On a sudden the wish of many moons sprang to Theria’s lips. “Father, let me be the Pythia, the next Pythian priestess. Oh, Father, you do not know how I can pray to the god and—and how——” “Nonsense; the Pythian priestess is a stupid girl. You would never do.” “But the Pythia need not be a stupid girl,” Theria was talking now breathlessly. “Father, when I pray, Apollo answers me. He _does_.” Nikander took her chin in his hand, lifting her pleading face. “What a queer child it is,” he mused. “What do you mean by Apollo answering you?” “I don’t know, Father; but he does. Oh, with the coming down upon me of something out of the air like wings—no, not like wings—but I know it is the god.” Her eyes grew mystic with a curious inner seeing. “You strange Theria,” said her father. “If you saw all the visions of the gods it would not make you a good Pythia. You know perfectly well that the Pythia is a girl of empty mind. The mind must be vacant for the god to speak through it. She is but the mouthpiece of the god. Besides all this, she writhes in agony when the oracle comes upon her. Sometimes it kills her.” “I wouldn’t mind if it killed me, just so I were Pythia,” Theria urged solemnly. “Just so I could speak for the god.” “Well, you’re not going to be Pythia, my child. This whole question is nonsense. It grows out of nothing but your eternal desire to be doing something.” Nikander was right. It was Theria’s burning desire to use the power that was in her which kept her constantly urging. Her face turned tragic and Nikander’s anger sharpened. He was under great stress. “Now, no passion, mind. Theria, I have enough burdens in these terrible days without your foolish notions. Pythia—faugh! I’d be disgraced to have you Pythia. Silly girl!” So he strode out of the house. Theria ran to her room. She expected to cry but she did nothing of the sort. “I _will_ be Pythia,” she said, throwing her long arms above her head and clasping her hands. “I will be Pythia—no matter what——” * * * * * The springs of poet inspiration are hidden and very strange. Could it be this opposition which drove Theria to make her song—the prize song of Dryas? The next day after these events that song came across Theria’s mind like the flash. Anger was part of its origin. Longing for outlet was another part. Strongest of all was the damming back of the birth-right power within her until it welled higher than its nature and broke over into song. It was the following week that she showed her song to Dryas, and a yet further week when Dryas sang the song at the Pythian festival and Theria snatched it back again. The result was disastrous, as we have seen. And after her father’s whipping, Theria strangely knew that she would soon do something to deserve another whipping. BOOK III WITHIN THE ORACLE CHAPTER XII “THE PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS”