At Tempè Dryas, as the Sacred Boy, would gather boughs from a certain famous laurel tree, and bring them home to be woven into crowns for the Pythian victors. For the Pythian festival and games always fell in the same year, a few weeks later than the Strepterion. All this was to be Dryas’s adventure. He would return to tell of its wonders. He was a dear, companionable boy. Theria knew he would tell her the whole of it. On the morning of Strepterion she awoke before daybreak and lay in that ecstasy of anticipation which only youth-time knows. Presently dawned the light and showed her her white dress, still hanging ghostly on its peg. She arose and went out into the court-balcony. Here she met Dryas. He, too, had awakened early with the joy of the day. “Good luck,” she greeted him. “The luck of Loxias.” And he answered piously, “Apollo bless you.” Between them they roused the whole family. At sunrise Dryas must be clothed in his ceremonial robes. He stood in the court near the Hestia hearth where all the family could see him, where the slaves could gather proudly to look on. They brought forth the temple himation, yellow with its border of gold, an ancient, precious thing. Dreamily, sensitively, Dryas suffered them to put it on him, to unplait his long hair that it might flow over his shoulders in the manner of Apollo. Already he felt upon him the sacred character of the god he was to personate. Nikander advanced to place the golden laurel crown on Dryas’s head. He came slowly, unlike himself, and in the ceremony spoke only the necessary words—no more. He made sacrifice upon the hearth and then, stumbling a little, stepped back. It was time to go. The whole family were to walk behind Dryas up to the Precinct. Theria stood hand in hand with her mother. Her eyes were like stars. “Son,” said Nikander in a low voice, “I cannot go with you now. I will come up in a few moments with Medon. The priests will meet you at the gate.” “Father—but why?” A troubled look crossed the boy’s rapt face. “I am not quite well. Just for a moment. I’ll be with you soon, my son.” Theria darted out and touched his hand. “Never mind, Daughter,” he said. “Make haste, all of you.” Obediently the family formed in a sort of procession and left the house. Oh, the golden sunshine of that early morning! The sweet cool air with the blessing of the stars still upon it! Theria took thirsty draughts of it as she went along. The cliffs towered nobly about as if in prayer and along their face the mists, white spirits new risen from the vale, came shouldering, sinking, lifting, dreamily alive. So tall are the cliffs at Delphi that they meet the blue and cut off from sight the snowy peak of Parnassos which is back above them. Now the procession turned the shoulder of a cliff. The Precinct burst into view—the Precinct, a golden and many-hued Elysium lying on the slope above the road within its quadrate wall.