Before the great altar in front of Apollo’s temple they stopped. The altar was alight, smoking in the sunshine. The flute player began a slow Dorian melody. The priest brought a great silver bowl of water and, lighting a new torch at the altar flame, plunged it hissing into the bowl. With the water thus sanctified, he sprinkled the worshippers. Then lifting the bowl high with the swift gesture of long custom, he dashed the water full upon the goat. It shivered in all its limbs! Good omens, good omens all. Theria’s confidence soared upward with her simple faith. When the goat was sacrificed, Theria was sure that its outgoing life was mounting invisibly to please the Son of Leto. In her enthusiasm, she kissed her hands to the god and stood so with her arms uplifted. Nikander, gazing upon her, felt more hopeful than for many weeks. When the ritual was done, they laid the supplicant boughs upon the altar. Her brother and her mother kissed Theria good-bye, a sorrowful parting but quiet as befitted the temple place. Then Nikander took Theria’s hand and, Baltè following, led her around the back of the Great Temple to the Pythia House. CHAPTER XXII IN THE PYTHIA HOUSE The old house-mistress received them; a stubby little person, most proper and severe, who fixed her eyes upon Theria intently and disapprovingly. As she let them in, a curious suffering sound came from a farther room. “It’s Aristonikè, the Pythia,” vouchsafed the mistress. “She has been like that ever since her last oracle—the one to the Athenians. She stands it worse and worse, poor child. It’s good we’re getting another to help her.” Again she looked Theria up and down. “Your slave woman can come with me,” she said, referring to Baltè. “Wait you for me there.” She was one of those old servants whose trustiness and efficiency are so great as hardly to be borne by those who employ them. Nikander and Theria were left in the little room, unknowing for how long. Beyond the corridor the poor little Pythoness kept up her incessant moaning. It did not frighten Theria. From her stronghold of perfect health she could not think of herself as being thus laid low, but it filled Nikander with horror. He was glad when Theria began to speak. “Father, the Athenians look so bitterly anxious. Is their task the hardest of all? Harder than that of the Spartans?” “I think so, child.” “But why?” “Because they are not only doing their own task but keeping the Spartans to theirs. Then, too, Athens city itself is almost sure to be destroyed.” “Father!” Theria leaned forward in her usual absorbed fashion. Nikander suddenly realized how he would miss Theria’s questionings at home. Of late, he had actually cleared his plans by talking fully to Theria. This he did not acknowledge even to himself. Yet it affected his mood. He was tenderly frank in speech with her. “Athens destroyed!” she repeated.