows to the cliff. A steep climb brought her to a height above the
house-roofs. Here at once she was in the wilds, on a slant hillside where
grew laurel, wild olive, and the hemlock. Here the twilight was silvered
by the rising moon, the same full round under which the Thermopylæ
soldiers were keeping their heroic guard.

Here the laurels were threaded by a slender path, surely the one made by
Eëtíon’s feet coming to her. She knelt down and kissed it. The Greeks
were lovers of the earth and not seldom did they kiss it for their love.
Oh, gods, if she could but hide herself completely! Then Eëtíon would
never know her sins and would continue to love her.

She tried to make haste, but her whole body ached with weariness as
though she were very old. The repeated fastings had told even on her
strong body.

She won past the higher terraces of hill and found the so-called Kaka
Skala, “bad stairs” indeed, steps partly hewn out of the rock and winding
up Parnassos Mountain until they were lost in cloud. These she began
to climb. No thought was hers to see the glory about her, the crags
ghost-like in the moon, the abyss of glens black with fir and cedar, the
heights which soared and melted into infinity, the starry sky—a grandeur
hardly to be borne. Theria only knew that she was very lonely, that
the grandeur was terrible. She seemed very small and childlike in that
vastness, stumbling along ever slower, stopping sometimes with labouring
breath, then pushing on again higher, higher.

In an upland meadow she passed a herd of cows, small wild things which
fled trampling at her approach. She thought vaguely of the cattle of
Apollo, which he kept on Parnassos and which of yore the baby Hermes had
stolen. Of course, these could be no other cows. She shuddered at the
supernatural creatures. Now she came to a fir wood, black like a cloak.
The mottled moonlight sifted in at the edge pricking out fern-brake and
rock, but within it was ebony. In such a place might the Bacchantes well
go mad in worship of their god. With a sob she entered it. For the fear
of being found was greater than her fear of the haunted place.

Theria lay down to rest among the mosses. Even her double terror could
not contend against her utter exhaustion. At once she fell asleep.

She awoke in the dawn shivering with cold, hungry beyond telling. The
fear with which she had gone to sleep, the fear of being found, met her
at the door of waking. It made her get up and, though she ached in every
bone, to push onward, upward into safer hiding. Sometimes she came to
a bare stretch across which she stumbled in haste. For surely in such
a place they would see her, and would catch her and drag her back and
doubtless bury her alive. In this thought she forgot even her old grief
for the loss of her god. Indeed she half believed that this present fate
of hers was Apollo’s punishment which he had delayed so long.

Now again she must cross a bare upland. The sun was high and burning as
it can burn only on such heights. She started across in the fearsome
blinding glare, the sweat pouring from every member. Curiously enough, in
the midst of the sunlight she saw moving along in front of her—_a shaft
of golden light_! When she entered a shadow of jutting cliff the golden
light endured in the shadow. If she paused, it paused. It was quiet as if
a dream pervaded it. It seemed to smile as do those faces that peep from
bushes or caves, which smile and afterward destroy.

Theria shrank back. It shrank with her. No evading it that way. A terror
seized her. She wrung her hands. Should she run back to the forest? No,
there it would only gain power. She tried to remember a charm against
spirits which Baltè had taught her, but she had no memory left. Now a
lofty cliff baulked her path. Against this cliff, facing her, the light
stopped and stayed very tall and stately. It quivered, growing brighter
to a focus, and suddenly out from it as from a sheath stepped a youth,
tall as befits an Immortal and of beauty tender as the dawn. Golden were
his tresses, golden his flowing vesture, golden his sandalled feet which
did not touch the ground. But the quiver girt upon his shoulder was
silver-white, silver also the bent bow in his hand.

Should she not know him, she who had known him so well? Up went her hands
in worship; up higher yet her worshipping heart.

“Thou hast come to kill me,” she whispered. “Blessed art thou, glorious
child of Leto. Not lightly shall thy dear Oracle be flouted and thy
worshippers deceived.”

Apollo did not gaze upon Theria, else she would forthwith have died. But
just above her he gazed, delicately smiling, and as he smiled, he toyed
with his silver bow. Already was the shaft set on the string, and along
that arrow back and forth ran the white fire which whensoever it reached
the tip broke into flame. Now he nodded his head and spoke aloud:

    “Theria, daughter of Delphi, begone from my tripod!
    No priestess of mine art thou.
    No voice of Apollo can enter thy mind close-guarded with reason,
                        Begone! Begone!”

Theria cowered before that voice, crouching to the earth.

But the god spoke on, almost tenderly, as to a frightened child:

    “Nay, cower not, my maiden, my bow shall not hurt thee.
    Nay, for I love thee. Hast thou not sung at my bidding
    Hymns for my glory, songs which I to thy spirit
                  Breathed and created?”

Suddenly the god threw back his golden head and laughed. And with his
laughter the cliffs echoed as with stricken lyres and heavenly flutings.
He was laughing at Theria!

He spoke again:

    “Thou poor child of a mortal wouldst compel good fortune for Hellas
    _Steal_ it—from gods unwilling! Good lack! But I love thy courage!

    “But now behold, little one, wilt thou grant me to speak in Delphi?

    “Ha, thou advisor of gods. Thou helper of gods in trouble,
    Without thee Apollo shall succour. Without thee give aid to his people

        I SHALL CARE FOR MY OWN!”

Again he laughed—a merry, loving mockery.

Oh, the dear joyous god! the dear Son of Leto—Phœbus of the bright hair!
Had he not always spoken at Delphi since his glorious mother bore him
upon Delos? And Theria had doubted! Her heart filled with a very agony of
faith and joy.

But now the god was looking again at his bow. Perhaps he had changed his
mind, and would destroy her, after all. Even so, Theria had no regret to
die.

But he spoke thus—

    “See now, child of Nikander, whither my arrows are destined.”

He turned, lifted his bow, and shot the flaming shaft toward the north.
It flew with a peal like a lightning bolt when the bolt falls so nigh
that it quenches the thunder; it soared white and blinding over the peak
of Parnassos and fell crashing beyond.

But with the noise of the arrow Theria fell prone on the earth and knew
nothing more.




CHAPTER XXIX

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.




CHAPTER XXX

SHEPHERD WISDOM


Nikander had returned to his aula and sat there with face of stone. The
kinsmen had gone. He himself had sent the doom upon his sons. For him
Delphi was already in the dust. The Persians had no need to destroy her.

Suddenly a running step outside, and the door burst open. There in a
flood of morning light came Dryas like Hermes running with outstretched
arms. He fell at his father’s feet, embracing his waist, hiding his face
in his lap.

“Father! Father! Father!” he cried.

Nikander fell forward at the shock of joy, trembling and unable to speak.
Then he righted himself, heard as in a dream the boy in his arms talking
to him.

“Only some god saved me! I want to fight for you, Father—to fight at your
side.”

“You did not go with the spies? Not after all?” Nikander said dazedly.

“Yes, Father, but——”

Here Eëtíon, whom both had forgotten, stepped forward and touched Dryas’s
shoulder.

“They abducted him, Nikander,” he said clearly. “It was only by a ruse
that I saved him. Oh, if you could have seen the joy in the boy’s face
when I got him free.”

“I see the joy in his face now,” said Nikander. Nikander believed because
he so wanted to believe.

“Tell your father how I fooled them,” urged Eëtíon, and Dryas between
trembling and laughter told the story of Eëtíon’s red paint wound. But
before he had finished, Nikander rose, took Eëtíon’s hand, and drew him
to an embrace.

“Oh, you good youth!” he said, “I can never thank you, never fully thank
you. No kinsman shall be so dear as you.”

Now the only shadow on Nikander’s joy was his anxiety for Lycophron. Dear
gods, where might his son be now? Even if Delphi survived the onslaught
of the Persians this sorrow would remain. Nikander could never speak his
son Lycophron’s name.

A slave brought their breakfast, and as they ate the figs and bread and
milk they began to talk seriously of Delphi’s plans of escape. Many
citizens had already carried their household treasures up the mountain to
the Korykian cave. And the priests were now urging a further questioning
of the god if perchance even yet he might reveal to them some way to
save the Holy Place. Dryas entered into the plans with an interest and
fearlessness which caused his father to look at him ever and again. What
had happened to Dryas? What brave-minded god was thus changing his son?

Such was their conversation when a temple slave came running in at the
door past Medon, saying breathlessly:

“The Pythoness, your daughter, is nowhere in the Pythia House. Is she
here, Nikander?”

Nikander hid his eyes confusedly a moment.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, she is here; I had forgotten. I will bring her back
myself and explain. Tell that to Tuchè. Dryas, dear lad, go you and fetch
your sister.”

The slave added with embarrassment: “And, Master, I was to tell you that
Tuchè is very angry. They wish to begin the rites at once. Consultants
are waiting and the priests are there. Aristonikè is too ill to go upon
the tripod and they have no Pythia.”

“Oh, unkind gods,” breathed Nikander. His heart had ached every time his
daughter was set upon the terrible high seat of the god. Now how much
more would it ache knowing how she had deceived. She must not go there
again. Must never again give an oracle. She was no fit subject for the
ecstasy. He must find some chance to tell her this. Must command her to
resist the trance no matter what rites were practised. But oh, what a
terrible fate for the poor child. Back to the Pythia House. Of course she
must go back.

He started to meet her before she could come downstairs.

But here Dryas returned with amazed face, and Melantho with him, running
down into the forbidden aula because of her anxiety.

“How could you think Theria was in the house?” asked Dryas.

“She has not been here. She is nowhere here,” urged Melantho.

Again Nikander paused, confused. What had he said to the child? What
harsh words? He had not meant them. Of course he had not meant them. But
surely she had not gone forth from the house.

Melantho was bringing in old Medon who knew all who came and went.

“What is it? What?” asked the poor deaf man. “Yes, little mistress was
here, but she went away—back to the Pythia House. Yesterday evening
early. Very sad she looked, and staggered as she went.”

So at last they knew that Theria was abroad.

Nikander’s face hardened with bitter anxiety.

“Come, Dryas,” he said. “We must find her at once.”

Dryas turned to Eëtíon, “Dearest Eëtíon, you will help us?”

As for Eëtíon, through what a range of feeling had he been carried in
these moments? First, joy like an unbidden melody, because his beloved
was in the house; then strong joy because he might see her as she passed;
then horror at her disappearance. Why had she gone? What had Nikander
done to her to make her run away? What cruel thing had he said? But there
was no time even to be angry. Theria must be found and that quickly
before the Persians should arrive. Eëtíon looked at Nikander, begging for
a boon.

“If I might help to find her,” he ventured; “but let me go my own way
while you go another. We must search everywhere at once.”

Nikander read his unspoken fear. Women must not be abroad when the
Persians were in the country. There was not an instant to lose.

“Nikander, I am presumptuous to give advice,” said Eëtíon. “But send also
messengers to the port. I beg you do that.”

It seemed to Nikander that he was sending messengers to the four quarters
of the earth for his vanished children. He answered hurriedly:

“Dear Eëtíon, you are wise, I can hardly think out this thing.” He was
too occupied to notice Eëtíon’s emotion.

Dryas had meantime fetched a fresh chiton for his friend. “You cannot go
forth in that stained cloak,” he told him. “Dear Eëtíon, how excited you
are, how like a kinsman you care for us. We’ll find her in a half hour.
She ran away once before, you know. I know exactly where she’s run to.”

Eëtíon was so angry that he dared not answer Dryas. How little the
shallow fellow knew of his sister’s character and ways. Eëtíon was glad
when they all left the house.

How foolish they were, running hither and yon without thought. In
Eëtíon’s Argos were many shepherds and when a sheep was lost they did not
go forth in this wise, but first thought about the paths, and the simple
sheep reasoning, and then went and found.

This flight of Theria’s was of course connected with the message which
Eëtíon had himself given to her. She had not sent for her father, but,
true heart that she was, she had brought the news herself. But why had
she fled forth like this?

He took Medon into the street.

“Tell me, Medon, was Nikander angry with his daughter?”

“Oh, Master, how should I know?” But Eëtíon saw at once that Medon did
know and did not rest until he got the truth of him.

Then he went back into the house and called Baltè.

“Baltè,” he said, “take with you two men slaves and go up on Parnassos by
the far eastern path and look for your mistress.”

“But, Master, surely she would not go there. Wolves are there.”

“She would not stop for wolves,” Said Eëtíon sharply, and Baltè saw his
eyes fill with tears.

“If you reach to the Korykian cave, Baltè, and yet do not find her, then
come down by the hither path and I will meet you at the top of the Bad
Steps. Give me a flask of wine and my sword there.”

Then Eëtíon fairly ran out and through the lane up the slender path he
knew so well.

On the hard rocky earth he could find no trace of her. But still he
climbed on, his heart aching for the dear lonely child who had fled from
unkindness and injustice.

Oh, how could Nikander have let forth upon her gentle head the wrath that
should have gone to his sons? Where was his fatherly tenderness? How
could he in the first place have put her away in the Pythia House, that
cruelty, that fearfulness, tales of which were rife in the Precinct? How
could Nikander have placed her there to be a barren maid, she who was so
full of life, so fit to be the mother of children? As Eëtíon mounted his
anger mounted with him. He longed intensely to take her away from cruelty
and neglect and to give her henceforth only tenderness and the visionary
love that was his.

He climbed up the Kaka Skala, passed the wood in which Theria had hidden
over night, on up into the pathless heights beyond her, into despair of
finding her alive. A mountain bear padded past him and broke its way into
the thicket to hide. “Oh, Artemis, Protector of maidens; help the little
maid who is now in thy care alone!”

By some instinct, for Eëtíon could now no longer reason, he turned back.
He descended to the Kaka Skala, he entered the wood, and there on a
jagged branch found some torn yellow shreds of dress.

Then as in fever he ran hither and yon searching; found, now a broken
twig, now a footprint. He began to call, “Theria! Theria!” He lost time
here for he was so sure she would stay hiding in the wood. But at the
last some god led him out upon the upland where he caught a glimpse of
a fluttering yellow garment on the ground. He ran to it and at last saw
her, slender and prone, her hair lying in soft dark billows upon the rock
and hiding her face.

With a sob he knelt, lifted her in his arms and tenderly put back her
locks. Then he saw her death-whiteness and the terrible gash upon her
forehead where she had hit the rock in her fall. He was too wild at first
to help her, kissing her, calling her, feeling her cold hands, holding
his lips against hers to make sure if any breath was there.

But when she responded not at all Eëtíon grew more careful. He brought
out the wine but could not give it between the set lips.

Then he gathered her in his arms to carry her up to a spring which he
remembered in the heights. He was too frightened now to feel any emotion.
He only knew that he was carrying Theria away from Delphi, away from
the bitterness and mishandling. It was right that he should do so. She
belonged to him, to nobody else in all the world! Away in some colony
over seas they could be truly wedded and live the years. He even forgot
her Apolline priesthood and the sacrilege of loving such a one.

Meanwhile, perhaps she was dying in his arms.

In the upper slope among the firs he found his spring. He laid the dear
burden on the ground, bathed her white face, bathed the wound and poured
the wine into it. At last life, like a visible prayer, came back into her
face and the colour of life was there.

Then indeed did Eros, the tall youth, earliest of all the gods, send
power into Eëtíon’s heart, filling it with a strange uplifting
worship—that invisible power with which the son of Chaos holds the cosmos
together, Eros the mighty one.

Now Theria opened her eyes. They were like black lakes and lonely as the
stars.

“Theria, darling, darling Theria. No harm shall come to you now, Theria!”

But she looked straight into his face without a spark of recognition.

“It is I—Eëtíon,” he said, taking her face between his hands. “Kiss me,
my maiden!”

“Apollon,” she murmured. “Apollon.” She did not close her eyes again,
but kept them fixed upon Eëtíon’s face in a way that froze his spirit.
Eëtíon was not skilled in Apollo’s ways; he knew nothing of mantic power
by which men with their natural eyes see things unseen. He could only
recognize that Theria’s spirit was farther from his than the farthest
planet.

“Apollon,” she said again.

She was in that far serenity that knows not time nor change, the
indifference that comes of too great knowledge from the gods.

Of a certainty she was going to die, and that very soon.

Eëtíon sprang to his feet. Fool, fool, that he was to bring his darling
where she could get no help from leech or magic. If she died here it
would be he who had killed her. The fear of Apollo now came over him.
Apollo would blast them both if he took her away for his own. Again he
lifted Theria in his arms and carried her back toward the path where he
hoped Baltè might meet him.

Baltè did not appear at the head of the Kaka Skala, but presently came
Delphic citizens bearing their household treasures to hide in the hills.
These, seeing the dying maiden, helped him gladly.

“Did the Persians hurt her? Are they already come?” they asked, terrified.

“No,” said Eëtíon. “The maid was lost and fell upon a rock.”

They gave their litter on which they had carried their burdens and upon
this Eëtíon and a slave of the Delphians bore her down toward her old
bitter fate again, toward the priesthood and the torture. If she should
live at all, she would not live long in that Pythia House. Eëtíon’s heart
was dead within him as he made the slow descent.




CHAPTER XXXI

NIKANDER’S NEAREST OF KIN


Meanwhile, Nikander and Dryas of the easy confidence came to the temple
of Athena Forethought where this time no Theria was to be found. Dryas
looked into his father’s grieving face.

“Theria ought to be ashamed of herself,” he said stoutly, “to give you
such trouble now.”

“Be silent, Dryas,” said his father sternly. “You know nothing about your
sister or her reason for this. Try to find her. Try.”

“Father, I am sorry,” said the wondering Dryas, taking his father’s hand.

“I want you to search now in the slave quarter,” said Nikander hurriedly.
“I will go to the Precinct whence I will send messengers to Daulis.”

