Here near by was the Argive bronze horse given to commemorate the Wooden Horse which Odysseus made and gave to Troy. Everyone knew that tale. And here was the Sikyonian Treasury. Theria must see that, because it was the first little temple at the wayside and was very old. It was round with a circle of chaste pillars upholding the roof. She mounted the three shallow steps. The doors had been just opened, for some god had destined her to go in. The little circular cella held many treasures, but of these Theria saw only the central one—a book unrolled upon a marble table. The antique lettering was of pure gold. Eagerly she began to read. No one had told her of this book. It was the epic poem of Aristomache of Erythrai, a woman! Aristomache had won the prize at the Isthmian games. Of course it was long ago. But a _woman_ had won it! The poem, how lovely, how much more noble than Theria’s; but a woman’s, a woman’s! Theria would try again, try to reach the high goal this woman had set. Oh, she would try soon! She was heartened and came out of that treasury with shining, purposeful face. Theria had lingered here longer than she had intended. In haste she had to pass the treasuries higher up the way, the Knidian—a little temple exquisite as a jewel lifted high upon its tower-like foundation, its porch upheld by tall, long-haired maidens—“Korai,” she called them. She began to meet caretakers on the way, yawning after their night watch, going to their homes. Now came the first turn upward of the Way. Here stood her beloved Naxian Sphynx, the one the top of whose wing she had always glimpsed from her window. How wonderful now, close at hand, high on her high pillar, her breast covered with brilliant feathers, her blue wings flung up lofty to the sky, her woman’s face dreamily smiling. Ah, well she kept her wisdom to herself, Mistress Sphynx! Theria knew she was dreaming tenderly over the silent dead. For she was Gê, mistress of earth and underworld. Theria climbed dreamily higher up the Way, passing now the threshing-floor where Dryas had enacted the play. Memories, stories, faiths—all these swam together in her mind until she dreamed herself away and became part of the poesy about her. Now the Sacred Way made its last steep turn. From here the whole Delphic Vale burst into view. The Way here ran upward and clung against the wall-like foundation of the Great Temple, but on its outer side was a veritable Olympos, full of gods and godlike men, statues which would remake art if we could but see them now.