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.