It slanted against the hillside in the sunshine. Theria could see the bright little fanes, the golden tripods, the zig-zag of the Sacred Way dividing it in the midst, and the great Apollo temple at the top. The Precinct seemed to spread itself generously before her sight—all of it at once—as though knowing how dearly she loved it. Above the Precinct were the cliffs again soaring terribly to the sky. Now the procession was stopping. It was before the great bronze doors. The doors were opening, showing a glimpse of the wonder place within. Here a company of priests, with the old president or Hosios, received them. They greeted Dryas. Then— “But where is Nikander?” they asked. “He said he would join us,” answered Dryas. “He should be with us by now.” “We will wait for him,” said the old Hosios. And so they waited. Moments—a half hour and still Nikander did not arrive. The priests began to stir impatiently. Dryas looked around with anxious eyes. Theria slipped back among the slaves. “Baltè,” she said, “he does not come!” “Hist, little mistress, we must not speak in this place.” “But, Baltè, perhaps he is ill.” “Medon is there, and Philo.” Theria suddenly recalled that her father’s hand when she touched it had been cold as ice. How curiously he had stumbled as he turned from the crowning—an ill omen that. Theria had a sure instinct concerning illness. She knew that her father was in trouble. All the joy of the festival and of the out of doors folded its wings in her heart. She could think only of her father. Now she was dimly aware that the old Hosios had let open the gates and bade Dryas enter. She caught Baltè’s hand. “I’m going back home,” she said. “Baltè, come quickly.” “But, little mistress, what a crazy notion is this?” “I’ll be back for the festival. Oh, I’ll be back in time. But I must meet Father.” “But, little mistress——” “Baltè, come at once!” And Baltè, who never before had obeyed her little girl, came without a word. They hurried back along the road. Nikander did not meet them on the way. Theria was the more terrified. Entering the house she heard music—the music of the physician. She ran to her father’s room. He lay gasping upon the bed, his fine face drawn like an old, old man’s. His eyes, haunted with pain, turned toward Theria, but he did not speak; perhaps he could not. The physician in the corner sang nervously the healing ode of Apollo. Medon was clasping his hands. “Oh, Missy, Missy,” he moaned. “The doctor gave the medicine and it did no good. Now he’s playin’ the music. When he does that—it’s the end—the end!” The room was suffocating. “Air,” thought Theria. “Father must have air.” She stamped her foot at the physician. “Stop that wailing!” she commanded. “Stop it at once.” The physician was glad enough to obey her. If Nikander died it could be the daughter’s fault.