Wearily Nikander climbed the Precinct hill. His memory was playing him
curious tricks. His harsh words, which at first he could in no wise
recall, now came back deadly clear, “No place in the Pythia House. No
place for you at the home hearth, Bringer of vile tales.” Great Zeus! he
had been god maddened, blind! The girl had risked her life and reputation
to save her brothers from disgrace.

Theria was always doing the unexpected, poor child, always bringing
down wrath upon her own head, and as he now saw it, doing something
either interesting or noble. What a Nikander she was, how true in every
instinct to her ancient race.

While these thoughts beset him Nikander was hastening from treasury to
treasury, hastening through the hidden paths and secret places of the
Precinct. Each familiar statue, tripod, each quiet, chapel-like treasury
room pierced him with the thought of her intense love of everything in
Delphi. Her very deceptions on the tripod had been only from her too
great love for Delphi and for Greece.

And her lover; poor little daughter, if he had but kept closer to her in
daily life (ah, she had tried so wistfully to keep close to him), she
would have told him of this lover long ago.

Why had he not warned his child when he was making her a priestess? He
had put her on the perilous seat of the tripod without one thought of
her. He had left her aidless and lonely. He was to blame, to blame!

Near the Great Temple Dryas met him again, saying that his search had
been fruitless—asking where now to go. Nikander caught his son’s hand
convulsively.

“Go nowhere,” he pleaded. “Stay with me.”

But even as he clung to his boy he thought how impossible it would be for
Theria to do what Dryas had done. No spies could have dragged her away
on such an errand. And oh, dear Paian, she would not have companioned
with them at all nor left her father lonely through these terrible days.
She would have entered with him into every struggle for Delphi’s honor
if her father had only allowed her. How wistful she was when she met
him returning from Council. What a sly little puss in her questioning,
finding out his problems which he did not mean to tell! Nikander smiled,
but in his smiling found himself blinded with tears.

Dryas was sure that it was anxiety for Lycophron which unmanned his
father thus.

Long after nightfall the two came home again. The slaves brought supper,
and all unwilling they sat down to eat. Then footsteps were heard in the
doorway—Eëtíon and the slave with Theria white on her litter.

Nikander ran to her, lifting her in his arms as though she were a child,
calling her endearing names, weeping with relief. He laid her on a couch
in the aula while they brought the torches.

But one look at Theria’s face and wide-open eyes sobered him.

“Theria, Theria,” he called to her terrible silence.

“Oh, Nikander, don’t you see that she is dying?” cried Eëtíon,
brokenhearted.

Nikander rose solemnly to his feet. “She has beheld a god,” he said. “She
is yet in the vision.” He turned to Eëtíon. “Has she spoken any word?”

“She called upon Apollo thrice, but since then this silence. Oh,
Nikander, what does it mean?”

Nikander bowed his head. Knowing what he knew of Theria’s sacrilege, he
fully believed this state to be a doom from Phœbus himself. He believed
that she would die. And when he lifted his head, trying to speak,
Eëtíon’s anger melted before the anguish in his face.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nikander as a worshipper of Apollo had recognized at once the mantic
ecstasy. He knew also the accepted means of breaking the ecstatic state.
He had Baltè bathe Theria in warm water and gently rub her body. He
himself brought his lyre and sitting at the bedside played strong, clear
music in the Doric mode.

Then fearing that he might have omitted some act, he went out and fetched
in the priests to look at her. They gazed, awestruck. “Yes, you are doing
all you can,” they said. “The maid is certainly in a vision. But she is
far gone toward Hades.”

So Nikander resumed his post. Sitting there, patiently playing, he was
the more convinced that she would die. Even his anxiety for Lycophron
faded before this unlooked-for sorrow. Nikander’s two sons were only by
some physical chance his children. This girl was the child of his mind
and heart. She loved what he loved, hated what he hated. She was his
nearest of kin. His own! Why had he not known it before?

At last, as Theria’s wide-open eyes half closed, he tried to believe she
slept. So he lay down on a couch near at hand while the old slave Baltè
watched.

It was full morning when Baltè woke him.

“Karamanor and Agis are in the andron to speak with you.”

These were the young kinsmen whom Nikander had sent in pursuit of
Lycophron. Nikander rose and went to hear what he must hear.

The two young men waited solemnly.

“It was midnight, Nikander, when we came up with the spies on the north
road,” said young Karamanor gently. “They gave battle so quick that we
had just time to fend ourselves even though we so outnumbered them. And
Lycophron, even though we called and kept calling to him to come over
to our side, that we had only come to save him, Lycophron laughed us to
scorn. And, oh, Nikander, he fought splendidly, fiercely, like a wild
boar. And so he fell. Two of the spies fell. The rest fled to the hills.”

“He was fearless always,” said Nikander in a low voice.

The young man put his arm pityingly over his uncle’s shoulder. He could
not know that just now Nikander felt only relief in the death of his son.

“We took an oath among us, we kinsmen,” said Karamanor. “All of us, an
oath not to tell this thing. We will say that he fell in a skirmish with
the Persians. Men are too troubled now to think. His absence will not
be marked. Our words will be believed, if any of us, after the Persian
onslaught, be left alive for beliefs or doubtings. Can we do anything
further for you, Nikander?”

“No,” said Nikander quietly. “May the Son of Leto bless you for saving my
son’s honour. I must go now and tell his mother.”

Dryas, who had been playing the lyre at Theria’s bedside, had stopped
playing when his father withdrew. He sat awestruck, waiting.

Presently Melantho’s death-wail for Lycophron sounded through the house.

“Oh, look, Baltè,” whispered Dryas, through his tears. “Poor Theria does
not even hear it.”

Baltè bent over her nurseling. “She hears it well enough,” she answered
sadly. “She hears, but she is too far to care.”




CHAPTER XXXII

TERRIBLE NEWS FROM THERMOPYLÆ


Theria lay on her couch without change, except to grow weaker each day.
Baltè had her own remedies. She brought a sieve and suspended it from the
ceiling. Then she whirled it, reciting all the magic she knew and all the
cures. At whatever cure the sieve came to rest that one she tried. But,
alas, it did no good.

Nikander, in spite of urgent business with the priests, spent hour upon
hour beside his daughter. Sometimes he himself wondered at his strength
of love for a mere girl. He sat dreaming over her, learning her with a
new intimate vision which led him farther every hour.

Often and again as he looked across to where Melantho sat he would say:

“Wife, we have not understood this little one of ours, and now it is too
late.”

And Melantho would come around the couch and timidly kiss her husband’s
forehead.

Nikander, after his first keen gratitude to Eëtíon, was too beaten about
by the winds of fate to think of him. Eëtíon, however, came every day. He
was very shy, very guarded in his inquiries after the Delphic priestess.
His friendship for Dryas and Dryas’s devotion to him were ample excuse
for his coming.

Then on the fourth day of Theria’s illness Delphi rocked with news as at
times it rocked with actual earthquakes. The heralds from the north came
running, crying the news with spent voices:

“Thermopylæ is taken! Thermopylæ is taken by the Persians!”

Then after they took breath again from their long run—

“The Spartans are beaten back. The noble three hundred are killed every
man. Leonidas is killed. All, all is lost. The Persians stole through
over the mountain and attacked us from the rear. Thus they took the pass.
They are free in Hellas now to do their will upon you. Yes, they are
marching hither. They are already in the land of Daulis. They are not
forty miles away.”

The trembling Delphians were mute with horror.

“But the fleet,” pursued Nikander, “was the fleet also destroyed?”

Upon this the heralds had better news to tell.

“Oh, the fleet, wonderful! The gods themselves! Never was known such a
storm. Three days it lasted, oh, Delphians. Rain, torrents of rain, now
in midsummer when we never have rain. Wind! Oh, such wind that it strewed
the Persian ships in heaps along the shore—windrows of ships and drowned
Persians. But our ships, the Athenians were safe in the Eubœan strait.
Not one was lost in the storm and very few by battle. Well said your
Oracle: ‘Pray to the winds.’”

Nikander, his heart swelling with joy and pride, began to see dimly that
miracles can happen in spite of sacrilege and in other than accepted ways.

“The Athenians?” he asked. “Are they hopeful?”

“Oh, hopeful! Heartened by the god’s help and the storm’s help. Of course
the Persian and Ionian ships still outnumber them. But the Athenians say
that some god is on their side. They are ready to fight again. They are
hastening back to Athenian waters for the fighting.”

But Delphi had no such hope. Delphi was all confusion. She had no real
army even though she was an independent state. She had only her temple
guard. This guard had been sufficient in ordinary times. For all Hellas
revered Apollo’s temple. No Hellenic state would dare plunder Apollo’s
shrine. But now! Those hordes of barbarians who knew not the god. From
these the Delphians well knew what to expect.

They hurriedly left the heralds. Everywhere now were seen men with their
families, their slaves, carrying burdens, some hurrying up toward the
mountain, some hurrying down toward the port of Kirrha. But the braver
citizens stayed with white faces to consult the Oracle once more.

Nikander, hastening homeward, found these and the priests already at his
door.

“You must give us back the Pythia, Nikander,” spoke Kobon angrily. “The
Oracle must be consulted at once. Who ever heard of a Pythia being taken
home again?”

Nikander pushed through the crowd and stood with his back to the closed
door.

“You may not take her,” he said. “She is dying. She would die before she
reached the tripod.”

“She might not. You know very well, Nikander, that on the edge of death
the Pythia often prophesies best.”

Timon took Nikander’s arm.

“I am sorry, cousin,” he said, “but you know that what Kobon says is
true. This is no time for a man to think of his own household. She might
save the very shrine.”

“She cannot save it,” said Nikander stubbornly. “She has not spoken for
four days. She is beyond all speech. Aristonikè is not so ill as she.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to decide what he might and might
not tell. “My daughter has no gift of ecstasy,” he ventured. “No oracles
come to her at all.”

“Nikander, what lies! You know the very best of the oracles have been
through her.”

“Aristonikè,” broke in another priest; “Aristonikè prophesies nothing but
ill.”

They seized Nikander, held him struggling, while priests and citizens
broke upon the door and rushed into the house.

“Dryas, Dryas, help me!” Nikander shouted; but if Dryas was there he did
not appear.

Nikander heard Baltè shriek as the priests caught up her nurseling. Forth
they rushed again, his daughter white as death in a stalwart priest’s
arms. So they hurried up the road toward the temple.

Then Nikander from his house saw temple slaves running to meet the
priests, saw them all stop together. They crowded in confusion. Then from
the confusion came the same temple slaves and to Nikander’s amazement
they were bearing Theria in their arms, bringing her home again. The
priests and citizens ran onward frantically up to the temple.

Nikander wrested himself free and ran to meet the slaves. They gave her
carefully into his arms.

“She is dead, already dead?” he whispered.

“No—no, Master,” they assured him.

He did not pause to find out what had happened but hurried back with
Theria to her couch, where on a sudden he could do nothing but weep and
wring his hands. Baltè had to compose both her patient and him, assuring
him over and over again that no harm had been done.

It was Dryas who, later, hurrying home from the Precinct, told Nikander
what had happened.

“Aristonikè,” he announced, “passed into ecstasy suddenly without any
rites and prophesied wonderful things. They carried her to the tripod
even while she prophesied. The crowd of priests coming from our house
reached the adytum just in time to hear her cry out:

    “‘The god will care for his own.’

“Then she fell forward into old Akeretos’s arms and was dead.”

Nikander shuddered. “Poor child,” he said, “poor, poor little girl.”

“But, Father, think what that means!” said Dryas. “‘The god will care for
his own’!”

Nikander put his hand on Dryas’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes, my son, you are right, but had any one asked a question? How
did it happen?”

“But, Father, don’t you know that Akeretos himself has been asking a
question for days? He is so old, I suppose he knows the Oracle better
than any of us. He says that in his youth this method was tried and
answer received beyond all hope.

“But what did he do?” asked the dazed Nikander.

“He made sacrifice right in front of the Pythia House, not as usual on
the Great Altar. The question which he was to ask was: ‘What shall we
do to save the treasures of the god? Shall we hide them in the hills?’
But he repeated not this question at all, but instead, the while he
was sacrificing, he kept repeating to himself the answer which he
desired—thinking only of this answer: ‘The god will care for his own.
The sacred things must not be touched by mortal hands. The god will care
for his own.’ And sure enough within the house, locked within it indeed,
Aristonikè awoke from sleep with a low cry and began to say those very
words:

    “Touch not the sacred things,
    The god will care for his own!”

“So when Tuchè came running out to tell him, Akeretos brought Aristonikè
forth to the tripod.”

Dryas paused, taking a long breath.

“And now all the Delphians say there is no need to stay to defend our
Delphi. We may all flee to the mountains while the god alone fights for
us. We of the household also must make haste to go.”

It was almost a pleading look which poor Dryas bent upon his father.

“You can go if you will, Dryas. For my part, I shall not leave the
shrine.”

Again Dryas took a long breath. His cheek paled and he looked down, then
he said:

“I might have known you would answer that. I shall stay with you.”




CHAPTER XXXIII

AT EËTÍON’S CALL


What Dryas reported was true. The Delphians were deserting their town,
whether from great faith or great fear, who could say? Their temple guard
could not be called an army. It seemed as vain to wait for the Persian as
to wait for the onsweep of a flood at the breaking of a dam. The dam had
broken at Thermopylæ and the flood was coming.

Men sent their wives and children across the gulf to Corinth and thence
to Achaia, and when there were no more boats others sent them to Amphissa
in Locris. The men of Delphi hurried up into Mount Parnassos, to the
Korykian cave and to other fastnesses known only to themselves.

Only about sixty people were left in Delphi and of course the armed
temple guard.

Nikander sought out Melantho.

“Dear wife,” he said, “I have chartered a little boat to take you and
your own special slaves to Corinth. It will be a long journey for you,
but do not be afraid. You will be safe in Achaia.”

“And Theria?” she asked.

“Would God I could send her!” said Nikander brokenly. “But she is too ill
to be moved. She is weaker than ever since that terrible experience with
the priests. Even were she strong enough, the priests would not allow
her to go. The Pythia is not allowed to go away.”

He looked up, wondering at Melantho’s silence. Melantho was a timid
creature and the most submissive wife in the world.

“Am I like the kegs of cheese that they carry up to the cave?” she asked
huskily.

“Kegs of cheese!” asked Nikander blankly.

“Am I goods and chattels, not even so much alive as the dogs of Delphi?
The dogs stay.”

Great Paian! Melantho was angry. Nikander had never seen her angry in his
life.

She stamped her foot.

“I will not go,” she cried. “I’ll turn over the boat and swamp it if you
put me in it. I will not go when—when all my dear ones stay.”

Then she melted with streaming tears. Poor Melantho! After this little
outburst she would have done anything Nikander required.

But Nikander took her in his arms, loving her as he had never thought to
do.

“My dear Melantho,” he said. “I begin to think I am the stupidest man in
Delphi. Of course you shall stay.”

It was no easy matter to care for two helpless women at such a time, but
Nikander was glad that Melantho was to stay. As for Baltè, nations might
rise or fall, she had one care only, to watch her nurseling. And now
Baltè was busy with new plans. She had long ago given up her sieve and
taken it back to the kitchen where she gave it a kick of scorn.

Theria was steadily growing weaker, but her eyes as Baltè studied them
looked not quite so glassy, not quite so blank as at first. Sometimes
Baltè actually saw in them a great sadness. When any one came into the
door, Theria’s eyes would slowly, painfully direct themselves thither,
seeming to search, and when the search was made this deep sadness or
disappointment would settle upon her face. And once, instead of relapsing
into blankness after their pitiful searching, the dark eyes closed and
tears stole down between the lids.

What did her child want? Baltè asked herself this question. Asked Theria
every question she knew. For while Nikander could not bring himself to
speak to that strange, blank face of Theria, Baltè talked and asked and
crooned as any nurse crooned to her baby.

Though to all her asking Baltè received no reply, yet at last she thought
she knew her darling’s wish.

The next day she met Nikander in the outer aula.

“Master,” she said, “I know now what little mistress wants.”

“Great Heaven! has she spoken?” asked Nikander.

“No, Master, but her eyes speak to me.”

“They do not to me,” said Nikander sorrowfully.

“Oh, Master, ye must not be wroth with little mistress if I tell ye that
she loves that good youth that found her on the mountain. Don’t ye blame
her for it. She is a human child and Eëtíon loves her so dearly. She
wants to see him, Master. She wants to see him.”

“Poor Baltè, you cannot know that.”

Baltè told what she had seen.

“You forget,” said Nikander, “that your little mistress is priestess. It
would be absolutely improper.”

“She’s goin’ soon where there’s no proper nor unproper,” retorted Baltè
in her broadest Doric. “An’ if she goes, what harm to gi’ her this wee
bit of joy beforehand? An’ if she dies for lack of it, then it’s ye will
be her murderer.”

Baltè was determined to supplicate her master with the unrefusable
supplication if she could get consent no other way.

But at this moment came Eëtíon, all excited over what the priests had
done.

“It’s ye I am talkin’ o’, young man,” announced Baltè. “The master here
says ‘no’. But the little mistress is pinin’ away for a sight of ye. She
is thot.”

“Is she better? Did she ask—oh, Nikander——” pleaded Eëtíon.

“Baltè is dreaming. Go back to your little mistress, Baltè.”

But Baltè stood her ground. “If the lad calls her she’ll answer him. Mark
ye that.”

“Will she answer? Do you really believe she will answer?” asked Eëtíon,
his lips quivering with the memory of Theria’s unanswering silence on the
mountain.

“O love o’ Leto, stop askin’! Come!” said Baltè.

And Nikander suddenly consented.

Eëtíon came in with awe as one comes into a death chamber.

He knelt by her couch, laid his brown, trembling hands over her two white
ones, and, leaning close, called her—once, and again.

Then an amazing thing happened: There passed slowly from off the dark
lakes of eyes something as it were a shadow, leaving them sweet and
sensible, leaving in them an ardent, dreamy look.

