“Yes,” he answered, “where he killed his father. Of course you know the story. Oh, lady, such a lovely place it is. Up there where the mountains pierce the sky; the road runs among the clouds. Where the clouds broke I could catch glimpses far beneath of the blue valley and the sun setting. Far down I heard the tinkle of goat bells—the herds hidden below the clouds. I seemed to be in the home of the gods. And do you know what I did? I let the others walk onward and I stood there alone. The three roads went this way and that from the place of my feet. Then I seemed to see approaching along one road old Laius and his men, and by the other road Œdipus, young and proud, fulfilling his curse. But before they met I fled. Oh, I could not bear to think that he would kill his father all unknowing! What if it had been my own dear father and myself? The curse of Œdipus, that terrible curse, swept down over me with whirlwind wings.” The boy put up his hand to his head with a whimsical yet solemn smile. “It touched me,” he said, “and when I ran up to my dear father and clasped his hand I was weeping. I would not tell them why. Yet I am telling _you_.” “I wish I had been there,” breathed Theria. “I wish you had,” echoed the boy. And suddenly the boy’s gentle reverence gave Theria a joy utterly new—a sense at once of humbleness and power. “Come,” she said childishly, seizing his hand, “there’s a swing in the other aula. Let’s swing in it.” Busily she hied him thither. But the boy would not swing. “It’s for girls; I’ll push you,” he said. Soon the court rang with their voices and merry laughter. The boy “ran under” and Theria flew like a tall nymph in great dips and soarings. Now her black tresses streamed behind, new they flung over her face—a dusky veil. After a while the boy stopped, breathless, and the swing “died.” “Guess who came with us all the way,” he said suddenly. “I cannot guess.” “Pindar!” he told her joyously. “That’s what made the journey so wonderful. All those three days I heard his divine talk with my father. Never shall I forget it—all about Hellas and the Persians and the war that is coming. I hope it won’t come too soon before I can fight.” “Pindar is ours,” said Theria with Delphic pride. “There is a chair set in the temple just for him. He sits there and the god gives him song. Tell me: did you hear him sing?” “Often and often,” boasted the boy. “When we would stop by the road to sup and pour wine to the blessed gods, then a slave would bring Pindar’s lyre. A fine old one it is, always fresh stringed. He would sweep it with his hand and the thing would tremble as if alive. Do you think my hand is like Pindar’s?” he asked, stretching out his right hand. Slender and brown it was, expressive as his face. “No,” said the girl honestly, “but it is a player’s hand.” “I’m going to be a poet some day,” ran on the boy. “I wish I might be a poet,” said Theria.