Then the arms that she had dreamed of were about her, wonderful, amazing in their love. She had not known they would tremble. She had not known they would seem so strong. All thought for winning courage for her duty left her—all thought of asking anything. She only longed to give him the gentleness and affection she had so long denied him. She lifted her hand, touching his cheek. It was wet with tears. “I have been unkind. Oh, I have been cruel to you.” “Never cruel,” he said. “Only a child whom the gods must teach.” “They have taught me. They have taught me,” she answered. But now Baltè recovered from amazement, and was shaking Theria’s arm. “Oh, Missy, Missy, come back with Baltè. Wicked child, you deceived me.” “Yes, yes, Baltè,” she said, tender even toward her old nurse, “I will come. Eëtíon will not harm me. He is good, good.” At this confession of faith the youth kissed her afresh. But Baltè was not to be baulked. “Missy, please, please, for Apollo’s sake,” she cried, again shaking Theria. “How can you, you who are to be Pythia to-morrow?” “Pythia,” repeated the lover. “What does she mean? Theria, that is not true!” “Yes, I am to pray for a good oracle from the god. Oh, Eëtíon, I feel now that it may be granted me.” “But you! Great Hermes, you cannot be Pythia. Your father will not allow that!” “But Father commands it. He says it is the only hope of saving the Athenians. I must do it!” “Theria, no, no!” he said wildly. The horror of the thing broke over him and the horror of her being torn from him, for ever beyond his reach. “What a frightful mistake. Nikander should know better. You are not fit for a Pythia. The tripod will kill you. It will destroy your mind. Theria, you must listen to me!” She was listening indeed. His misery was sweeping down her high mission as the gale sweeps down the grain. She clung to him, saying no word. “I can take you away from it. Oh, it is a horrible fate. My darling, for the god’s sake let me save you. I’ll take you to the islands. No one will find you; no one.” He was drawing her toward the hill. That moment her spirit returned to her. “No, no, Eëtíon. You cannot save me that way. Oh, you know you cannot!” His hands dropped to his sides, his head drooped. “Yes,” he faltered. “Not that way, but how, how? You must not be Pythia. You are not fit for pythiahood. I have seen the present Pythia—pale, weak, and above all, empty, ignorant. Oh, darling Theria, you cannot be made like that! I must save you!” “You _have_ saved me,” she said, childlike. “I was afraid and you have made me unafraid. Because you love me, just because you love me. Oh, Eëtíon. Death lies both ways. For the Persians will kill us if they get into Hellas. Only the god can keep them back. I must pray to the god. I must pray to the god. I know he will hear me. Must I not go when I know that? Oh, Eëtíon, help me—help me to go!” He took her face between his hands, gazing into the brave depths of her eyes.