Then the dream gave place to lovely awakening, which was Theria’s self—a
surprised, outreaching love.

Her lips framed a word: “Eëtíon.”

Eëtíon forgot all about him. He gathered her close, kissing her, calling
her. And now she spoke quite aloud, calling him in return with names and
epithets as dear.

“You have not forgotten me,” he was saying, “Oh, I thought you had
forgotten.”

“Never, never. I could not forget you in Acheron,” was her murmured
answer.

“Speak to me, me, also, my daughter,” pleaded Nikander.

“Yes, Father. Dear, dear Father,” came her answer. No trace of fear or
unaffection for all his angry words which had sent her away. She reached
out her arms to him like a returning child.

Baltè clapped her hands with loud sobs and shoutings. She, too, must kiss
and rejoice over her little one.

“Baltè,” said Nikander solemnly, “may the gods in my age give me such
wisdom as yours. For my part I shall never question yours again. So now,
dear Baltè, go and fetch Melantho.”

Melantho came, and Dryas. One would have thought to hear the rejoicings
in the house that no Persians were anywhere in Greece. Then presently
Baltè was for sending them all away. They must not tire her darling.

Theria clung to her lover’s hands. “Will you come again, Eëtíon?” she
pleaded. “Say you will come again.”

Nikander doubtfully opened his lips but Baltè waved a warning finger.

“Indeed an’ he will, my darlin’,” she said with authority. “Old Baltè
will see that he does.”

And Eëtíon, leaping up, kissed Baltè’s withered cheek, at which Theria’s
first sweet laugh was heard.




CHAPTER XXXIV

EËTÍON AND NIKANDER


Nikander and Eëtíon went out hand in hand as was the custom of Greek men
who loved each other.

“Dear youth, what can I say to you?” spoke Nikander. “You have returned
to me my two children, my son and now my daughter.”

“I love your daughter. I love your daughter,” spoke out Eëtíon
passionately. “Now you know it. I want her for my wife.”

“Would you could have her,” was Nikander’s answer.

“But can I not?” questioned the unreasonable youth.

“My dear boy, you know she is priestess. I wish Apollo had killed me
before I made her priestess.”

Eëtíon clenched his hands. “She shall not go back to the Pythia House.
She is too splendid, too free-minded.”

“She shall certainly never go upon the tripod,” responded Nikander. “I
will promise you that.”

Eëtíon paced the room in bitter distress. “How could you make her
priestess?” he said, forgetting all kindness. “How could you take away
her last chance for action and noble living? You don’t deserve to be
Theria’s father.”

“Indeed I do not,” was Nikander’s sorrowful rejoinder. He laid quieting
hands upon the youth.

“We are in dark days, Eëtíon. Perhaps not one of us will be alive
to-morrow. Let us not grieve over what may not in any case come to pass.”

“The hope would be so much,” said Eëtíon with sudden tears. Eëtíon’s
fortunate beauty made each emotion of his appealing, whether bowing the
head in grief or lifting it with sudden smile. Nikander loved him for his
grief and, forgetting his own bitter share in it, set about earnestly to
calm him.

“My dear boy,” he said, “in the coming battle you will forget this love
for a maid. It will be unimportant in the light of great deeds. Men love
other men with such devotion and companioning but hardly a maid.”

“But this is Theria,” said Eëtíon childishly.

“Yes,” mused the father proudly. “It is Theria.”

“Do you know,” went on Eëtíon in a low voice, “I thought she was a
goddess the first time I saw her. I really did. It was in the Precinct of
Athena. I was weeping aloud with misery because my work of four years was
brought to naught and I was pushed back into slavery, for I had been long
in bondage. And Theria came leaping down the hill in the morning light.
She spoke to me. (Oh, such wonderful kindness to which I had long been a
stranger.) Then afterward, O Nikander, she saved me. Braving all sorts of
punishment, she saved me. Could a man have done more than that? Is it any
wonder that I love her?”

Nikander felt it his duty to dissuade the youth from a love so
hopeless—but he suddenly had no word to say. That love seemed so sweet
and right and pure. He was proud that this daughter of his had called it
forth.

The youth went on:

“We of Argos are worshippers of Hera. There is a saying among us
that the ‘Souls who follow Hera desire a love of royal quality.’ Hera
cherishes the lawful union of man and woman.”

Nikander’s head bowed lower. He had forgotten this further obstacle
that Eëtíon was a metic. The union was impossible. From every side,
impossible. With grieving face Nikander turned and left Eëtíon where he
stood.




CHAPTER XXXV

THERIA TELLS HER VISION


Nikander’s care was now to save as much of his household treasure as
might be. Before this time his anxiety over his children had so beset
him that he cared little whether anything else was saved or not. But now
he set slaves to packing the family records, the old Nikander drinking
vessels of gold and silver, and the stores of corn, oil, and wine.
Theria’s storeroom soon bore a changed aspect.

Then the most faithful slaves he sent with these things up into the
mountain to the Korykian cave.

But even with this business Nikander found time to go ever and again
to Theria’s bedside to stop perhaps but for a single caress or word or
question.

Theria was sitting up in her couch and keeping poor Baltè busy running
for this and that to occupy her.

“Father!” she said, holding up her five fingers brightly as he came
toward her. “This is the fifth time you have come to me. I have counted.”

“Bless your heart, child, why do you count my visits?”

“Because they are my treasures,” she answered. “I used to see you only
twice in the day and the time between was so long and stupid.”

Nikander bent and kissed her, not quite able to speak. He determined that
this daughter should never again lack his companionship. Then a swift
stab of memory reminded him how soon she must be returned to the Pythia
House, where he could see her not at all.

He sat down beside her.

Baltè, seeing that he was there to watch in her stead, hurried off on
some errand.

Baltè was no sooner gone than Theria bent near him.

“Father,” she said in awed tones, “I was not ill. I was held in dumbness
by what I saw in the mountain.”

“Yes, Daughter,” he responded.

“The god crossed my path. Phœbus Apollo. I saw him!”

Even though Nikander had guessed this, he was startled at her telling.

“Oh, Father, so living beautiful he was, with the dawn in his face and
power shining from all of him! All the statues in the Precinct should be
broken. They are not my god.”

“We must leave them,” said her father gently, “for those of us who cannot
see.”

“First,” she went on, “I saw only a golden light upon my path, which
followed me and frightened me.”

Even as she spoke, her eyes grew starry and her father caught her
shoulder, shaking her.

“No, do not tell me, child. Be still. The dumbness may come again.”

“No, it will not,” she smiled. “Apollo promised.”

“Great heaven, did he speak?”

“Yes, yes.” Then she told as near as she remembered the words of the
message. Oracle it could hardly be called, as it was a revelation for her
alone.

    Theria, daughter of Delphi, begone from my temple. My bow shall
    not hurt thee, Nay, for I love thee. I shall be able without
    thee. I shall care for my own.

And how the god had turned and shot his terrible shaft away from her over
Mount Parnassos toward the north.

Nikander was uplifted, overwhelmed. He went hastily and fetched tablet
and stylus and wrote it down for the temple records. He was hopeful,
fairly trembling from what he guessed this message might mean for his
daughter’s future. Theria herself thought only of the god’s forgiveness.

“Apollo said that he loved me,” she repeated. “He said it. And he laughed
at me because I wanted him to slay me.”

What would the priests think of this message of the god? Nikander hardly
dared hope that they would put upon it the interpretation which he so
desired. No pythia had ever been freed from priesthood. Indeed, if he
told the vision, must it not bring them to a knowledge of her false
oracle, the punishment of which would be death? His face grew set with
thought. But yes, he would risk even that fate in the hope of what the
god’s message might do for her. He kissed his child and hurried out to
find Timon and the other priests.

How changed already were the streets, empty of folk. The houses closed
and locked or left open in the haste of flight, showing the vacant rooms.

He found Timon in the Precinct. But Timon was wholly indifferent to
Theria’s part of the god’s message. It was the hurtling shaft of Phœbus
which interested him. “It was shot toward Parnassos, you say? That is a
good omen,” he asserted. Nikander could not be sure. But he soon saw that
the priests were too beset now with their fears and instant business to
consider Theria’s status as priestess—the matter so dear to his heart.

“A party of Phokian peasants,” said Timon, “came into town this morning,
fleeing from the Persians. Their tidings are horrible. The armies have
overrun all the land of Phokis. They are killing men, outraging women,
burning towns. Drymos is burned. Charadra, Amphikaia, Neon, Elateia,
and many more. They have burnt the temple of Apollo at Abai. Do you not
think, Nikander, that that may mean perhaps that they are headed the
other way toward Athens and will pass us by?”

For Abai was on the eastern road.

“I do not,” said Nikander. “If they burnt the god’s temple at Abai, they
will not spare his temple at Delphi. The Persian prisoners are telling
that Xerxes the king knows more exactly what is treasured in our temples
than he knows the treasures in his own palace. He will not spare Delphi.”

“I have sent my wife, daughters, and slaves to Achaia,” said Timon. “If I
am killed and you spared, Nikander, you will send them word?”

Something in Nikander’s face stopped him.

“I am sorry,” he added, “that you may not send Theria away. No priest
would allow it. The Oracle without a pythia at such a time as this!”

“My wife is staying, too,” replied Nikander, not without pride.

“Then I advise you to bring all up within the Precinct walls as soon as
possible,” urged his kinsman.




CHAPTER XXXVI

REFUGE IN THE PRECINCT


In Delphi, where all was danger, the Precinct was perhaps the most
dangerous place, yet Nikander with his faith did not think this, nor
would any other Greek think it.

He hurried home and sought Melantho.

“We must go up to the Precinct at once,” he said. “Make ready as soon as
you can.”

In an hour’s time they were all gathered with the slaves in the men’s
aula. Bundles of clothes and little treasures were in their hands. Some
of the slaves were weeping, but the family stood in that awed silence
which precedes departure.

Theria seemed even yet but distantly touched by the world’s alarms. The
calm of the vision mood was still upon her. Nikander believed that she
would never wholly recede from this but would always retain that serenity
of mind which marks one who has beheld a god.

Eëtíon came in asking for Dryas, but, seeing Theria there in her cloak,
of course forgot all else. Theria was shy, but Eëtíon took her in his
arms quite frankly and kissed her. Nikander looked upon them with an
aching heart, thinking how many a hedge shut out happiness from these two.

Meanwhile, Dryas was pacing nervously to and fro under the balcony.
Nikander averted his eyes. He could not bear that his son should be in
the pangs of personal fear. But Eëtíon went directly to Dryas.

“Dryas,” he said, “would it not be well for you to take a last survey
of all the rooms to see that nothing is left? Do it quickly, for all is
ready.”

Dryas hurried off with just the sense of relief which Eëtíon had meant to
afford him.

And as Eëtíon once more stood at Theria’s side, Nikander said to him:

“I want you, Eëtíon, to be with us in the Precinct as a son of the house.
A son could not be more dear.”

Dryas returned.

“I’ve been through the rooms,” he said brightly. “There’s nothing worth
while but this old thing in the storeroom.”

It was Lycophron’s old lyre which Theria had used all these years.

“Oh, yes, yes, I want it,” said Theria, taking it in her arms.

“Are we all ready now?” asked Nikander.

Theria began to look around. Her face flushed, then paled. Then she asked
the question which Nikander had been dreading.

“Where is Lycophron, Father? Why isn’t he with us?”

Nikander put his arm about her and led her away from the others.

“Oh,” she said in a frightened voice, “I remember now. Father, did he go
clean away—away from us?”

“My dear child, he is dead,” said Nikander, without tears. Then he told
her of the kind oath of the kinsmen. Theria, too, must keep that secret.

But she only clung to him, sobbing. Eëtíon came to comfort her and before
long she was able to go with them out toward the Precinct.

It was natural that the few remaining Delphians should cling as close as
possible to the Great Temple. Nikander saw to his regret that the only
obvious refuge for Theria was the Pythia House. It was the only building
besides the temple itself upon the temple platform. Into the old prison
place she must go.

But Melantho went in with her. And there was also an old blind woman, too
feeble for fight, and a young mother borne on a litter with her hour-old
child. Nikander was allowed to go in and out as the one upon whom all
depended, and in front of the house Eëtíon and Dryas kept guard.

The great danger had broken down all conventions.

Before nightfall Nikander took Melantho and Theria out through a small
gate of the Precinct wall, which was just back of the Pythia House.
He gave Theria the gate key. Then he led them up a little path amid
the talus of the cliff to where there was a tomb against the hillside.
Nikander had caused a narrow hole to be made in the side of the tomb
where a thick laurel bush would hide it. The door of the tomb itself
presented a sealed front. Hither Nikander had brought provisions and
here—so near by and yet secure—he told Theria she must come with her
mother should the Persians enter the Precinct.

As they turned back toward the Pythia House he gave Theria a small sharp
dagger.

“You will not use it too soon I know, for you are brave. You will know
the moment if it comes. It is for both of you.”

With a strange sense that all this was quite a usual thing to do, they
came back through the gate.

At twilight Nikander, passing Theria’s door, saw her with her head down,
weeping quietly. He came and sat beside her, questioning her.

“It is Lycophron,” she said through her tears. “Oh, Father, I loved him!
He was so good to me!”

Now Nikander’s grief for Lycophron had been bitter and lonely. He could
hardly share it with Dryas, and Melantho knew nothing of the truth. So
the grief haunted him like a hovering Erinyes.

“We must remind ourselves that it is best as it is,” he said dryly.

“Yes, best for him, but I miss his goodness. No matter who is kind to me
I shall miss _his_ kindness.”

“Was he so kind to you?” said Nikander. For there in the house, as
so often happens, the father had not guessed the bond between these
youngsters.

“Yes. Always he would stop and tell me the news I was hungry to know. He
would spend time upon me when no one else thought of me. And, Father,
when I was here dying of loneliness Lycophron sent Baltè to me—I know
it was disobedient, but it was so kind. He gave Baltè money to use for
bribes so she could get in and as if that were not enough, he sent me
messages, just the ones that he knew I wanted most. He had a heart of
gold!”

Suddenly Nikander bowed his head low in a passion of weeping. The
unexpected praise—the unexpected bringing back of his son into the
sweetness of the family life, broke him down completely.

Theria threw her arms about him, frightened at her thoughtlessness.

“Oh, Father, I should have thought of you before I said it,” she faltered.

“Dear child, you have given me something that I thought was for ever
lost,” he answered.

He went out readier for the hard to-morrow than he had deemed possible.




BOOK IV

THE GOD WILL CARE FOR HIS OWN




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PERSIAN COMES


The night was deepening. Eëtíon and Dryas, fully armed, stood guard
together on the temple platform not far from the Pythia House. Nikander,
at their insistence, had gone within the house. He was sleeping, worn out
by his anxieties for children and state.

“Do you think,” spoke Dryas in a low voice, “that even now the host may
go on toward Athens and leave us out of their march?”

“It is possible,” returned Eëtíon. “The Persians have no time to lose
in the direction of Athens. Their marching to Abai is a good sign for
Delphi.”

Meanwhile, Delphi was armed for the Medes’ immediate coming. Most of the
Precinct guards were stationed at the great gate. The small gates facing
the highway had a few men each, but the gates in the back wall were
entirely without guard—a pitiful preparation truly for the coming of a
hundred myriads of men.

It was a showing forth of the Delphians’ despair. The best they could do
was so far short of adequate defence that this seemed nor less nor more.

Suddenly, as the two friends stood there in the night, they saw a
glow break on the far heights east of Pleistos Valley, very red and
brightening, brightening!

“Look,” said Dryas, between lips which hardly parted. “Eëtíon, that light
up there!”

One of the old temple guardsmen approached.

“That will be up Daulis way,” he said. “They’ve set fire to Daulis.”

Neither Dryas nor Eëtíon made comment. They knew only too well what it
meant.

The Persians were heading for Delphi! And were now not two hours away!

Dryas hurriedly sent a slave to fetch wine.

“Don’t do that,” advised Eëtíon. “The wine will help you now, but later
it will weaken your arm.”

Dryas clapped his hands together in pitiful misery.

“Why don’t you hate me, kick me out for the dog I am? Why did you ever
try to save me?”

“Hush, hush,” said Eëtíon. He laid his hand on Dryas’s arm. “Your father
must not hear you.”

“Why, Eëtíon! Your hand is cold as ice.”

“Of course it is, foolish boy, do you suppose other men are made of wood
and only you feel what must be hid?”

“Oh, Eëtíon, forgive—forgive me,” pleaded the emotional Dryas.

“This inaction now, this waiting,” said Eëtíon soberly, “is the hardest
part of the battle. I have not been in battles myself, but old soldiers
tell me so. Think, Dryas, you have father, mother, sister to protect. I
have no one I can call my own—and no city.”

“Father would give you Theria,” whispered Dryas, “if he could get her
free. And oh, Eëtíon, I know he feels that Delphi is your city. I feel
that Delphi is your city.”

All night long Dryas had been assailed by a horrible picture of his own
death. His highly developed imagination swept the thing through him
like a reality. It was a spear-thrust in his side, keen and fatal, the
grinning face of a Persian triumphing over him. Dryas tried to think
other thoughts, but this thing returned again and again, sometimes with
an actual pain where the weapon was thrust in. Dryas could have conquered
it but for the fear-producing chant which old Akeretos kept up near the
Great Altar.

All night long the old prophet moved to and fro—making sacrifices, trying
omens of all sorts, seeing portents where none were, an eerie, aged
figure in the starlight with his white beard wagging and his hands lifted
on high.

Dawn began to break in the slow beautiful way as if the day were to be
all gentleness instead of the most dreadful day these hills had ever
known.

At full morning Nikander came out refreshed, to share with Dryas and
Eëtíon the morning meal. He was in armour, for Nikander was yet in full
fighting strength.

They were eating in silence when Dryas with a cry jumped to his feet.

“Look, look,” he said. “There on the uppermost road!”

