“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.”