In the early spring six good ships rode at anchor in the harbour of Kirrha. They were the small craft of that day. Hardy the folk who would put to sea in them. In Delphi the good-byes were earnest and tearful. Many were the anxious sacrifices paid for the safe voyaging, many the omens taken, peering into the future. It is said that in those days more than a third of all navigation went to the bottom. It was a far journey. The smallness and slowness of the craft multiplied the distance a hundred-fold. At last one bright spring morning Eëtíon and Theria, hand in hand, and the little band of colonists following them, started down the hill road toward Kirrha. Melantho could not bring herself to go to the port, could not bear to see her daughter actually lose herself upon the sea. But Nikander walked wordless beside his daughter. Here was Theria’s first viewing of the sea, a small stretch of intense blue far on the horizon between the hills. In the journey down from Delphi the dreamy hills unfold and stand aside in delicate succession until all the violet Gulf of Corinth is open to the view. Eëtíon quietly put aside Theria’s veil as the first glimpse of it opened. “The sea!” he said with that love in his voice that every Greek understood. The little company passed slowly down the steep olive grove and came at last to the small port of Kirrha. Ah, how impatient the bright ships pull at their anchors—birds impatient to be gone! Bright they are as birds in their plumage—red and peacock-blue. The grotesque prows dance as if alive. One prow is a boar, another a goose, another a huge bird, all dipping in the waves. At the hawse holes of each ship are two bright orange-coloured eyes—how else can they see their way across the misty deep? Four are merchant vessels, the so-called “round ships,” built for cargo and for steady going. These have a single oblong sail and eight or ten long sweeps to help the windless days or days of contrary winds. The other two ships are triremes, necessary for defense in those western waters where pirates are to be dealt with. These long narrow ships, with three tiers of oars either side and a sharp beak, are built for war. Indeed, one of them has fought in the battle of Salamis, an actual helper in the freedom of Greece and well-nigh sacred. Theria, Eëtíon, and their kinsfolk are to go in her. Nikander kisses his daughter and weeps like a child now in this last moment of good-bye. Theria clings to him in the sharpest sorrow she has ever known. * * * * *