“Did you see the women?” he shouted. “By the gods, I could hardly get home for them. Free at last—that’s what they are, havin’ the time of their lives. Dionysos is only an excuse. Hey, Theria, you are always wanting to get out. Why don’t you join?” Lycophron did not see his father who had just come down the stair. “Lycophron,” said the father sternly, “how do you dare such insolence? Let me never hear such from you again.” And Lycophron disappeared more suddenly than he had come. Nikander drew near the fire, absently warming his hands. Even at this early time he was disturbed over his eldest son. “Are they gone?” queried the little girl. “The Bacchantes? Yes, my child. As I came up the street I saw far up on the mountain their Bacchic fires gleaming through the dusk. It is cold for the night of Bromios.” Theria knew of what he was thinking—a little great-great-aunt of hers who had died on a night like this, in the cold of the Parnassian rocks. A tiny room next to Theria’s own had belonged to her and she was said to visit it on Bromios night, a white, chattering figure trying in vain to warm herself amid the purple covering of the couch. Theria stole to her father’s side, slipped her hand In his, and drew him down to whisper: “Father, must I be a Bacchante some day?” “God forbid,” spoke Nikander, then added piously, “unless the god demand you, Theria.” “But he will not demand me. Oh, Father, he will not?” Again she was in the hollow of his arm and again felt safe even from the god Dionysos himself. “No, my daughter,” he said, looking into the sane little face. “I do not believe he will.” CHAPTER VI THE GUESTS So throughout the winter months Dionysos, that god who came from far Asia into Greece, held sway in Delphi. Apollo was gone on his distant mysterious journey to the land of the Hyperboreans, those happy, luxurious folk who live on the farther side of the north wind. Theria felt keenly this absence of her god: more keenly perhaps than she would have felt the absence of any person in the household. For with Apollo’s going the Oracle was silenced. No pilgrims came to consult it. The pure, ordered songs of Apollo, the throbbing lyre, the announcing trumpets were stilled. Instead sounded the nervous wailing of Dionysos pipes. On quiet evenings Theria could hear them, and Baltè told her of the furious satyr dances in the Precinct. And now the absence of Apollo brought the rains and the cold. Yes, in the winter Theria missed her god.