The road from Daulis, winding down the distant mountains among the crags,
was several times visible and lost again ere it reached Delphi. Now on
its highest, farthest stretch the Delphians saw moving spots, like groups
of ants, carrying ant burdens. Even as the Delphians were gazing, the
spots became a solid mass, which filled the road from end to end of its
visible stretch.

They could not tell now that the mass was moving. Simply the road at that
point was curiously black.

Dryas’s cry brought Theria from the house. She noted the looks and
gestures of the men, then stole over to Eëtíon’s side. The others were
too intent to notice what she did.

“What is it?” she asked.

He pointed out the black stretch of distant road and she knew by the
horror in his face what it meant.

Eëtíon was not a natural soldier. Only training and Hellas-love had made
him such. But now with Theria beside him, the horror in his face changed
to iron resolve. Theria hardly recognized him as he turned toward her.

“Theria, there is no chance for Delphi now,” he whispered. “Your father
has told me of your hiding place. I shall keep as near to it as I may,
but the gods only know whither the battle will thrust me. If I escape,
I’ll come to you. I’ll speak outside a pass-word, ‘_Hera basileia_,’
because Hera is my goddess at home.”

“Yes,” she whispered, clinging to his hand, “but add ‘_Paian will care
for his own_.’”

He could not but catch the hope which lived with her, the peace which her
vision had left upon her.

He bent and kissed her, almost believing that they should both be saved.

Only Dryas saw him do it, Dryas, whom Eëtíon had forgotten in this moment
of snatched joy, Dryas, whose struggle had now grown so intense that it
seemed every moment he must break away. The hills were still there to
hide in, so near, so possible a refuge. Was it worth while standing there
to be slaughtered? This was no battling for Delphi. It was foolishness.
They were all of them fools—fools—fools!

Now Nikander came to him. “Son,” he said reassuringly, “I am thankful you
are here.”

Dryas did not answer, for at this moment a low exclamation broke from all
the little group at once.

The Persians had emerged on the lower road!

Now could be caught the moving colour of their garments, flashes of
bronze, as shields glanced the light, and now a moving bulk of shivering
glitter as a host of upright spears advanced.

Nearer, nearer! Well seen now at the foot of Delphi’s own cliffs, well
seen at the foot of Phaidriades, well seen below in the Precinct of
Athena Forethought in Delphi village!

Pointed caps, huge wicker shields, tall lances, these were the Medes
themselves. Behind them, a curious barbarian folk in hooded mantles, and
oh, dear Paian, what are these? Men black as ebony, clad in skins of
leopard and lion, carrying bows twice as tall as themselves. Some have
woolly heads, others have heads not human at all but horse heads, with
upright ears and flowing manes. Behind these come tribes and tribes and
tribes, greedy, pitiless, devouring.

Look far up the mountain road! Every visible loop is filled back to where
it is lost in distance. Oh, Apollon, surely you have forgotten! Son of
Leto, you are far off this day, joying among your Olympians. Our Delphi
is naught to you!

       *       *       *       *       *

What happened now can hardly be believed, but it is recorded by the
father of history and later writers bear testimony to it.

This had happened time and time again in the past to the hurt of Delphi,
why not happen this once to her help? Herodotus says it did happen.

Eëtíon, Dryas, Theria, Nikander heard groan as if the earth, old Gê
herself, had spoken. A little bird singing in the laurel bush near by
stopped its song and leaped aloft with frightened cries. Then like a
wave on the sea-beach the temple platform beneath their feet pitched
forward. They saw the wave motion run onward upon the earth, down
the glen, and to the farther hillside where the forests received it
shivering. The Delphian group on the platform stumbled wildly forward.
Old Akeretos fell flat before his altar. The altar itself shook and the
Great Temple rocked as if about to begin an elephantine dance.

The earth movement was distinct, outward from Parnassos toward the valley.

Theria, looking up at Phaidriades, saw the cliffs nodding solemnly to
each other as if to say: “Ay—so be it.”

Then huge rocks flew hurtling from their summits high overhead and down
upon the road, down crashing upon the moving Persian host!

There was a great and bitter cry, death, terror, confusion.

The Persian army fled this way and that. Forward toward the
village—downward into the Forethought Precinct where the avenging rocks
of Delphi followed them.

Everywhere the mountains sent up clouds and clouds of dust. In the
distance upon the distant armies poured down avalanches of earth and
rolling stones and dust—more dust!

Of the little group on the temple platform Dryas was the first to get
upon his feet.

“Hail, Paian; Alala, Alala!”

He shouted the old Dorian war cry and, waiting not for Eëtíon nor his
father, charged down the Sacred Way. His spear was forward-ready; his
shield weightless upon his arm. His hair streamed from his helmet upon
the wind. He was light-footed as a god. So might Achilles have swept into
battle after his days of wrath.

Eëtíon and Nikander, with a score of temple guards, leaped after him. The
great gates had already been flung open by the earth’s motion.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ai, Ai! look up! Look up. Behold our avenging god!”

It was old Akeretos shouting in a frenzy which Theria had to obey. Her
upward glance caught the bronze votive chariot of Gelon just as it
toppled from its lofty eyrie in the cliffside. Down it came! Chariot,
horses, victor and charioteer, banging on jutting rock and crag with
grand clangour, a divine and shattering noise.

“And there happened to the Persians yet greater portents,” says the
historian. “Two men in full armour and of stature more than human
followed them slaying and pursuing.”

Meanwhile Dryas in the midst of battle knew only that he was struggling
amid a sea of men. Persian warriors, who in spite of their terror of the
supernatural happenings, fought the pursuing Delphians desperately and
tried thus to preserve their fleeing hordes.

Dryas dealt blow after blow, stroke after stroke. Better yet, he received
wounds uncaring, and with every wound, every stroke, the gods gave him
manhood and courage.

Surely after tasting so sweet a thing as courage he could not ever go
back to cowardice. The Nikander in him grew to full stature in these
moments.

Oh, heaven! Eëtíon had fallen. Dryas rushed to him, holding over him the
shield while he fought. More wounds were here. Then, Paian be praised,
Eëtíon struggled to his feet.

Where were they now? Out beyond Delphi, a mile out on the Daulis road and
the Persians, Assyrians, Arabians, Ethiopians in full retreat.

Oh, what was Dryas doing now? Struggling, shouting, brandishing his arms
in foolish wildness, while Eëtíon and Nikander adjured him to keep still,
that all was past.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

THANKFULNESS


Surely never was a happier, humbler band of victors than these who now
returned along the road to the Precinct. Nikander and Eëtíon bearing
Dryas on a litter, the temple guardsmen now laughing aloud with some
recollection of battle triumph, now awed into silence, as one of them
told of the divine shoutings he had heard, or the terrible dealing of
those rocks which fell from on high upon the enemy.

The other Delphians who had rushed down from hiding in the hills kept
silence. Every one of them was wishing that he had stayed with the guard
in the Precinct.

Outside the gate Theria met them with outstretched arms and tears of
joy. She kissed Eëtíon and her father, and knelt down by Dryas’s litter,
bending over him in love.

“Darling Dryas.” Then, “Quick, I must help him.”

Dryas’s face was white with pain, but he caught her hand.

“I am safe now,” he whispered. “Really, really safe!”

He closed his eyes.

“He saved my life,” spoke Eëtíon proudly.

“And fought better than any of us. Oh, my son. Dear, dear boy!” cried
Nikander.

“I saw him in the fight,” asserted one of the guard. “That’s true what
you say.”

In the entrance portico of the Precinct they set him down, while Theria
sent slaves for water and wine and other slaves homeward for the remedies
of her own.

Soon she was bathing Dryas’s deep wounds, staunching their flow with the
wine, setting the poor broken leg, which, while it would mend, would
never let Dryas walk perfectly straight again.

Dryas bore his pain with a look which ever and again started her tears,
the look of a child come home.

As soon as Melantho came to replace her Theria turned to attend Eëtíon’s
wounds. She knelt before him, binding up his bleeding ankle, then
carefully washed the deep gash in his shoulder where the sword had grazed
over the top of his shield. Her heart sang with the task.

Nikander, perhaps because he was an older, more skilful warrior, had
received only scratches. Indeed the fight had not been long. The Persians
had been conquered by the god ere ever man struck one blow.

More and more Delphians crowded into the Precinct. The happy news seemed
to have mounted on wings of its own to those who had been hidden on
Parnassos.

They came down in groups or singly, and each as he entered had to hear
the story again from those fortunate ones who had stayed. All the talk
was of the wonders, the portents, the direct action of the god. They told
each other the tales which were to become the rich traditions of their
race. Their faith grew with the telling.

And who shall say that their faith was vain? Even we to-day receive the
benefit of that strange repulse, which helped to keep Europe what it was,
to make it what it is to-day. We may not explain it as they did, but the
mysterious, deciding succour is a basic historical fact. Apollo had saved
more than his visible treasures by this prompt defence.

Now other Delphians came in with armfuls of battle-litter they had found
on the road, the curious wicker shields, despicable in Greek eyes, rich
torn garments, gold chains, head pins set with rubies, the silly Persian
caps which set them all a-laughing, and whole mule-packs of trousers
which made them laugh still more.

“Men, full-grown men, to hamper their legs with such a foolish gear!”

They found also the curious horse heads which the black men had worn.
They were but skins flayed, with ears and mane remaining.

“And we thought those were monsters and were afraid!” laughed one.

“But all the gold must be saved for the god, no gift of ours, but his
own, his right,” said another.

Instantly all assented to this. Their hearts were dewy fresh with
gratitude. They were like noisy, happy children.

Melantho was bending over Dryas. He had reacted now from the first shock
and was restless with fever.

“Oh, let us go home,” pleaded Melantho. “See, this is no place for my
sick boy. Oh, I want to go home.”

Poor home-body, she was almost in terror at being from under her
accustomed roof.

Nikander held Dryas’s hand. His face clouded as he answered her.

“If we go, we shall have to do without Theria’s help,” he answered.

“I can care for my son,” said Melantho. “But Theria—surely to-day the
priests will let her——”

Nikander was looking away. “I do not dare to provoke them,” he said very
low.

Dryas stirred with a moan of pain.

“Yes, wife,” said Nikander decisively. “I know that we should go.”

He went over to where Theria and Eëtíon together were binding up the leg
of a stout young guardsman, he howling with true Greek ardour.

Nikander touched Theria’s arm.

“Daughter,” he said, “Dryas is growing worse and I fear we must take him
home.”

“Yes; and, Father, we must see that the litter-slaves walk slowly and
very steadily. I will try——”

Tears filled Nikander’s eyes.

“Dear heart, I wish I could take you with us. I do not dare to take you,”
he said.

Theria whitened as sorrow stole over and fixed itself upon her face.

She moved close to him.

“I had forgotten,” she whispered. “Oh, Father, I want to go home—home!”

Nikander answered nothing. He could not answer. He led her over to a
corner.

“Oh,” she moaned, “that I should have begged to be priestess. How
foolish, witless——”

“I was the fool to allow you. But remember, Daughter, always remember the
deed which priesthood let you do. Your Prayer to the Winds was answered,
abundantly answered. You helped to save the fleet, my darling. And you
did it thinking you must die for doing it.”

His praise took her by surprise, but it only made it more impossible to
part from him.

She stole into his arms like a frightened child. He dared not tell her
the hope he had for her. It was too faint a hope for that. He knew well
that his best comforting was to remind her of what her priesthood had
accomplished.

“Your Salamis oracle. We have yet to hear from that. The battle must even
now be raging at Athens. They tell me that never would Themistokles have
kept the Athenians to their task but for that oracle to hearten them. You
gave the oracle as being your own, but you know now it was the god’s.”

She was trembling with the sobs she must keep still.

“And, Daughter, never go to the tripod again,” he urged. “Promise me
that.”

“Never, never the tripod,” she answered.

“No matter how they push you, no matter what rites.”

“No—no.”

Here Eëtíon came over to them, asking, “What is it?” and before they
answered knowing what it was.

“But no, no, no, Nikander. Not the Pythia House again,” he pleaded.

Nikander had to take charge with decision.

“It must be, Eëtíon. It must be. Go, Eëtíon, and take Dryas home. I will
care for Theria.”

There was no chance for good-bye in what the lovers felt to be the last
parting.

As for Nikander, mounting the Sacred Way with his arm about his child,
the joy of victory, the safety of Delphi, were lost in bitter heartaches
and self-reproach.




CHAPTER XXXIX

NIKANDER PLEADS FOR HIS DAUGHTER


Early next morning Nikander returned to the Precinct. The smoke of the
Great Altar was lifting in a glorious column. Not one priest of Delphi
but had promised gifts to the Far-Darter if he would but save them. And
now they were offering those gifts.

Nikander mingled with the crowd on the temple platform. He was heavy
hearted where all were gay. Old Akeretos was sitting on the temple steps
worn out with hours of ritual. A little squat Delphic farmer was talking
to him. Near by stood two cloaked females.

“And, Akeretos,” said the eager little man, as if driving a bargain, “you
can’t get any better anywhere. The two of ’em at once and portents to
both of ’em.”

“Bring them here,” said the old shrine president.

The man pushed the two females to the front and without ceremony flicked
off their veils.

He showed two girls as alike as two peas. They were peasant-built but
flabby. Their faces, brown because the sun had made them so, had somehow
a look of paleness under the brown. The eyes of both were large and
haunted as if with ill-health. They were simpering with the excitement.

“Hyeroche, here, is the oldest,” went on the farmer. “Before she was born
my wife had a dream. Any of the neighbours can tell ye, for, Paian help
us, she told it enough! She dreamed that she was searchin’ for her baby
in the mountains, an’ she found it, a little weepin’ thing lyin’ on top
of a milkin’ stool. She started to take it off of the milkin’ stool, but
quick, the milkin’ stool shot up tall with its three legs, a very tripod,
an’ she couldn’t reach the baby.

“Now I ain’t no reader of dreams. But what do ye think o’ that, Akeretos?
Doesn’t it seem pointin’ the baby to be Pythia?”

Old Akeretos nodded. He was much impressed.

“An’ this other one here, Timo, before she was born, Paian help us, the
same dream to her, too.”

Akeretos was not listening. He was studying the girls. Well did he know
the successful Pythia type.

The little farmer turned to Nikander. “Now ain’t they just made for
Pythias?” he demanded, “the both on ’em, an’ free-born Delphians both.”

Nikander studied them. He was trying to keep his judgment clear and
unbiassed by his earnest wish. If these girls were made Pythias at once
would it not afford a chance to secure his daughter’s freedom?

Akeretos turned to Nikander.

“These might put your daughter into the background,” he said. “You will
forgive me, Nikander, if I say that these have more the Pythia look than
has Theria.”

“My daughter is not the Pythian type,” said Nikander, trying to speak
indifferently. “I realize that, Akeretos. Anyway, we require three
Pythias. It has been the custom and is right.”

That afternoon a council of all the priests was held to decide upon the
farmer girls.

Beforehand Nikander sought his kinsman Timon. Perhaps Timon would listen
now as he would not on that other occasion when Nikander had spoken—then
when the Persians were so nigh at hand. Nikander must steer his course
carefully. Timon must not suspect the dangerous truth—Theria’s deception
on the tripod. Yet Nikander must bring forth every argument possible for
his child’s release.

“Timon,” he began, “I am feeling more and more that my daughter Theria is
not the Pythia type.”

“Not the type!” repeated his kinsman. “But she gave magnificent oracles,
Nikander. Very unusual oracles. And the manner of giving was unusual,
also. Do not you think so?”

Timon looked sharply at Nikander, or did Nikander fancy it? Nikander
had much ado to keep himself steady and unmoved. He hastily changed the
subject.

“Yes, they were good oracles. But the girl is breaking too fast under
the ecstasy. That, of course, would make me wish to have her cease
prophesying. But that is not all. I would not let mere personal feelings
sway me. You know that, Timon.”

“Yes.”

“Theria had a vision on the mountain. You have no doubt of that, have
you?”

Timon assented. To the Greek this was easy of belief. Timon had seen
Theria in her state of trance. He had seen her yesterday, and even then
the expression of her face showed the vision state through which she had
passed. Yes, yes, Theria had seen a vision.

“She has lately told me more about it,” pursued Nikander. “Apollo spoke
to her. She has told me the words of the god and I have written them
down.”

With a hand he could not keep from trembling Nikander brought forth the
tablet.

Timon read it slowly, as Greeks were wont to read. Again he read it.
“No priestess of mine art thou.—Begone from my temple.—Nay, for I love
thee—thou hast sung at my bidding.”

“Was all this in it when you spoke of this before?” asked Timon seriously.

“Yes, the same.”

“I remember only the silver shaft of Apollo. But this!—Why, Nikander,
the god has actually driven the girl from his temple. It might even be
dangerous to hold her there after this express command.”

“Do you think that?” queried Nikander eagerly. “Will you say that in the
Council?”

“But suppose she is freed—what should then be done with her?” asked Timon.

But with this encouragement Nikander determined to apply formally to the
Priests’ Council for her release.

Never in all his days would Nikander forget the bitter anxiety of that
afternoon with the Council. Many strifes had he striven with that august
body, strifes for the good name of Delphi, strifes for the honour and
safety of Hellas, yet never one that had given him this suffocation at
the thought of defeat.

Timon became his earnest helper and Nikander sorely needed help.

“Never before,” maintained the older priests, “never before had the
Pythia been given back to her family or been given in marriage. It would
cause a pestilence.”

But as the debate progressed Nikander gradually became aware of his own
new power in the Council. For many months Nikander had been the sole one
who had counselled resistance to the Persian. It was Nikander who had
supplicated for the more hopeful oracles and received them. Suppose the
more timid interpretations had prevailed, where would the Delphians now
be?

