The shock of the cold water restored her. She realized with a start that now, if ever, she must seize the will of the god. She began to struggle with petitions. When she entered her room again it seemed to reel round and round her head. Surely this meant that Apollo was approaching nearer—nearer. The face of the god with solemn eyes and wide-flung hair became suddenly so vivid before her that she could not tell whether it was an image in her mind or the real presence of the god. Her home, her father, Eëtíon were all infinitely far away. Numbly she realized that she was passing into the ecstatic state. Once again it was morning—the morning of the oracle. Theria’s mind awoke crystal clear, drenched through and through with hope. She smiled so happily at the old priestess when she came in that the dame bent and kissed her. Then, since this was against custom, the woman was quite shocked at what she had done. