Apollo, himself, had troubled that spring. That was the reason it bubbled. His touch was upon it still. Theria drank in fear while the priestess murmured, “Apollon, Apollon.” Would the ecstasy fall at once? It sometimes did fall upon the Pythia after this single draught. Silence followed while the priestess searched Theria’s face. Theria paled, knowing well what she searched for. Then the priestess presented the second vessel, in which were leaves of laurel. These Theria was required to chew. How bitter they tasted, intensely so in her hungry state. She rose from her couch, swayed as she stood. Without a word the priestess caught her and nodded her head in satisfaction. It was the beginning of what the priests wished for. How strangely Theria’s fingers tingled and, as she stepped, how heavy were her feet. She tried not to be terrified, but she was a healthy young thing. She dreaded the supernatural. The old priestess dressed her. “You must make sacrifice at the altar now,” she said. She led Theria out of the house and into the glory of an amethystine morning. They came out upon the lofty temple platform and the whole Precinct lay below, little pillared temples bathing their feet in the low level rays of light, brazen statues, golden tripods flashing like struck cymbals in the dawn. The white Sacred Way was drawn clear as with the swift finger of the god up zig-zag through his own treasuries. A trumpet sounded. It cut the pure air, a flashing shaft of sound; then echoed, echoed from cliff to cliff into utter clarity and sweetness—a note from Elysium. Theria stretched forth her hands in enthusiasm of love. Every vestige of her dizziness disappeared. “But this way is the altar,” corrected the dame, and led her to it. Here Theria performed long rites, offerings of barley and wine, long silent prayers. Then she was led back into her room. “Do not move from here,” said the priestess. “Be silent. Try to think of—nothing.” So she left her. Never would Theria forget that day, the interminable hours, the slow change of the slant sunlight in the court, the trying to pray, succeeding at last with upsoaring faith, sleeping; the awakening to realize that it was still only morning. Then again the waiting, waiting. The third and last morning Theria was so weak that she longed to cry, longed as she never supposed she could long for Baltè to come to her. Baltè surely could make her well. To-day, as yesterday, she must preserve through all the hours the holy silence. Again came the old priestess and dressed her. Then a procession of priestesses led Theria down to the Castalian spring where they gave her the sacred, purifying bath.