“It will all depend upon the battle in the north. The battle which we hope will bar the Persians out of Greece. We have decided now to hold them back at a place called Thermopylæ, the narrowest pass anywhere in our northern mountain barrier. The pass lies thus,” he gestured, “between steep mountain and sea. It is scarce six feet wide.” “How far from here?” she queried. “Seventy-five miles by mountain road. The Spartans, we hope, will march thither. The Athenians’ ships will hold the strait at Artemesium. Land and sea will fight at once.” “But if we win,” exclaimed Theria, “then Athens will be safe!” “Yes, if we win,” he repeated. “If we lose, the Persians will march direct upon Athens and upon us.” “Oh, could the Athenians do nothing? Nothing?” “Nothing to save their city, my child. Even Themistocles says that in that case the citizens must flee to the isle of Salamis.” Nikander was by this time lost in the subject uppermost in his heart. “But the Athenian fleet would fight. They are very confident of their fleet in Salamis Bay. They can tempt the Persians into the small bay where skill will count more than numbers. The crowding of the Persian ships might—— But, child, why do I tell you this? I have the habit of it because you never tell what is told you. But this is most seriously secret.” “And you know I will keep it so,” she said with a little dignified uplift of her head which gave him a sudden pleasure and pride. Silence fell between them. They sat impatiently waiting, the courage of one of them oozing fast. They could hear again the moaning of the Pythia with now and then a miserable, delirious scream. At last the old house mistress appeared. “You are to come with me,” she said to Theria. Nikander rose and took his daughter’s hand for good-bye. But as he kissed her a bitter tumult seized him. He hid his face in his cloak and hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXIII THE CHILD PRIESTESS Theria’s room was small, hardly more than a closet. Like all Greek bedrooms, it was windowless, but opened on a sunny court. She was glad to be alone. The coming three days seemed hardly enough for her prayers and importunities to her god. The Athenian danger possessed her. She felt inspired and strong. She stood in the middle of the room lifting her hands. They almost touched the low ceiling. “O Paian, dear Son of Leto. Am I not thy supplicant? A supplicant thou canst not refuse? Have I not given all my jewels, Apollon, Apollon? If I had more I would give all to thee.” Here the old house mistress entered without prelude. “You are to take off that gown,” she said, “and put on this, the simple garb of the Pythia.” She held forth a sort of long shift. It was fine-fluted in the ancient fashion and yellow, the accepted colour of the Apollo priesthood. “Send me my tiring woman,” said Theria. “Your tiring woman is gone home. You will have the usual temple slave. The Pythia has no touch with outside folk.”