While this low adventure was chancing a whole new world had been made—a world of dawn, of faint rose and amethyst under an awakened sky, immense, marvellous, holy. Theria had emerged directly below the sanctuary. Its great wall towered above her with glimpses over it of temple roofs. Above all rose the great Phaidriades cliffs, colossal, shutting out the east. Their colour now was the ripe bloom of a plum from their base up to where their clear-cut summits met the zenith. Theria stood clasping and unclasping her hands. She was a living spark of expectancy in that expectant morning world. Here outside the wall near the gate stood the victor statues. She could not but pause by one. She knew its place well, her supple, young great-grandfather, who had won the running match for boys. There he stood, long limbed, spare, archaically smiling at her and, for all time, fourteen years old. Dryas also would have a statue here among the music victors. Tenderly proud Theria marked the place for it near their ancestor. In her present mood she had no jealousy or regret. According to custom, ancient and immutable, Theria must now pass by the Precinct and go onward some distance to Castaly’s fount before entering the sacred place. She wrapped herself in her cloak and hurried forward. She easily found Castaly—a pool glassy-still in its rock-cut basin at the foot of the sheer cliff. It was quite deserted and hidden from the road. Birds fluttered up at her approach. A solemn place. She looked about her. In mortal fear she took off her cloak and dropped her chiton to her feet. So, like a white nymph, very small at the foot of the cliff, Theria stepped down into the sacred pool. She met the icy water with a shivering cry, but she took the plunge. No one might enter the temple who had not first bathed here. She came out tingling, touched with ecstasy. For holy Castalia cleansed the soul as well as the body. Quickly she put on her garments, quickly walked back to the Precinct. She dared not even think now of the difficulty of entrance. One terrible moment would decide. She mounted the six steps to the Precinct gate, dipped her trembling fingers in the lustral bowl—then knocked. They were great bronze doors opening inward. At once came steps within and the clanking of heavy keys—the rasp of the unlocking. Then the doors slowly, stingily, opened. When she saw the keeper’s hideous face at the crack, her courage sank in her. “I want to come into the sanctuary,” said her faint voice. “I want to pray to the god. I would like to make a sacrifice.” “Ye can’t consult no priests now,” said the man. “They’re just gettin’ out o’ their beds.” Behind the man she saw the glitter of the armed guard. “I don’t want to consult a priest, I want to pray—to pray for myself and my house.”