Something in his manner of speech caught her notice. It was well tuned and he used quaint words which she had never heard before. “You have not always been a slave,” she concluded. “No, Despoina, that is why it is so hard to be a slave. And when I saw the years ahead once more I cursed the gods. Then you came, and I thought you were Athena come to punish me for the cursing. Even now, dear lady, I would not be amazed if you were to grow suddenly tall and rise upward through the trees.” He made an eloquent gesture. Then his eyes grew fixed, staring at a place up the hill. “Who is that?” he whispered sharply. “Do you know them?” She followed his look. “Baltè!” she spoke almost with a sob. “And Dryas, my brother.” Then she collected her thoughts and began to talk quickly. “The jewels! I have not told you how to get them. There is a little street beside Nikander’s house. And a window in the house that side. Come at twilight. I will throw them down to you.” She had hardly said the last word when the slave disappeared among the bushes. Then she forgot him. Dryas was there with his scorn, Baltè with her tears. She had to face both. CHAPTER XV THE SHATTERED CUP Bitterness and confusion were Theria’s portion when she reached home. Melantho was ill from anxiety and stormed alternately at Theria for her misdeed and at poor Baltè for not taking better care of her. Dryas was very superior and very wrathful. The slaves whisked hither and yon, some delighted with the fuss, others scared as to which way the storm might strike. Lycophron treated everything with amused scorn, whether of Theria or her tormentors could not be told. Nikander was away. “But the whipping he’ll give you when he comes,” declared Melantho, “will make that other whipping seem a caress.” Theria waited in a dumb terror. Not of the whipping, but of her own reaction to it. She would fight back. Oh, the disgrace of that! Deeper than all was the fear of losing the last of her father’s love. She had been sent to her room and poor Baltè watched her like a Cerberus. No chance to be throwing jewels from windows even if Theria had thought of it. As a matter of fact, she forgot it utterly. It was next morning before she met her father. His face was darker than she had ever seen it. He seemed to look at her strangely and from a great distance. “Oh, yes, Theria,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I am in too great anxiety to care whether you are punished or not.” “Father,” she exclaimed, instantly concerned for him alone. “What—what has happened to you?” “The Medes are at our door, child,” he strainedly answered. “And at present I see no one who is going to resist them.” She laid hand upon his arm, but he hurried away out of the house. All that day Theria was in disgrace. Her mother set her an extra long task of weaving and with extra severity made her ravel out all her mistakes.