Nikander had been right and his prayers had changed the mind of the god.
Now Nikander was making a strange request. Might he not be right in this
also? Surely Nikander would not ask this save in honest conviction. Had
Nikander ever been selfish toward the shrine? Would he ask that his
daughter be dismissed if it were likely to bring disaster? Did he not
bring them now the god’s actual command: “Begone from my temple”?

Nikander saw friend after friend spring to his feet with arguments like
these until his heart warmed and in a clear, impassioned speech he moved
the Council to his side.

It was old Akeretos who made answer.

“Apollo has spoken to free the girl. It is not usual. But neither is it
usual for Apollo to appear in person and hurl mountains upon the enemy.
It is a time of portents and wonders. Let the girl be freed, and at once.”

Nikander’s brain whirled as this verdict was pronounced.

But a still further joy awaited him.

Kobon, who had always been his bitterest antagonist, now rose in the
Council and proposed to elect Dryas, son of Nikander, to the priesthood,
also to give Dryas the crown for the best warrior in yesterday’s battle.




CHAPTER XL

AGAIN HOME


On leaving the Council, Nikander did what no other father in Hellas would
have done: He went first to release his daughter before bringing the good
news to his son.

He could not bear that Theria should learn her freedom from any but
himself. Old Akeretos went with him to confirm his authority in the
Pythia House. To tell the truth, they ascended the Precinct with no
little trepidation.

If you had asked who ruled the priests in Delphi not one would have
answered: “The old peasant woman Tuchè.” Yet such was the case. Tuchè had
a tongue of fire. Akeretos knocked faintly, and the authoritative one
herself appeared.

But she told the news quite otherwise than they had expected.

“Theria? No Pythoness, ye say? An’ did it take all ye men in day-long
council to find that out? _I_ knew it from the first. She’s no Pythia,
no, not if she gave the best oracles ever. Take her away, do—before she
puts notions into the heads of the two new ones, good as gold.”

Nikander did not wait for the finish. He ran past Tuchè to Theria’s room.

Theria sat there on her couch staring at nothing in the same melancholy
apathy which before had so troubled the temple women. She did not rouse
until her father stood quite before her. Then up went her longing hands.

“Father, Father,” she whispered amazedly.

But Nikander in his delight threw both arms about her.

“You are free, my own darling Theria, you are free,” he said. “The
Council has freed you.”

But he should have been more careful with his news.

“No,” she said wildly. “Oh, I have to stay here. Here all my life—all my
life.”

“Not one further minute,” he asserted. “Dear child, I have come to take
you home.”

At this dear telling she burst into uncontrollable weeping. “Tuchè will
not let me,” she kept saying like a frightened child. “No, she will not
let me.”

“By the gods she will. Theria, quiet yourself. There, dear little one,
Father will care for you now.”

He was like a tender nurse comforting her. He called the temple slave.

“Get this Pythia robe off my daughter at once,” he commanded. “Where is
the white robe in which she came?”

He himself helped to fasten the shoulder pins, unheard-of service for
a father. Often he kissed her when her tears ran down afresh. By his
excitement he made it the harder for her to grow calm. Then he threw the
himation over her head and face and hurried her out.

They reached home after a happy walk hand in hand. The open air was
always tonic to Theria. She was her bright self again when they had
reached the threshold. Melantho and Eëtíon were tending Dryas in the aula.

With a cry Eëtíon leaped up, knowing the beloved figure before her face
was revealed. Melantho ran to her. Dryas reached out arms from his
couch, calling, “Sister, Sister,” and the slaves came hurrying from
everywhere.

Nikander had to explain a hundred questions how she came to be really
free.

Dryas kept her hand affectionately.

“Now home will be home,” he said. “It has never been the same since you
went away.”

“Dear Theria,” laughed Nikander, “even the fish have tasted wrong. I did
not know you directed the cooking of the fish.”

Then he turned to Dryas.

“Dryas,” he questioned, “have they told you the news?”

“What news?”

Then all the joyfulness was to be gone through again as Nikander told of
Dryas’s election to the priesthood and his crowning.

Nikander, being by nature courageous, was never quite to realize the
struggle Dryas had had to win such a crown. But fine deeds he did know,
and felt new kinship with his son and all the old love and pride. As the
two were talking together, Eëtíon softly drew Theria aside.

How strong and heavenly the joy in his face as he kissed her. Theria had
never known how godlike Eëtíon was until now, his eyes so shining upon
her and so full of awe. What was this strange love which had come to her
from the gods, a thing so unheard-of for a mere Greek girl? Their very
silence together seemed holy, difficult to break.

“Oh, do you think that Father will allow——” she began; and then,
realizing what she was about to ask, she blushed and hushed her speech.

“Allow us what, dear Theria?”

He lifted her hands in both of his, hardly listening to her words. And
before he could answer Melantho broke in upon them.

“Great Heavens! Theria, what are you doing? What am _I_ doing to let you
stay here? Come back to our aula at once.”

Theria was too happy to be disobedient. She took her mother’s hand and
went back with her to the women’s apartment where the door was quickly
shut.




CHAPTER XLI

A SCULPTOR’S RESPECTABILITY


Now that abnormal conditions were past, Nikander and his family returned
to conventional ways. Theria must not meet nor see Eëtíon. Of course she
must not. She must be shut in the women’s court whenever he came to the
house.

Nikander gave his formal consent to the marriage. He loved Eëtíon with
all his heart. The good youth now would have been his choice for Theria
even if Theria had had no wish in the matter. Yet as the days went by
Nikander dreaded the marriage. Marriage with a metic was indeed a serious
step.

Nikander knew his daughter well. He knew that while she now made the
sacrifice gladly that later when she saw her sons excluded from the
priesthood, herself excluded from processional rites and perhaps taunted
by women of her own class, Theria’s proud spirit would revolt. He even
wondered if her love would outlast the strain. Love so burning bright in
youth may be strangely quenched by hard conditions.

Nikander’s attitude unconsciously affected Eëtíon. He, too, now that he
faced his marriage, realized how sad a sacrifice he was asking of her who
had set him free.

He had hoped that Theria would speak to him from her window so that he
could ask her of these things face to face. But this Theria was too loyal
to do.

She sent her messages by her father.

“So soon will come our life-long happiness,” she said, “we must bear this
parting now.”

At last Eëtíon was in serious misery for the trials looming ahead. He
sent question to Theria by Nikander.

“Had she thought of all the future? Did she want to decide again?”

Nikander came back laughing.

“Never send me on such an errand again, young man,” he told him. “She was
almost as abusive as old Tuchè herself. She said she had not supposed
that you would so insult her. That if she were as great a fool as you
seem to be she would retaliate by distrusting your love. But that she
does not do. She trusts your love, and you by this time should trust
hers.”

Eëtíon laughed joyously. “Apollo bless her! she is as lovely in her anger
as in everything else!”

Upon which Nikander named him an Eros-infatuated youth.

But the incident cleared the air. From that time Nikander trusted his
daughter’s decision. So, Melantho having made ready the linens, garments,
and embroideries she considered essential, Theria and Eëtíon were
betrothed before witnesses, solemnly in the aula. For a few happy moments
they stood together and touched hands, though Theria had to be veiled.
The ceremony was more binding than the wedding which was to follow later.
Theria returned to her room knowing that now she belonged to Eëtíon as
his goods and chattels belonged, but her heart was singing for joy.

It was at the betrothal feast, when it was too late for mending, that
Eëtíon revealed his one defect.

They were chatting after the meal, or rather sitting silent while Eëtíon
talked. For none of the youths of Delphi had had such adventures as
Eëtíon, by storm of ocean, by cruelty of pirates, deceit of merchants in
the ports. As a captive he had seen practically all the far ports of the
West.

Eëtíon sat upright on his couch, too animated to recline, his dark eyes
now brightening with some memory, now filling with terror or triumph.
Near him was one of the many small tables of a Greek room.

Upon this table had been left, no doubt by Kairos himself, the god of
chance, a double handful of smooth clay. It had been brought that morning
by some citizens from far away who wanted to establish a sale for it in
Delphi. Nikander had pronounced it the finest in texture he had ever
seen. Then it had been left here.

Eëtíon idly picked it up as he talked, working it with his deft fingers.

Gradually it became soft, malleable. Absently he shaped it into a thick
pillar, then, as if in sudden decision, began to mould it. He ceased
talking, forgot his guests entirely, quite unconscious that they were
watching what he did.

Under his swift fingers the clay soon took the form of a youth. “Look, it
is beautiful,” whispered Dryas, wondering.

Now Eëtíon looked up impatiently, seized upon a plectrum as a tool, and
began to work again in mad haste.

More and more lovely the little youth became, not standing on both feet
in the old hieratic attitude, but leaning forward with one leg advanced
as if running, head thrown back and both arms outstretched toward an
invisible goal. Time passed by, but Eëtíon was unaware of it. Now began
the muscle modelling, dry, and at points stylized, yet lovely and alive,
the delicate thighs full of strength, the spare abdomen showing the play
of running muscles, the chest lifted and full of breath.

“It is Ladas,” they cried, “Ladas, the Argive runner.”

Now Eëtíon began to etch the hair in fine-drawn lines in the old fashion
and bind it down with a fillet. Nikander saw at once that this figure was
the result of long and intense imagining of the mind. Eëtíon could not
otherwise have modelled with such swiftness. The skill, too, was no idle
skill, it was the result of long hours of training and toil.

At length it satisfied its creator. Eëtíon breathed deep, looked up and
saw all the company gazing at him, and laughed a quick, embarrassed laugh.

“Eëtíon!” spoke Nikander, amazed. “Surely you are not a sculptor!”

Eëtíon hung his head. “I sometimes think I am,” he confessed.

“But your father Euclides was a high-born citizen. He surely would not
give you over to the sculptor’s trade.”

“No,” answered Eëtíon. Then on the defensive, “But after all, Nikander,
is there any nobler way of honouring the gods than by beautiful
sculpture? What would Delphi be without its statues and its songs?”

“Oh, but Eëtíon, this is _hand_ craft. See, your hands are soiled even
now. Song is the work of the mind alone.”

“But you use the hand to play the lyre,” said Eëtíon, quickly hiding his
dirty hands in his himation.

“Apollo presides over song,” retorted Nikander. “No such god fosters
sculptor work.”

“There is Hephæstos.”

“The ugly lame god. By heaven, Eëtíon, you are no Hephæstos.” Everybody
laughed. “The beautiful Eëtíon himself with the limping, grizzled one!”

“I am serious,” insisted Nikander; “you must explain this thing. Who
taught you?”

“Ageladas,” answered Eëtíon, “but of course my father never knew.”

“Ah, no wonder you model well,” said Nikander, for Ageladas, the Argive,
was the greatest teacher of sculpture in Greece.

“My pedagogos was Ageladas’s friend,” went on Eëtíon, “and he used to
stop with me at Ageladas’s workshop on our way from school. I—well, I
played with the clay as I do now and Ageladas saw and praised me. But
oh, it was not the praise, it was the love of making beautiful gods and
men which possessed me. All through my school hours I forgot my Homer,
longing to be at work with Ageladas. I bribed my pedagogos again and
again to bring me there. Myron was in the workshop, too, and I learned
at his side. Then one day Ageladas told me he would exhibit one of my
statues as his own.” Eëtíon laughed softly and tears came into his eyes.

“Ah, never shall I forget my father stopping by my own statue. ‘This is
most beautiful of all,’ he said. ‘This youth pouring the libation. See
how he worships, how shyly he supplicates before his god?’ Then such
happiness welled up within me that I could not speak. Dear Father, he
never guessed that the statue was mine.”

Nikander took Eëtíon’s hand.

“But now, Eëtíon, now that you are a Delphian, a son of my house, surely
you will not do this curious thing, which no well-born citizen would do?
Delphi will give you large activities.”

“No, dear Nikander,” answered Eëtíon gently. “No.”

He took the little runner and with a single fierce pressure sent him back
into the clay whence he had come.

“Oh, don’t, don’t do that,” cried they all at once, for they loved its
loveliness.

“It would perish anyway,” said Eëtíon sadly. “The clay would soon crack.”




CHAPTER XLII

THE UNWILLING COLONIST


On the far-away coast of Sicily, the western outpost of the world, lay
the little town of Inessa. One day men came from the neighbouring town
Catana, attacked Inessa, and razed it to the ground. This was done while
Theria was yet spinning at home, before she was immured in the Pythia
House. And this one cruel act, performed by men she had never known, in
a town whose name she had never heard, was to affect Theria’s life more
profoundly than any act of father, mother, or brother.

It was her fate.

A purposeful intent thus seemed to run through circumstance, deflecting
it toward a far-off goal.

Most of Inessa’s inhabitants were killed outright, but among those
who were cast upon the world was an awkward youth—one Hyllos, son of
Inessa’s most prominent citizen—but an ill-born young man who stammered
abominably. This Hyllos being come to the shore of Phokis thought it a
good opportunity to visit the Delphic Oracle and inquire for the curing
of his speech.

But when Hyllos stood before the tripod the priestess answered not at all
concerning his speech, but bade him:

    “Return to Sicily and rebuild Inessa.”

He was so disappointed that he left the tripod almost before the
Pythoness had finished speaking.

But from that hour misfortune followed Hyllos.

At last he became so frightened that he bestirred himself belatedly to
obey the Oracle. He secured a ship and a few people willing to go to
Sicily, but still he dreaded the colonizing task. And on the very day of
Theria’s betrothal Hyllos reappeared in Delphi, praying to be released
from Apollo’s command.

On this occasion the Oracle reproved him roundly.

    “The ruins of Inessa disturb the peace of the Delphic god. Yes,
    and yet more misfortune shall overtake thee unless thou rebuild
    Inessa on a height where trees invite the birds. Of high choice
    is the one who goeth with thee.”

Hyllos next morning met Nikander in the Precinct and to him poured out
his troubles.

“I cannot rebuild Inessa, O priest,” he said. “Only a few poor shepherds
are left there. Our Catanian neighbours in their raid upon us killed
all our leading citizens. They carried away our wealth and destroyed
everything. Inessa is ruined beyond repair. Oh, no doubt the god means to
destroy me also, and takes this way of making me worthy of death.”

Nikander quieted the young man as was his wont, then bade him wait in
Delphi until the priests should think and advise with each other over the
problem.

The young man’s predicament interested Nikander. Like all Delphic priests
he loved those far-away colonies of the west: Tarentum, Catana, Syracuse,
Croton, Elia—scattered at right intervals along the coast of Greater
Greece. They were young in power, wonderful places of sunny beach and
wooded hill, while in their backlands were stretches of the richest soil
in the world.

Almost all those cities had been either founded by the Oracle of Delphi
or greatly helped by it. To some Delphi had given laws, to others had
sent great leaders in times of need. In the case of Cyrene in Africa,
the Oracle had, in some secret way, selected the site and insisted by
repeated commands until the “fortunate city” had been built. Delphi
retained no lordship over these colonies—her children. She was satisfied
to feed their spirit and to receive in return their worship, their
tithes, and free gifts.

Nikander left the young man and at once went into the cella of the Great
Temple. Here in the closed back room he brought forth long-treasured maps
of the priests, ancient ones of pottery, later ones of sheepskin and
papyrus.

He studied them absorbedly. Yes, at the site of the destroyed Inessa was
a great stretch of unhabitation on the coast. A city was needed there and
the port at the mouth of the river Symæthus was good. How well the god
had planned!

Nikander then went to old Akeretos who without delay summoned the Council
of the priests.

They met not in the Council House, for the day was warm, but up in the
great lesche or colonnade of the Precinct. Greeks never willingly did
their thinking away from the open air. Sitting thus on the stone seats,
they could look down through the opening of the steep vale to the far-off
bit of sapphire loveliness which was the Corinthian Gulf.

Nikander showed them his map.

“Yes,” said Karamanor’s father whose name was Glaucos. “I remember
Inessa. Saw it during my travel year. I recall the back country, too.
Lovely shaded heights having wide prospect. I could quite see them in
memory as I stood there yesterday by the tripod. And even while I was
thinking, the Pythia spoke of them, ‘A height where trees invite the
birds.’ The oracle was marvellously clear.”

Glaucos looked awestruck, for the god’s message was not always so
revealing. The tranced Pythia did not invariably reflect the priestly
mind.

“Inessa must be rebuilt,” declared Timon. “Apollo has spoken it, and
Apollo is lord of migrations.”

“Yes,” agreed Nikander. “But this poor stammering Hyllos cannot rebuild
it. Strange it is that upon such an inefficient person the god should
have laid the charge. Within a century past we have not founded so
important a city.”

“The god sees that Hyllos cannot do it,” declared a third priest, Melas.
“Did you note the oracle yesterday? ‘Of high choice the one who goeth
with thee.’ What can that mean but that we are to choose out some real
leader, some adequate, big-minded man, to found the city? He must go with
Hyllos. Thus shall the oracle be fulfilled.”

“One of high choice refers to Apollo himself,” declared Glaucos. “That
was said to encourage Hyllos on the enterprise.”

“That’s the way I understood it,” assented a young priest.

Akeretos brought forth the oracle tablet, and earnestly the priests
reread it.

“It means another man to go with Hyllos. Melas is right,” said Nikander.
“Why should the priestess refer to Apollo? Of course the god always goes.”

“A leader is of utmost importance,” urged Melas. “The god sees that and
gives us the command to find a good one. It’s plain as sunlight.”

“The oracle would be futile otherwise,” put in Timon decisively.

Agreement was soon reached as to the oracle’s meaning and the urgent need
of a leader. Then came the all-important choice of a man.

“Shall he be a Delphian?” was the first question.

“Yes, I think so,” said old Akeretos. “Colonies are not often founded
these days. It may be years before another goes out. ’Tis a rare chance
to strengthen Apollo’s influence in the west.”

“Yes, yes,” chorused the priests. “A Delphian, by all means.”

