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.