Such was the ennobling tradition which the little girl Theria treasured in her heart. But she knew, too, that the Delphi god had not always been master of his shrine. Story upon story, faith upon faith went back into the misty past where the chaste belief in Apollo was underlaid with grotesque stories of Gaia—Mother Earth—and dragons. It was from her nurse Baltè that she heard these older tales though they were sternly and fearfully believed by all Delphians. Baltè one afternoon found the little girl sitting by Nikander’s front window gazing outward in silence. It was a place of wide prospect. The house was one of the few which stood above the main road, and so steep was the incline that the roofs across the way seemed but little higher than the road itself. Theria could look over them and over other roofs in sharp downward succession into the violet depth of Pleistos gorge and then up to the fir-clad mountain beyond. A storm of clear-edged cloud was sweeping along that slope with flashes and mutterings. She watched wistfully its swiftness and its strength. Baltè came from behind and kissed her. “Now an’ why aren’t ye down in the aula playin’ with Clitè an’ Nerea? It’s always I find ye by yourself at the window. It isn’t right for little girls to be seen from the street.” But Theria was full of questions. “Baltè, what does the glen find when it goes down into the shadows? It always seems to stoop down and down.” “The river, do ye mean, darlin’?” “But I can’t see the river, I’ve tried so many days.” “No, the glen is too deep to see the Pleistos.” “Baltè, did you ever go across the river to the other mountain—far, far over where Father Zeus has driven his clouds?” “No, child, not I. What ever would I be doin’ there?” “I’d like to go,” said the child. “Don’t ye never! Do ye see that little rift-like all black on the mountainside among the firs?” “Yes, Baltè.” “Well, down in that rift is the cave o’ Lamia—a woman the upper part of her, but all the rest a _snake_. In the olden time she did come hitherward and ravaged the country.” “What’s ravid?” “Oh, knockin’ down the houses and eatin’ the folk. So at last to quiet her they did take a boy—oh, a nice likely young boy of the village—and leave him for her in that cave.” “What for?” “To eat! Every day a boy!” By this time Theria’s eyes were wide, and she reached furtively and caught Baltè’s skirt. “But then there came the hero Eurymalos an’ he walked right into the cave, he did. An’ he caught Lamia and pulled her out, and cast her down the cliff. Then she fell down, down, a-bumpin’ and bangin’ her head all the way—right into the river Pleistos.” “Paian be praised!” breathed the little girl. “Yes, but them kind don’t stay killed,” said Baltè uncomfortingly. “Look at the other one, the Python now. Apollo killed her long since. But every fourth year the Sacred Boy has to go up there in the Precinct an’ kill her again.”