Nikander’s face suddenly shone. He had wished for many a month to do some
service for Karamanor and Agis in return for their honourable treatment
of his poor son Lycophron. They were younger sons without means. Here was
a chance to make them both rich and prominent.

“I propose Karamanor and Agis, Glaucos’s sons, as leaders of the colony,”
said Nikander.

The priests discussed the two young men at length, but in the end
rejected both—honest young fellows but not of calibre for this business.
Then Dryas was proposed but quickly rejected. Then several other young
men of Delphi. It was not easy to find a leader of the peculiar genius
needed, fearless yet not quarrelsome, young yet understanding, having the
statesman’s uncanny vision to discern the hidden meaning of events and
their unlooked-for but inevitable resultants.

During this later discussion Timon had remained quite silent. Evidently
he was thinking something through before proposal. Timon’s was the
most original mind in the Council, and Nikander awaited his word with
pleasure. However, amazement rather than pleasure followed it.

“O priests,” at last said Timon, “has it occurred to you that there have
been women who were successful _oekists_ of colonies?”

“Women! what nonsense, Timon. What are you joking about?”

The Council broke into puzzled laughter. For women were a perennial
source of satire.

“No, no, I mean it. Did not Dido, the Tyrian, found Carthage and was
faithful to the city even unto death?”

“Ay, but Dido was no Greek.”

“No, but Manto was—Manto who founded Clarus. She was a _priest’s
daughter_, a priest of Apollo.”

Suddenly Nikander guessed Timon’s meaning.

It was Theria—none other, whom Timon was about to propose for this high,
amazing trust.

But why? How could Timon know that the girl had the needed
power—Nikander’s little girl, hidden away in her home, unknown?

For a moment Nikander pictured her thus and trembled to think how his
familiar Theria could wield the power of state.

Then with an overwhelming pride he realized that she could! _She could
do it!_ What else was the meaning of her trenchant questionings, her
revealing suggestions in matters which puzzled himself, her overpowering
interest in public affairs in spite of all rebukes, her oracles, by which
in the very face of death she had sent courage to the armies?

Yes, yes, Theria could! And the high task would meet and satisfy her
mental need.

Ah, but that task would take her away over seas; away, away to the west.
Nikander would never see his child again. The very life would be torn
out of him to part with her. It was too sudden, too unexpected. He must
call aloud to Timon to stop—stop! But no. Did he dare stand in Theria’s
way, to deprive her of this gift? Was it not her right, her fate from the
gods? Nikander hid his face from the Council. They would never understand
this emotion of his—this dependence upon a girl-child.

But what were the priests saying? With quick concern Nikander looked up
again.

“It’s not only foolish, Timon; it’s dangerous!” Melas spoke. “Give a
woman power like that, she’ll go mad with it.”

Melas was one of those Greeks, a numerous class, who hated women with
a curious active hatred which seemed almost bred of fear. They laughed
at it all, of course. Why could not babies be found in temples and
thus women utterly done away? Wives! what silly, miserable creatures.
Hetairai! what undoing of mankind. And behind all the gibing was the
curious hating fear. Nikander knew that Melas would not stop short of
harming Theria to keep her from being nominated. Keenly Nikander heard
the argument.

“I’ve followed you, Timon, in most of your proposals,” said another
priest, “but now, by the gods, this is too much! But say, old fellow, you
_are_ joking, you know you are.”

“It seems to me you insult all the able young men of Delphi,” said
Glaucos.

“What young man have we in Delphi who has seen Apollo face to face?”
retorted Timon. “Theria, daughter of Nikander, has been found worthy to
behold the god.”

“That’s so, that’s so,” assented some.

“Go fetch her oracle tablets, let’s see what Apollo said to her,” said
one.

A messenger was dispatched to the temple.

“And not only has she beheld Apollo,” went on Timon. “But she has spoken
for him. Think of those two oracles of hers on the tripod. If it had
not been for those oracles, where would Delphi be now? On the Persian
side! In disgrace! As it is, men are throwing the earlier oracles of
Aristonikè in our face. ‘Persian lovers!’ they call us. ‘Medizers, you
Delphians.’ And for my part I have naught to answer but Theria’s oracles.
That silences ’em. Salamis and the storm of Artemisium! She foretold them
both.”

“Ay, foretold them,” screamed Melas. “But what had she to do with it? It
was the god that spoke through her. She was nothing but his mouthpiece.”

“She was more, more I tell you, Melas. She understood those oracles—saw
exactly whither they led. She gave them, rejoicing in what they were to
accomplish. She——”

“One would think,” interrupted Melas, “from what you say, Timon, that she
made them up, and that you knew it!”

“By Zeus, it seemed that way to me. Even at the time I thought so,” said
the young priest, his echo.

Ah, they had scented it out! What Nikander had feared—Theria’s strange
deception (or was it deception? Nikander himself hardly thought so now).
If this question should come up in the Council, what punishment might not
fall upon Theria? Who could foresee the end?

Not one trace of this terror, however, showed in Nikander’s face. Your
true Greek was on his mettle at such time. He spoke with trumpet anger.

“I will not have my daughter insulted in the Council! If you cannot
discuss her honourably, do not discuss her at all. You all know that her
oracle trance on the tripod was so real that it nearly killed her. You
all know that Apollo spoke afterward to her in the mountain. And you, and
you, and you”—turning to the priests—“saw her after her vision. Was ever
any vision condition more patent?”

“No, no!” they said. “That vision was true if ever vision was.”

“Then stop this cavilling about my daughter. Either she has the power
to conduct the colony or else she has not. That alone is up for your
decision.”

Since Salamis, Nikander had been a most powerful figure in the Council,
ardently loved, sincerely feared. The lovers spoke first.

“You know your daughter, Nikander. Tell us what you think of her.”

“I think she can do it. Whether I am willing for her to go is another
matter. Oh,” Nikander added, “I was as unwilling as you are to
acknowledge this power in my daughter. Like you I thought it insulted my
sons who should have it in her stead. But hers is the gift of mind. I
have been taught that, obstinately fighting. I have been punished until I
saw.”

“Punished by herself?” sneered Melas.

“No, by some unrelenting god,” he answered with the love of Theria
shining in his eyes.

“Remember,” spoke Timon again. “She has seen Apollo. We want Delphi kept
alive in the hearts of her colonists. Could we do better than send one
who has beheld the god?”

This argument won.

It was as if Apollo himself were bestowing the leadership upon his ardent
young priestess.

Nikander and Timon left the Council together. Each gazed for a moment
into the other’s face.

“Well?” said Timon, smiling.

“Well!” said Nikander, still half amazed. “You have let me in for a fine
adventure.”

“Aren’t you glad?”

“Yes, I am glad,” responded Nikander, but Timon saw his eyes flush with
tears.

“You are very fond of her?”

“Yes, oh, yes. She is closer to me than any other now that I have grown
to know her. But,” suddenly lifting his head, “how in Zeus’s name did you
guess her, Timon? You never meet her as I do.”

“I did not have to guess. I saw.”

“Saw? What do you mean?”

“Her oracles on the tripod. She _did_ make them, Nikander. I know that.
You know it! By Zeus, it was a close shave in the Council.”

The sudden statement was like a thunder-clap. Nikander shook with fear.
He seized Timon’s arm.

“You will not accuse her! Timon! She was compelled. She was——”

“No, no. Has not the god himself justified her? Who am I to offer blame?
But I saw her do it! And by Zeus, it was the bravest deed, yes, and the
most intelligent that I ever saw in my life.”

“Oh,” breathed Nikander.

“At first I could not credit that she was doing it, even though she was
pronouncing the oracle as no one had ever pronounced it—driving home its
meaning, by Hermes—driving it home! Then I saw the martyr light in her
face—the death light, expecting the god’s lightning stroke. Did you note
that agonized look just before she fell?

“But she had done the deed. Done the thing that you and I, Nikander,
couldn’t bring about with all our toil and effort.”

Nikander was too moved to speak.

“Ever since then,” went on Timon, “the girl’s genius has haunted me.
Horrible, you know! Such genius to be wasted even though it be housed in
a woman. There!” he ended, laughing. “You have my reasoning.”

Nikander’s gratitude beamed from his face. “The gods bless you,” he said,
“for giving the girl her chance.”




CHAPTER XLIII

THE BIRD IN THE CAGE


Nikander came hurrying into the house.

“Where is Theria?” he demanded.

Time was when Nikander coming in had invariably asked, “Where is Dryas?”
Now it was always, “Where is Theria?” looking about restlessly as though
home were not home until Theria appeared.

“Theria? She has gone to bed,” answered her mother.

“To bed! But the sun has not yet set,” said Nikander.

“Yes, but that’s where she is all the same. She said there was nothing
more to do in the house so she had better sleep. Of course there _is_
more to do,” complained Melantho. “You’d think she’d take more interest
in her bridal spinning. She says there are already more linens and
woollens than she can use in twenty years if she had twenty children.”

“Well, aren’t there?” laughed Nikander.

“I should think she would like some more just to put away. But she is so
listless.”

Nikander smiled happily.

Listless! Ah, the dear child! She would be listless no longer now that
this supreme task had been thrust into her hands. How strangely that had
been done, as if the god had done it beyond all human planning. Ah, what
a task! The eloquent statements of the afternoon had set the colony
glowing in Nikander’s mind. That Theria his child had been chosen leader
still filled him with an amazed joy. And Timon’s words! They thrilled
back upon Nikander like a triumphal song. He was newly proud, newly
tender toward his child who, unaided, had faced death from the god. But
Timon had recognized the real power of the girl which had quite escaped
the father who loved her. Nikander wondered at this so-common experience.
Theria was as good as a son to him now. Had this happened to Lycophron or
Dryas could he be any happier than he was at this moment?

He turned impatiently to Melantho.

“Think you she is asleep?” he asked.

“Who, Theria? No, hardly yet. Have you something for her to do?”

“By the gods, yes,” answered Nikander, and strode off like a boy to
Theria’s room.

Yes, she was asleep. How strange to see her bright face so quieted. Gods!
What a quantity of dark hair she had spreading out over her pillow. What
a young child she was, after all.

“Theria,” he said, touching her shoulder.

Her eyes opened wide and alarmed.

“Father, what has happened?”

“Something wonderful, dear child, but you can never guess it. Are you
awake enough to understand?”

Theria sat up rubbing her eyes, dizzy from the depths of sleep.

“About Eëtíon?” she murmured.

“No, not your lover. Yourself, yourself. Though, by Hermes, Eëtíon comes
into it, too.” Suddenly Nikander found the matter difficult to explain.
The girl there on her bed looked so tender, so young! A creature to
cherish and protect. Hardly to send over seas to contend with men and
fate. He sat down beside her and took her slender hand—that feminine hand
so curiously like his own.

“It is a brand-new colony,” he began, “a city that is to be founded or
rather refounded in Sicily.”

“Yes; what has that to do with me?” How infinitely far she was from
guessing the outcome!

Nikander went back to the beginning, told of Hyllos and his difficult
oracle, of the Council, of the proposal of Karamanor and Agis, of Dryas.
She grew keenly interested.

“No, no, those could not be leaders, Father. I cannot think of any one
who could, any one big enough. Let me see, let me see——”

She looked away, knitting her pretty brows.

“The priests are not in such doubt, Daughter,” said Nikander tenderly.
“They have chosen you!”

“Me!” She turned such an amazed face that Nikander had to laugh.

“What on earth do you mean? Why are you joking, Father?”

The same question which Melas had asked.

“I am not joking, dear heart. The priests are in earnest. They chose you
because you have seen Apollo. No one in our generation has done that, my
child.”

“The vision! How strange. How strange. And the priests chose me, you say?
The priests—me!”

Nikander went on explaining as if to dreaming ears. She seemed not to
hear him.

“Would Eëtíon go?” she queried.

“Yes, he would help you, but he would not be the leader. That is for
you.”

“For me! Oh, Father,” she suddenly cried out. “How could you suppose I
could do it? Think of the wisdom, the strength to command men where no
laws command them, to know, oh, to know everything for a city’s good. I
am not great enough. I am not—not even _good_ enough, Father.”

“But I think you are,” he told her.

She leaned toward him, her lips quivering, very woman, veritable child.

“I would have to go away from Delphi. I would never see Delphi again! I
would never see _you_ again! Dear, dear Father, that would be like death!”

He put both arms about her and was not astonished when she began to sob
as if from some great shock or strain.

“You will not command me to go,” she pleaded. “Do not command me to go.”

“My dear child! Of course not against your will. But do you not see the
honour, the splendour of doing this thing? Of making a city which shall
be your own, upon which you can stamp what character you will?”

“I am not great enough to stamp character upon a city. Oh, no, oh, no!
Think if I should make some mistake which would harm it, harm the people
for perhaps a hundred years. And, oh, I could never think of any city
as _my_ city except my Delphi—my Delphi,” she repeated with all the
hereditary love, the life-long worship sounding in the word.

Nikander was utterly puzzled.

“Are you only a woman, after all?” he asked.

“Why, yes, Father, what should I be?” she asked with innocent stare.

“Don’t you want your freedom?”

“Freedom! oh, Father, at the price of exile?”

“Exile it is, if you so consider it,” he said. “There, go to sleep again.
I don’t believe you are half awake, anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I am, I am awake.”

So he left her. Nikander’s mind was strangely divided between relief
and disappointment. Only a woman, after all. Evidently Timon’s heroics
were all misplaced. She cared only for home and loved ones. What young
man but would have leaped to the task, seen the honour, joyed in the
responsibility? And what should he say to the priests? How they would
laugh! He could hear Melas’s gibes. Timon would get the brunt of it for
proposing her name. Well, after all, they both deserved it for believing
such high things of a mere girl.

Yet as Nikander composed himself to sleep he was amazed at his curious
sense of relief, an escape out of sorrow. How lovingly she had flung
herself into his arms, and what an actual protection he had felt in that
love of hers—protection from loneliness, old age ... greyness of life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus strangely did Theria receive the news of her freedom. Like a bird
born in a cage, she did not recognize the open door. This amazing
proposal had come to Theria at the most sentimental hour of her life,
when the bride leaving her old home looks with vivid tenderness upon it.
These days the dear old home did not imprison Theria. And the new one!
With what intense hope and wonder did that draw her on!

Perhaps she had not been fully awake talking with her father. But surely
she was awake now. She began to toss and toss upon her bed. She was a
little hurt that her father should so easily plan her departure from
Delphi.

“I thought he knew how I loved the Oracle,” she reflected. “But he does
not know. Because I am not Dryas, nor Timon—because I am not a man,
Father thinks I cannot feel as he does. But I do, I do.”

She sat up in bed, gazing into the dark.

“I have helped Delphi,” she murmured, rather miserably. “At least I
thought I had helped Delphi by my oracles. Shall I not love my city that
I have helped?”

The miraculous saving of Delphi after days of danger, Theria’s vision on
the mountain—all had intensified her already ardent love of home. Even
her god Apollo was locally peculiar to his shrine. Gods were never quite
the same when worshipped in distant temples. Apollo of Delphi was nearer
to Theria than Apollo anywhere else. No, no, how strange of her father to
propose her going away. And he wanted her to found a city! The greatness
of the task appalled her. She lay back with a sigh.

Inessa! What did the city look like, lying ruined on its distant
shore?—“The most beautiful shore in the world,” her father had called
it. Apollo himself must love that city since he so insisted upon its
rebuilding. A great mountain rose behind it, greater than Parnassos. This
also her father had told her. She began again to wonder who could be
selected to rebuild it. No doubt the priests had looked over the whole
field and found no one. That was why they had chosen her. There could
be no other reason for such choosing. Well, they would fall back upon
Karamanor. Karamanor had commercial talent. Theria had always heard of
that, and how from a little boy he had always got the best of it in
every enterprise. Karamanor would make Inessa prosperous, send her ships
over farthest waters, and make her rich as Sybaris. Oh, but that was not
what the god wanted! There were plenty of rich colonies in the west. No,
surely Apollo had some great entity for Inessa. An _eidolon_ she called
it, a spiritual ideal or image containing the force and character of the
god himself. Beauty rising from it to meet the beauty of the divine mind.
Song in abundance fostered, almost worshipped, there. Beauty of dance and
of perfectly formed high-hearted youths. Justice, yes, even to the poor
who expect no just dealings. And perhaps some new Philosophy which the
god had stored in his heart to give to some philosopher yet unborn and
who could be born only in this new place of free speech and high ideals,
this place untrammelled by old-world mistakes. She thought of Pythagoras,
Parmenides. Yes, it was from the west that the philosopher came and
awakened the minds of men.

Oh, who could tell what the god of pure, unutterable beauty might do
if only the place were prepared? Inessa was a god-appointed place, a
god-appointed task. But Karamanor could not do it.

Then? What then?

It was _her_ task. _Theria’s!_ God-given!

She was unworthy, unable! Yes, yes, but the god would help her. Had he
not always helped? Ah, out of such difficulties, such despairs, always
that hand reached down, always that sudden brightness of mind which was
the god’s presence.

She seemed to see Inessa on its shore forlorn, waiting for her!

She leaped from her bed and stood trembling in the darkness. What had
she done? She had sent her father away; she had refused! A sentimental,
maudlin refusal! Oh, if her father had only shaken her. He was too gentle
these days, was Father. She must tell him quickly, quickly. She must tell
him she would go.

She felt her way to the door, then hurried along the balcony to her
father’s room. He was in the heavy first sleep of night, and when she
spoke to him he did not arouse, but only sighed wearily. Melantho sat up.
“Are you ill? Is it robbers?” she asked. And learning it was neither she
rated Theria in wrathful whispers for disturbing the head of the house.

So Theria perforce went back to her room, there to toss, to plan, to
wonder, until nearly dawn when she fell, as with a sudden stumble, into
slumber.

       *       *       *       *       *

When she awoke again the full sun was shining brightly into the court.
Inessa, the new wonderful colony, met her awaking mind. She had been
walking in its streets of dream with Eëtíon.

