But no, it was not the forest itself which received Theria. She could never have conceived such a thought. It was rather the thousand delicate dwellers of the wood—dryads, fauns, satyrs, nymphs. These were touching her with unseen hands. These were they who dogged her footsteps with invisible service, who ceased from their gay dances, slipping into invisibility, that she might move across their place. Did she not see their lairs among the ferns, and the footprints perhaps of Artemis herself where she had crushed the starry mosses? Most of these beings were sinister. They could lay spells upon you. They could whisk you away into sleep. But to-day they had no mischief in their hearts. They were only kind. Gradually came sweeping across the silence the voice of a rushing stream. Theria pushed forward eagerly to behold it—a lovely living thing, leaping, running, singing, between its banks. It was the same little stream she had seen falling down Castaly’s gorge, here set free on the hillside. Who has not been touched by the immortal force of moving water? Surely Theria was touched by it. She knelt by the stream, stooped her dark head low, her breast among the fern, and drank. The ineffable fragrance of the waterfall met her—a fragrance new to Theria. Did not the gods breathe fragrance such as this? Ha, the nymph Castalia—her veritable presence! Theria sprang to her feet, hiding her face. At any moment Castalia might be visible. No, no; Theria would not spy upon her. Fearfully she said the accustomed stream-prayer, then took off her sandals and waded across. No Greek would cross a stream without first asking its pardon. Once on the farther bank she quickened her step, and began to breathe again. A narrow escape was that from a supernatural sight! So noon came lordly into the sky, and afternoon. Theria found herself in the enclosure of Athena Forethought, the farthest shrine of Delphi; or its first, if you came from the east. The Forethought Fane, a little circular temple, was far above her on the road. She could scarce see it for crag and tree. Here, weary with wandering, Theria sat down to rest. CHAPTER XIV THE POOR SLAVE And here so late, she met the adventure of her day. Sounds of distress brought her quickly to her feet. She hastily wrapped herself in her himation. She peered down the slope and could see the figure of a man moving wildly about among the trees. Now he lifted convulsive hands on high, now spread both arms abroad and groaned. Greek woe never repressed itself. It rather flung out, wind-swept, fiery, real. “But,” thought Theria, “this must be some physical agony.” She remembered her remedies at home, yet what could she do for the man in this wild place?