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——”