But she knew that Nikander always rose with the dawn. Already he might
be gone from the house to tell the priests to choose another leader. In
mad haste she threw on her chiton and hurried down into the aula. Paian
be praised! Nikander was still there, but all dressed and sandalled going
toward the door.

“Father, Father!” she cried breathlessly. “Wait a moment. Oh, I must see
you alone.”

“What has happened?” he asked.

“Inessa! Oh, Father, I am going to Inessa. I must go.”

“What,” he smiled at her vehemence. “Changeable woman! Do you expect me
to veer about with all your moods?”

“I didn’t listen. I was blind. I——”

“But perhaps I, too, have changed mood. I am not nearly so eager as I was
last night, my daughter.”

He was not teasing. He meant it! There were longing and affection in his
face before which she was utterly silent.

Then he looked into her eyes.

“Does the colony seem more possible this morning?” he asked seriously.

“Possible! Oh, the wonderful task! God-given. Are you sure, sure the
priests meant it for me?”

“Quite sure. It was a long, serious discussion.”

“There is no one else,” she said humbly. “That is why they chose me. And
that is why I must go. Inessa seems as if it were my own child, lonely,
ruined, waiting for me.”

“Hmm—so that is your meaning this morning.”

She began to pace up and down. “Father, it is a thousand-fold task, the
founding of a city.”

“I should rather think so,” he smiled.

“Would I have the choice of men who are to go? It should be but a few men
at first, and the right men.”

“Yes, the choice would be yours.”

“And the present site of the city. May I choose another? If the old site
be unhealthful, or melancholy, or not beautiful, or haunted by some fate?”

“Yes, with the consent of the colonists.”

“And the laws of the city. Would I select the code and even annul laws
that proved unsuited in the new land? Oh, Father, you will have to teach
me. I will have to work every moment to grow wiser and better.”

“I will teach you,” he responded, wondering at her.

“Think, if we could make a new city where better justice would be meted
out than ever before, where even the poor man could keep up heart and
courage. And where orphans would be nurtured. Oh, nobody should care for
the little fatherless children but me. I would let no one else do that.”

She stopped her pacing and faced him. He was amazed at the change in
her—a look of release, of purpose in her face that had never been there
before. Seeing her eyes so shining, he realized that always heretofore
they had held a bafflement, a look of discouragement and hunger. That
look was gone. Now she was strangely creative, maternal onward-moving.
The very lift of her head was free. He seemed to see a new Theria.

“Daughter,” Nikander said, “I did not, no, I did not realize it would
mean all this to you.”

“Dear Father, dear Father,” she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nikander at once plunged into the further details of the colony. Theria’s
enthusiasm was contagious. She listened to him, absorbed. Suddenly she
stopped him.

“Of course Eëtíon knows of my leadership? He approves?”

“I did not see him, Daughter. I came hot-foot to you.”

“But Eëtíon should have known it first of all.” Her eyes looked startled,
then deep trouble entered into them. “Suppose he does not wish to go?”

“But he will go, Daughter. I am sure he will.”

“I am not sure, not sure,” was her troubled answer. “Eëtíon has been so
beaten about the world. He is so pathetically glad to be here at home in
Hellas.”

“I’ll make him go,” laughed Nikander.

“Oh, but that is not what I want. No, Eëtíon, too, must be happy. If
he were saddened, all the joy would go out of the work; I would lose my
luck.”

“Oh, but he’ll go for your sake.”

She seemed not to hear him.

“Father”—she turned to him with sudden pleading—“may I not see Eëtíon?
I long to see him now—_now_. What foolishness to keep us apart. We are
betrothed, Eëtíon and I.”

“But I can tell him about the colony.”

“No, no, I must tell him myself. Please, Father, please!”

He could not resist her pleading. He kissed her. “Impetuous daughter,” he
called her. But he went forth to find Eëtíon.




CHAPTER XLIV

THE METIC


Theria was heroic no longer. She ran to find Baltè.

“Baltè, dress me quick, quick,” she commanded. “No, in my festival dress,
the white one with the purple-flowered border. And I want the lovely big
necklace, too, with the golden shells and amethysts.”

Theria’s fingers trembled as she helped to fasten the robe.

“Eëtíon is coming,” she whispered. “Oh, he may be here any moment.”

But many moments passed and even hours. Theria went now to the upper
window, now down to the door, thinking she had seen Eëtíon on the road,
now back into the court.

“Why doesn’t he come?” she said despairingly. “Oh, he is against the
colony. Father is trying to persuade him. That is what keeps them. It
could be nothing else. Perhaps Eëtíon will not let me go at all.”

Theria had lived so long in half serfdom that she could not, save in
certain burning moments, credit her freedom to do this thing. At last
Baltè tried to persuade her to eat her breakfast.

“You are famished, darling,” quoth the nurse. “How pale you are. Your
lover must not see you so pale.”

But Theria could not eat. She was sitting hopeless at the little table
in the court when, with quiet suddenness, the door opened and Eëtíon was
there. She rose, trembling, paler than ever. She did not move. Eëtíon ran
to her.

“You are ill, darling? Why did you send for me? Ah, Theria, Theria, to
see you, to see you!” And he kissed her again and again, so that she had
no time to answer.

He had been out hunting, Eëtíon told her. He had returned to find the
slave with her message. Oh, why had she given him this unlooked-for joy?

Then brokenly, trying not to plead either in voice or look, Theria told
him of the colony and that her father wished to make her _oekist_—the
leader of the colony.

“We must not go unless you wish to go, Eëtíon,” she finished. “It will
mean hardships again for you, pioneer life away from your art and the
beautiful things that are your very life. It would put you far from
Hellas when you have had to wander so many years.”

For his sake she saw Inessa as it really was—a ruin on a desolate shore,
a struggle for mere subsistence, a fight with Nature and with human foes.

But Eëtíon noted only one thing.

“You would be _oekist_?” he asked, amazed.

“Yes, you and I together.”

“They would place that great task in your hands? Would the priests really
do that?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Oh,” he broke out. “It is better than anything I ever hoped for you. It
is——”

She glanced up at him with such sudden relief that her eyes filled with
tears.

“Look here, you little child,” spoke Eëtíon quickly. “What have you been
thinking?”

“I thought——” Theria stopped.

“You thought I might take away your gift? That I, your lover, your
betrothed, and therefore your lawful master, would snatch your freedom
away?”

He took her right hand, holding it against his breast, now bending to
kiss it.

“Theria,” he said soberly, “you haven’t begun to understand my love, not
even begun to understand it.”

“Do you mean that you really wish me to reach out—to—to find joy in
something beyond my home and children—beyond you, you, too?”

Eëtíon paused a moment in a sort of amazed impatience with her.

“Isn’t that what I have been telling you in as many ways as I knew how,
ever since I first caught sight of you?” he inquired.

“I didn’t believe you.”

“Do you now?”

She looked, her eyes so deep with gratitude that he caught his breath.

“It will never be beyond you, Eëtíon. My whole life goes to you and there
rests.”

“And you gave me my freedom. It’s there that my love rests.”

“But that was so easy to do. Who would not have done it?”

“Nobody but you, Theria. And with what quickness you did it, so
spontaneously, so effectively—just you, you! Darling, I would live my
life on a frozen coast if that were the only way to give you, too, the
gift of freedom.”

“But you must be happy,” she insisted. “Can’t you see I cannot be glad
unless——”

“Yes, yes, I am happy,” he interrupted her. “Theria, have you ever
thought how humiliating it is to be a metic? In Argos I belonged to an
honoured clan. Here in Delphi I am a metic, an alien, nor can I ever be
otherwise. In the new city I will be a citizen—the first citizen of all.”

“Eëtíon!” she exclaimed.

He drew her close, speaking low and earnestly:

“And our children will be citizens also. They will inherit. In the new
city my sons shall hold up their heads.”

When Nikander came in a half hour later he found the two lovers bending
over a pottery tile on which was a map.

Theria leaped up, clapping her hands like a child.

“He will go, he will go,” she cried.

“Did I not tell you that he would?” answered Nikander quietly.




CHAPTER XLV

THE MARRIAGE


In the pleasant sunset hour there was great excitement in Delphi village.
Men and women of the aristocratic families of the town were all upon
the street. Since women were abroad, it could be nothing other than a
wedding. Nikander’s daughter to be married! And the circumstances were so
unusual that not one relative would miss it. Nikander was marrying her to
a foreigner, a strange choice where Delphic youths abounded. But it was
said that the choice was the girl’s own, that she loved the young man.

She had managed to see him, and the young man had seen Theria’s face not
once, but twice. This, however, was stoutly denied by the nearest of
kin. The bridegroom had some wealth. That was a comfort; but he was as
peculiar as the girl herself.

The girl had seen Apollo in a vision and was now going to carry the god’s
worship over seas to a place where Polyphemus, the one-eyed giant, still
lived and might at any time sally forth from some sequestered forest.
Where also were men with heads turned backward. This from the women. The
men knew better.

So they all gathered to the festive house with laughter, cousinly
greetings, and jests. Nikander, richly clad and crowned with myrtle,
received them at the door. Ah, there was the bridegroom, too. He was
certainly handsome even though no Delphian. His dark head was crowned.
He was clad in the crimson purple so dear to the Greeks. And here was
Dryas, limping from his honourable wounds and greeting them all in his
friendly way. How bright the torches burned in the aula! The smell of
roast lamb was wafted from the kitchen to mingle with the odour of rose
garlands everywhere. The slaves were bringing in the wine. Would the
bride come soon?

In the midst of this worldly clatter the love that was between the
pair burned, a thing apart like an altar flame on a still day, clear,
unswerving toward the sky.

The ceremonies had begun in the morning when Nikander sacrificed the lamb
to Hera Teleia. In the afternoon had come Theria’s maiden cousin bearing
a pitcher of pure water from Castalia spring. Theria had received her
bridal bath knowing that at the spring itself Eëtíon likewise was being
purified.

Theria had been all joy, full of excited laughter, pranks, and dancing.
But now her joy swept into an exaltation which kept her still and
wistfully kind to all who served her.

As said her own Greek poet:

    Young life grows in those sheltered regions of its own,
    And the sungod’s heat vexes it not,
    Nor rain nor any wind
    But it rejoices in its sweet untroubled being.

Toward evening her mother and Baltè dressed Theria in her robes. They
draped her beauty in the bridal saffron in which it glowed, they crowned
her dark head with myrtle, accenting its symmetry. Then they covered all
with the bridal veil and took her below into the torch-lighted aula.

Sorry might those well be who missed the wonder of her hidden eyes.

The guests received her with shouts and laughter. For the wedding was
a revel and a romp, the subject of raillery and joke. The women sat at
table apart; the men at their feast table. How merrily they laughed when
Eëtíon kept glancing away from the board toward his bride and forgot to
talk. It was not the bride’s beauty but Eëtíon’s which was remarked by
the guests.

So they drank the wine and poured it to the gods, and flung it each in
turn from his glass into a whirling cup. Whoever flung without spilling
won a prize.

The young couple, in spite of their curious history, made a good
impression upon the guests, and several that evening asked to become
members of the new colony.

Then in the midst of the _kottabus_ game went up the shout:

“The marriage car at the door!”

Only a moment had Theria to gaze about her at the dear familiar place
seen all dimly through her veil. Then her mother took her hand and led
her out into the coolness of the night.

There the full round of the marriage-moon made a whiter day. Eëtíon
lifted his bride, a slim, swathed figure, into the chariot, then sat at
her side. Karamanor, as paranymphos, sat with them.

The procession started, Melantho behind the chariot carrying the marriage
torches whose ruddy burning sent aloft the mystic smoke. Out from the
house into the silvery radiance of the moon-lit road poured forth the
youths and maidens, singing, shouting:

“Ho Hymen! Hymen Hymenæos. Io!”

Up the Delphi highroad they danced toward the little house beyond the
Precinct, which Nikander had given to the pair. A mad and merry rout,
they followed the jolting car. One played the sounding pipes, and behind
him a boy clashed aloft the thin, glittering cymbals. In a burst of
joyous music they stopped at the bridegroom’s door.

There stood Baltè with torches to receive them. Eëtíon’s mother should
have been the one to hold that welcoming torch. No doubt she guessed this
in her dark house of Hades and wept with tearless eyes to be near her son
upon his marriage night.

Now Eëtíon lifts his bride from the chariot, carries her carefully over
the high threshold that no stumble of her foot may bring ill luck. And
they go into the marriage chamber. The door is shut and Eëtíon with
reverent hand lifts the bridal veil to behold at last the wondering,
half-frightened, yet happy face for which he has longed these many days.

Soberly he gives to her the quince, symbolic food of those who are to be
the mothers of men. Her hands, as she eats, tangle in the long enmeshing
veil, and with a quick breath Eëtíon sweeps it off upon the floor. Her
comely head is liberate, her shoulders and arms free.

Suddenly he catches her away from ritual into a high shining reality. He
folds her in his arms, kissing her forehead and mouth.

“Oh, be free,” he whispers. “Your hands to act, your eyes to see, my
Theria, giver of my freedom.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, the guests outside the closed door make merry, chanting the
epithalamion, calling rudely to the bridal pair as the ancient custom is,
but they—they hear it not.




CHAPTER XLVI

THE DOOR OF ESCAPE


Then followed a busy, happy winter. All the months must be passed in
making ready the colony which was to start with the early navigation of
the spring. Eëtíon journeyed to his old home in Argos, and found there,
as he had expected, certain citizens who were faithful to Hellas and
secretly grieving over Argos’s faithless stand in the war.

Xerxes, the Persian king, was gone from Greece. But a formidable army of
Persians yet lingered in Greece. Before these were vanquished fighting
was yet to be—and these few Argive men were horrified at the prospect of
fighting against their own. They returned with Eëtíon to Delphi. Theria
tested these men, shrewdly asking them questions, watching their faces.
Eëtíon, spite of experience, was a less keen judge than she. From wrong
premises she was continually drawing right conclusions. After trying to
help her Eëtíon gave up, laughing. The feminine way was new.

In Delphi itself, Karamanor and Agis and a number of other kinsmen were
glad to go. Those who were not married took brides forthwith. The new
generation in the colony would have a strong Delphic stamp. Here was more
business for the _œkist_, for not a bride among them wanted to go. Theria
visited from one to the other, picturing the new life, persuading them.

“No one in the colony shall be homesick if I can help it,” she told them.
And remembering her own first reluctance to go, she could not be hard
upon their timidity. Theria had never known girl-friends, but in these
earnest conferences she acquired them. One little wife in particular—a
girl of fourteen years, delicate, pale, whose father had been very severe
and whose husband was now taking his turn at severity—Theria took to her
heart with great tenderness. She was herself astonished at the way the
little creature bloomed and grew strong under the new encouragement.

And now Theria must receive the grain to be laden in the ships, grain
both for food and for planting. Theria tended the tiny grape-vines and
treasured the seeds of useful herbs and vegetables to be carried over
seas. No seeds of flowers, for the Greeks did not plant them. Besides,
were not the slopes and capes of Sicily one far-flung flowerland?

As for Nikander, the days were not long enough for him to teach his
daughter all she now must know: the Delphic laws, the modes of city
government, precautions for city health, religious customs in which she
must be vigilant and exacting. Her hungry learning brought tears to
Nikander’s eyes. But often these were tears of pride for the quickness of
her mind, her strong opinion so intimately his own, her quick refusal of
wrong methods or shallow reasoning.

But it was perhaps Melantho who in these days noted the greatest change
in Theria. Theria had always been haughty toward her mother, disobedient,
and sharp of answer.

Melantho’s commonplaceness, her willingness for the jog-trot woman’s
life exasperated her daughter; and when Melantho had tried to make
the daughter keep to the same dull pace there had arisen quarrels and
bitterness.

But in these days of free outlet Theria grew gentle toward her mother.
Affectionate, though a little condescending withal as daughters are apt
to be. Then while Theria was yet unaware the affection grew into respect
for the stubby little figure that went pottering around the house making
content out of such meagre materials. Homespuns, tapestries, embroidered
things—these were Melantho’s joy. These like the gay patch-work quilts of
a later day were the spirit-outlets for a housed woman.

One day timidly she brought forth to her daughter a balcony hanging—a
gorgeous thing. The little human figures wrought upon it told an ancient
legend lost save that this ancient woven design preserved it to memory
and men’s eyes. The little men and women were archaic, almost grotesque,
but perfect in decorative value. For in Hellas even such delicate,
perishable things took on the inevitable beauty which flowed from Greek
souls through their fingers.

Melantho spread it before Theria on a table.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“It is beautiful—beautiful,” said Theria, passing a caressing hand over
the deep reds and gorgeous peacock-blues. “Do you know, Mother, whenever
this was hung from the balcony when I was a little child I used to shout
and prance with joy. Many a time you punished me and did not know why I
was noisy.”

Melantho looked down.

“How strange,” she said. “It always makes me feel that way, too.”

“You, Mother! _You!_”

“Of course,” corrected Melantho, “I never did it. I never pranced.”

Theria laughed a thrill of affectionate laughter. “I wish you had,” she
declared.

“I was wondering,” said Melantho, hesitating, “if you would not take this
with you to your new home.”

“I wouldn’t think of taking it,” said Theria. “It is too precious. And it
belongs here in the dear old home where it has always been.”

“Yes,” said Melantho. “The ship will be crowded with useful things which
you really need.”

Something in Melantho’s face, as she gathered the folds together, caught
Theria.

“Mother! Do you really want me to take it? You are willing to part with
it?” she exclaimed.

Melantho paused in her timid way.

“You dear Mother,” said Theria, shaking her mother’s shoulders in
affectionate protest. “Don’t you suppose I’d rather have it than a
hundred merely useful things? I hated to be selfish.”

Melantho’s face shone. “I have so many more.”

