Only about sixty people were left in Delphi and of course the armed temple guard. Nikander sought out Melantho. “Dear wife,” he said, “I have chartered a little boat to take you and your own special slaves to Corinth. It will be a long journey for you, but do not be afraid. You will be safe in Achaia.” “And Theria?” she asked. “Would God I could send her!” said Nikander brokenly. “But she is too ill to be moved. She is weaker than ever since that terrible experience with the priests. Even were she strong enough, the priests would not allow her to go. The Pythia is not allowed to go away.” He looked up, wondering at Melantho’s silence. Melantho was a timid creature and the most submissive wife in the world. “Am I like the kegs of cheese that they carry up to the cave?” she asked huskily. “Kegs of cheese!” asked Nikander blankly. “Am I goods and chattels, not even so much alive as the dogs of Delphi? The dogs stay.” Great Paian! Melantho was angry. Nikander had never seen her angry in his life. She stamped her foot. “I will not go,” she cried. “I’ll turn over the boat and swamp it if you put me in it. I will not go when—when all my dear ones stay.” Then she melted with streaming tears. Poor Melantho! After this little outburst she would have done anything Nikander required. But Nikander took her in his arms, loving her as he had never thought to do. “My dear Melantho,” he said. “I begin to think I am the stupidest man in Delphi. Of course you shall stay.” It was no easy matter to care for two helpless women at such a time, but Nikander was glad that Melantho was to stay. As for Baltè, nations might rise or fall, she had one care only, to watch her nurseling. And now Baltè was busy with new plans. She had long ago given up her sieve and taken it back to the kitchen where she gave it a kick of scorn. Theria was steadily growing weaker, but her eyes as Baltè studied them looked not quite so glassy, not quite so blank as at first. Sometimes Baltè actually saw in them a great sadness. When any one came into the door, Theria’s eyes would slowly, painfully direct themselves thither, seeming to search, and when the search was made this deep sadness or disappointment would settle upon her face. And once, instead of relapsing into blankness after their pitiful searching, the dark eyes closed and tears stole down between the lids. What did her child want? Baltè asked herself this question. Asked Theria every question she knew. For while Nikander could not bring himself to speak to that strange, blank face of Theria, Baltè talked and asked and crooned as any nurse crooned to her baby. Though to all her asking Baltè received no reply, yet at last she thought she knew her darling’s wish. The next day she met Nikander in the outer aula. “Master,” she said, “I know now what little mistress wants.” “Great Heaven! has she spoken?” asked Nikander. “No, Master, but her eyes speak to me.” “They do not to me,” said Nikander sorrowfully.