They hurriedly left the heralds. Everywhere now were seen men with their families, their slaves, carrying burdens, some hurrying up toward the mountain, some hurrying down toward the port of Kirrha. But the braver citizens stayed with white faces to consult the Oracle once more. Nikander, hastening homeward, found these and the priests already at his door. “You must give us back the Pythia, Nikander,” spoke Kobon angrily. “The Oracle must be consulted at once. Who ever heard of a Pythia being taken home again?” Nikander pushed through the crowd and stood with his back to the closed door. “You may not take her,” he said. “She is dying. She would die before she reached the tripod.” “She might not. You know very well, Nikander, that on the edge of death the Pythia often prophesies best.” Timon took Nikander’s arm. “I am sorry, cousin,” he said, “but you know that what Kobon says is true. This is no time for a man to think of his own household. She might save the very shrine.” “She cannot save it,” said Nikander stubbornly. “She has not spoken for four days. She is beyond all speech. Aristonikè is not so ill as she.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to decide what he might and might not tell. “My daughter has no gift of ecstasy,” he ventured. “No oracles come to her at all.” “Nikander, what lies! You know the very best of the oracles have been through her.” “Aristonikè,” broke in another priest; “Aristonikè prophesies nothing but ill.” They seized Nikander, held him struggling, while priests and citizens broke upon the door and rushed into the house. “Dryas, Dryas, help me!” Nikander shouted; but if Dryas was there he did not appear. Nikander heard Baltè shriek as the priests caught up her nurseling. Forth they rushed again, his daughter white as death in a stalwart priest’s arms. So they hurried up the road toward the temple. Then Nikander from his house saw temple slaves running to meet the priests, saw them all stop together. They crowded in confusion. Then from the confusion came the same temple slaves and to Nikander’s amazement they were bearing Theria in their arms, bringing her home again. The priests and citizens ran onward frantically up to the temple. Nikander wrested himself free and ran to meet the slaves. They gave her carefully into his arms. “She is dead, already dead?” he whispered. “No—no, Master,” they assured him. He did not pause to find out what had happened but hurried back with Theria to her couch, where on a sudden he could do nothing but weep and wring his hands. Baltè had to compose both her patient and him, assuring him over and over again that no harm had been done. It was Dryas who, later, hurrying home from the Precinct, told Nikander what had happened.