“But none so glorious as this one, Mother. Oh, at first, when I have only
a little hut, and hang this in it, it will be home. And, Mother, I’ll
feel, when my babies are born and see this, that they will be seeing
something that is really Delphi!—Delphi!”

“Perhaps other children,” ventured Melantho, “other children of the
colony will see it, too. The town will be so poor and bare at first.
Nothing beautiful, nothing——” Melantho was quite unresigned to Theria’s
going, could see no possible reason for it.

“Yes,” Theria conceded. “It will be all of that, huts and mere shelters
at first. But it will never look like that to me.”

“Yes, but the children who are too little to remember Delphi,” objected
Melantho. “How will it look to them?”

“I will bring them to see this. Yes, I will. Until our temples are built
and my dear Eëtíon makes statues of gods and men. Only think, Mother,
it will be your gift—the gift of your fingers—which will keep alive our
heritage of beauty, until the town brings it to life again in itself.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Many a long hour did Nikander, Eëtíon, and Theria together study the maps
of the western colonies.

“You see,” said Nikander one day, “by this map how near Inessa lies to
her unkind neighbour, Catana. That is a problem for you, Theria, for you
also, Eëtíon.”

But Eëtíon was studying the map with knitted brows.

“I wish it showed whether marble is found there,” he said. “Do you
suppose Syracuse would furnish bronze?”

Nikander clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

“Oh, incorrigible sculptor, what did you promise me?” he asked.

Eëtíon blushed like a boy. “In the new city,” he pleaded, “surely my
fault will be overlooked.”

“As leader in the new city,” responded Nikander, “you should set an
example to all.”

“Isn’t that rather _an_ undertaking, Nikander?” sighed the rueful artist.

But Theria took Eëtíon’s brown, skilful hand in hers.

“Nay, Father,” she said defensively. “Deny him not. He is a born
sculptor, his gift is from the gods. We cannot stop it. As for me, I have
been inquiring among the colonists. I have found several bronze workers,
and workers of marble. These shall be Eëtíon’s helpers.”




CHAPTER XLVII

ALIEN MEADOWS


In the early spring six good ships rode at anchor in the harbour of
Kirrha. They were the small craft of that day. Hardy the folk who would
put to sea in them.

In Delphi the good-byes were earnest and tearful. Many were the anxious
sacrifices paid for the safe voyaging, many the omens taken, peering
into the future. It is said that in those days more than a third of all
navigation went to the bottom. It was a far journey. The smallness and
slowness of the craft multiplied the distance a hundred-fold.

At last one bright spring morning Eëtíon and Theria, hand in hand, and
the little band of colonists following them, started down the hill road
toward Kirrha. Melantho could not bring herself to go to the port, could
not bear to see her daughter actually lose herself upon the sea. But
Nikander walked wordless beside his daughter.

Here was Theria’s first viewing of the sea, a small stretch of intense
blue far on the horizon between the hills. In the journey down from
Delphi the dreamy hills unfold and stand aside in delicate succession
until all the violet Gulf of Corinth is open to the view. Eëtíon quietly
put aside Theria’s veil as the first glimpse of it opened.

“The sea!” he said with that love in his voice that every Greek
understood.

The little company passed slowly down the steep olive grove and came at
last to the small port of Kirrha.

Ah, how impatient the bright ships pull at their anchors—birds
impatient to be gone! Bright they are as birds in their plumage—red and
peacock-blue. The grotesque prows dance as if alive. One prow is a boar,
another a goose, another a huge bird, all dipping in the waves. At the
hawse holes of each ship are two bright orange-coloured eyes—how else can
they see their way across the misty deep? Four are merchant vessels, the
so-called “round ships,” built for cargo and for steady going. These have
a single oblong sail and eight or ten long sweeps to help the windless
days or days of contrary winds.

The other two ships are triremes, necessary for defense in those western
waters where pirates are to be dealt with. These long narrow ships, with
three tiers of oars either side and a sharp beak, are built for war.
Indeed, one of them has fought in the battle of Salamis, an actual helper
in the freedom of Greece and well-nigh sacred. Theria, Eëtíon, and their
kinsfolk are to go in her.

Nikander kisses his daughter and weeps like a child now in this last
moment of good-bye. Theria clings to him in the sharpest sorrow she has
ever known.

       *       *       *       *       *

With laughter and tears the colonists set forth in tiny rowboats and
climb aboard. Theria as _œkist_, a figure of white fluttering garments,
standing on the deck of her ship, lights the incense upon the little
altar there. The oarmasters lift their hands as one would start a chorus,
the flute player begins to play a wild, rhythmic tune. Now a shout! and
the three tiers of oars either side the ship lift—grating, groaning,
creaking—a mighty noise. Then all together, like huge powerful wings,
they smite down upon the water which whitens into spray.

Forth springs the trireme like a hound, half lost in its own glittering
spume. Up go the yellow sails of the round boats. A cry of love and
longing goes up from the dear ones ashore, and the colonists are off!

       *       *       *       *       *

All that day the little fleet coasted along the Gulf of Corinth, one of
the most picturesque inland waters in the world. At night they drew up
their ships upon the shore and slept under the stars. Sunrise saw them
off again, the round boats using their long sweeps in that still, golden
hour.

All the way, as was the Greek fashion, they hugged the shore along
Ætolia, Akarnania, Epeiros, keeping within the islands for safety,
arriving at Corcyra, that western outlook-isle of Greece, the fourth day.

From Corcyra they made the bold voyage across the Ionian Sea to Italy.

Theria’s mind, so cultivated yet unspoiled, so educated yet starved,
viewed all things with an eagerness usual to a child of seven. Partly
her cloistering had done this, partly it was a racial characteristic.
The Hellene was always young, and in this the Nikander family were true
Hellenes.

Day after day she stood at the prow, never tiring of the broad and
changing sea, of the islands, white peaked or lying like brazen shields
on the glancing deep, of the dolphins that played about the ship—symbols
of her god—of the rise of the moon like a full-opened lonely flower above
the waste of waters. She asked questions of Eëtíon constantly like a
child, and who so glad as he to answer? Eëtíon was her Odysseus who knew
all the wonders of travel, its dangers and its joys.

In the Gulf of Tarentum they met storms which drove the fleet apart. One
of the ships was lost and Theria wept for it as for close kindred. They
reached Italy, coasted down to the point of it, sighted Sicily the great
Isle of Snowy Peaks and came at evening, as is the wondrous way of ships,
into the tiny bay of their desire.

It was Eëtíon and Theria who stepped down first from the galley and
waded through the shallows to the shore. Together they stooped and
kissed the alien land which was to become their own. In spite of all
their cultivation, they were not farther from the soil than the hidden
creatures of wood and field.

Then the ships were beached. What sound is so exquisite of far meaning as
this grating of a glad prow upon new sands? The Greeks climbed the shore
talking eagerly, laughing, looking about them as only new emigrants look,
with hope of future generations in their eyes.

Karamanor and Agis, as priests of Apollo, builded an altar, scattered
barley and poured wine, lighting the fire with the sacred flames which
they had brought from Delphi and had carefully guarded all the voyage
through. But this done, Theria made them hide their fire for fear of
being seen. Their foe, alas, was no Sicilian, but the Greek town Catana
which flourished farther up the coast. So they ate a frugal supper and
wearily, thankfully, slept on the lonely sand.

Next morning, before sunrise, Theria awoke and spoke to Eëtíon.

“Come,” she whispered. “Let us go into the land and see what we may see.”

“We must leave Karamanor in charge,” answered Eëtíon. “They must not
think us lost.”

This matter accomplished, they stole hand in hand out of the sleeping
camp and up the overgrown paths toward the ruined town. The enemy had
done his work well. The town was a pitiful sight. Greek, and ruined by
Greeks.

They passed beyond the town into the upland meadows where carpets of
anemones—purple, white, and pink—reminded them that here the maid
Persephone had gathered flowers what time the dark steeds of Hades and
his yet darker chariot came rattling down upon her. The place seemed
utterly deserted. All distances were hid in mists. The dews and high
grasses drenched them to the knees. Theria had to kirtle her dress as
she had done in the glen at home. But with this freedom her spirit rose.
She began to go more eagerly, leaping along the way, clapping her hands
at each new stretch of bloom, breaking into snatches of old Delphic
song. Eëtíon began almost to fear that she was too much a child, that no
responsibility had really touched her.

“Ah, well,” he thought tenderly, “I can take the care. After all, her
years are child years only.”

They began to climb the hills and into a brightening world. Now turning
they could see the beach with its faint dark patch where was their camp.
But the ships were hid in the little river which here emptied into the
sea.

Full morning now. They came to a pleasant hill. It jutted out like a
headland into a fertile, untilled vale. A forest of cypress and wild
olive crowned the hill, and the shade received them with a sense of rest.

But Theria did not rest. She began to explore. And in a depression of
the hillside she came upon a full flowing spring. With a hasty invocation
she knelt to drink and as she did so, the birds flew up in flocks with a
whir of wings.

Instantly she recalled the oracle which had been given to the Sicilian
youth, Hyllos.

    Rebuild your city upon a hill,
    Where trees invite the birds.

“Eëtíon, Eëtíon,” she called, and as he and the slave came running:

“Oh, I have found the site of our city, truly, I think I have found it!”

Reverently they drank of the spring. How unbelievably sweet after the
stale water of the ship.

“It tastes like our own Castalia water,” she said.

“Oh, Mistress, it _is_ Castaly,” spoke the Delphic slave. “I’d know
Castalia water anywhere. The dear nymph has come under the sea to greet
us here.” And Theria believed him.

“Eëtíon, come, look! Is not the hill defensible from every side? Is not
the plain near enough for tillage? You know so much better than I. Is it
not better to be here hidden among the hills than down on the shore where
the enemy will find us too soon?”

She was serious (no laughter now) and sharp as a hawk.

“Yes, yes,” said Eëtíon. Busily, carefully they searched the place.

Then they halted as if at some command.

The mist had been drawing off, and suddenly borne upon the clouds the
glorious snowy crest of Ætna stood in the sky, its white steam floating
from it as if it itself would float away into nothingness.

Then far below the rugged coast-line trembled into view and all the blue
sea.

Theria closed her eyes at the pain of the too-great beauty.

“The gods have spoken,” said Eëtíon softly. “We will go back and tell our
people. We have found the site of our city.”




CHAPTER XLVIII

TOWN MAKERS


How eagerly the colonists heard the story. How impatiently they hurried
up to the place themselves.

Some were at first not satisfied with the site—those who had always lived
directly upon the seashore. But in the council which met under the trees
the Delphian mountain dwellers prevailed.

Next day all began to carry their goods to Theria’s hill and started
their work.

First must come the wall. All laboured at this, slave and free; for the
thing was of moment. Huts and shelters of branches must serve the people
for this first while.

Then the temple of Apollo was begun at once and of marble. In this work
Eëtíon was perfectly happy. He it was who selected the temple-site.
With true Greek instinct he made the temple the focus of the landscape,
the place toward which everything centred, hill and vale and reverent
climbing path.

It was Eëtíon who later modelled the sculptures of the pediment and the
bronze image of the youthful Apollo which was to stand within.

Indeed the town was a place of youth. No grey heads anywhere, no blasted
hopes nor pent-up desires. And when these are absent no one can believe
that they ever will come!

So well did the sequestered situation serve them that their enemy, the
Catanan neighbours, found them not until months had passed. And when they
did find them, the new colonists drove them off in a quick fight.

Theria’s hours were full. Those hours which at home used to drag in hated
vacancy. The colonists themselves were Theria’s constant care. To one she
gave ardent praise, to another, merited rebuke.

The choosing of laws, the unexpected setting aside of old laws which in
this new land were found to be ill-fitted, the keeping of the council
high purposed and pure. These were her duties. Theria did not sit with
the council, but her advice was paramount. As former priestess of Apollo
and seer of a vision, she exercised a power which as mere woman she could
never have attained.

And strangely enough, her poet quality did not suffer in this public
activity, but, as is frequent with the Greek, rather thrived and flowered
in it.

Late in the winter her first child was born. The colonists thought it
was misfortune that the child should be a girl. But Eëtíon took this
dispensation of the gods with good heart. He lifted the darling creature
in his arms, gazing into the tiny face which, from its first hour, knew
how to smile.

Then, smiling himself, he draped the little thing in a long,
old-fashioned string of pearls and laid her softly beside her mother.

“But what is this?” asked Theria. “In what strange fashion have you
decked my child?”

He laughed with happiness. “Do you not recognize them, dear Theria? The
jewels of my freedom which your eldest daughter must wear. Did I not
purchase them from Apollo and bring them over seas in hope of her?”

And Theria realized how Eëtíon loved his little girl.

In the second spring came a shipload of Athenians to join the colony.
They gave the town a new impress from the first moment of arrival. For
who should arrive with them but Nikander himself.

Theria was sitting crooning happily to her child when he stepped over her
high threshold as casually and unannounced as though he had come from
next door. Theria came near fainting at such unlooked-for joy. Absence in
those days was deathlike in its completeness and disconnection. It seemed
to Theria as though her dear father had come from the dead.

Then with what happy tears and soft laughter did she lift up the baby
Theria to show him. With what pride did she lead her father out into her
town.

Eëtíon met them at the doorway. Then with what seriousness and pride did
the two lead Nikander about the new streets, to the market place, to
their pure Castalian spring, to their Akropolis. Here was the temple,
Eëtíon’s own. It stood unfinished, without cella or roof, with distant
Ætna and the violet horizon of sea glimpsing between the white new
columns. It seemed a spirit thing, not yet quite of this earth. Indeed it
was never to be other than a heavenly, unbelievable beauty.

In Eëtíon’s workshop stood his clay Apollo watching as with wistful,
marvelling eyes while the craftsmen brought him to life in bronze. Beside
it was another model at sight of which Nikander exclaimed aloud with
pleasure.

“It is a Victory,” explained Eëtíon, “which I made after our battle with
the Catanans.”

It was a slender elastic figure, winged, the accepted victory form. Like
the Ladas model she was moving strongly forward, moving as it seemed into
the wind which swept back her long draperies in lovely, free, yet simple
lines. She held her victory trumpet but had forgotten to sound it. Her
dreamy face seemed looking through some parting of the mists and she was
walking straight into her vision. She had forgotten present victory in
victories to be. The figure, the countenance, the clean-shaped, filleted
head were Theria’s own.

“How did you ever capture her?” cried Nikander. “The very spirit of my
Theria.”

“She stood so at the prow of the ship,” said Eëtíon happily. “Day after
day, questioning, questioning always and so full of joy. I did not put my
hand to the clay until she was complete in my mind.”

“Ah,” laughed Theria, “so that is the reason you looked at me so
strangely and sometimes did not answer me. I thought it was because you
loved me.”

“And was it not?” Eëtíon retorted, kissing her.

“This statue,” said Nikander, “shall be put at once into marble. And I
require it as your first city-gift to Delphi.”

Centuries afterward a sculptor of the Island of Samothrace turned to this
pure statue of the earlier day for the type of his Winged Victory. In his
later hands the draperies were more boisterous in the breeze, the figure
more robust, the skill of handling more complete. But he never caught the
far, sweet dreaminess of the face which Eëtíon knew.

Nikander’s visit to the colony gave the citizens great courage and
conviction. His praise was ardent, his criticism unsparing. Thus no
doubt many a time had men of the mother city helped and inspired the
little cities beyond the misty deep. Communication between Delphi and the
colonies was astonishingly constant.

As years went by Eëtíon and Theria journeyed back and forth over the sea
carrying the city gifts to Delphi, bringing back Delphi’s encouragement
and advice.

Upon these journeys they took their children, the glorious children of
whom Nikander had prophesied long before. During the first of these
journeys, Theria longed with almost painful intensity for the arrival in
Delphi. But once there, though she loved her “Place of Golden Tripods”
more deeply than ever, she chafed at old restrictions, and, the sojourn
over, she turned her face toward her western home feeling that it was
home indeed.

In this western home life was simple but very rich. From here the young
victors went forth to the Pythian and Olympic games. It was of such
western boys mainly that Pindar sang. Many such a boy was brought back
to the little mountain place by his townsmen and celebrated almost as a
god. Of these, three in succession were Theria’s own sons. It was easy to
worship such youths not merely for their strength and outward beauty, but
for their nimble wit and their delicate, fine-trained imagination. They
were gentle seeming but strong as tempered steel.

In this little hill town of Inessa poets and hymn makers were born, and
one of those early scientists who amaze us by what they fathomed without
instruments or scientific gear. Several young philosophers who were
claimed as being from the more famous towns and schools were here born
and bred.

The city flourished. Its modesty kept it for many years from being
drawn into the terrible wars which wrecked Sicily. It tilled the fertile
plain below its Akropolis, and rebuilt the old town on the shore for a
port. But farther than this it did not go. Theria and her colonists had
the Delphic tradition which was neither conquest nor dominion, but an
intensive perfecting of the life within the town.

And after the passing of the original builders, the town was, for many
generations, the same.

For it is curiously true that a town will retain for hundreds of years
the spirit of its founders. Men may flock in and overwhelm it in
numbers, but the original subtile spirit, be it good or bad, absorbs the
newcomers. In this lies the immortal glory of the pioneer.

       *       *       *       *       *

All is silent now. The hillock lies as ever beholding the infinite glory
of the smoking mountain, the violet vivid sea, the far-flung island coast
where headland after headland sweeps outward in majestic successive
distances, and between are sheltered bays, sickle-shaped, untenanted and
pure.

Anemones and violets nod in the sea winds growing in the very cella of
the temple. Sheep polish the marble pillars with their fleeces as they
pass, or leave white woolly wisps upon the brambles in the market place
for birds to gather for their nests.

But who knows whether the godlike young Sicilians who here still tend
their flocks may not show us, shadowed and dulled with ignorance, some
gesture of Eëtíon’s beauty, some glow of Eleutheria’s grace?


THE END