“Great gods!” laughed Lycophron. “Here’s a pother for you!” “No pother at all,” spoke Dryas quickly. “Who’ll believe her?” “Nobody, nobody, my son,” sounded Nikander’s deep voice. “Now, Theria, go! I shall punish you myself for this!” Here Melantho lifted horrified hands. “What jealousy, Theria! Shame on you! Shame!” Theria had already reached the stair-foot, but at this word she faced them again. “I am not jealous, I can prove that I made it,” she said, her voice suddenly clear. “I can sing my song.” As at sacrilege, Nikander answered: “Indeed you will do no such thing. Do you suppose I would allow that perfect creation to be caricatured by you?” “Father, she heard me sing it,” thus Dryas, pale with the hurt Theria had given. “She has a perfect memory.” “My dear boy, do you suppose the matter needs argument?” “Oh, let her try. Why not?” came the heavy voice of Lycophron. “Then we can finish the scene with a good laugh, anyway.” “You will not laugh at me,” cried out Theria. “By Hermes, you will not laugh!” The look in her face, suddenly visionary and unafraid, found response in an unexpected quarter. “Oh, let her try.” Lycophron spoke in a different tone. “Give the poor child a chance.” “Surely you need no proof,” said the father. “Be damned if I don’t,” responded the elder brother. “Then have your proof. It will need few moments.” Nikander swiftly took the lyre from Dryas’s slave and gave it into Theria’s hand. The girl received it with an almost hungry eagerness as though the song within her burned for expression. Every vestige of anger died from her. Something from within seemed to sweep her up into a mobile erectness, holding her delicately steady as a flame is held aloft. She struck a deep chord from the lyre upon her hip and sang. To their astonishment, it was not Dryas’s song though haunted ever and again with bits of the Dryas melody. She tossed the melody from grave to gay with ease and in the changes swayed softly. Wherefore, O Muse, dipping from highest heaven Down through the ambient air Com’st thou to _me_ in my thick-walled shadowy chamber To lay on _my_ lips the honey of sweet song? I am a woman, a spinner. Not for such is the glory of singing; Not for such the happiness free in the sunshine of Pythian contests in song. In answer the Muse Inexorable goddess, Drew with yet stronger cords my will and my spirit. “Sing!” she commanded, “Sing!” At this point the rhythm with an increasing purposeful tread marched into the very tune of Dryas. The ancient story of Apollo slaying the Python-snake and winning the place of the Oracle from which to speak to men. The song was greatly enhanced by its prelude: Fair, fair on the mountains the feet of Apollo striding; Swift is our God and stern. Dark, dark in the valley, the snake coiling and sliding Lone mid the Delphic fern.