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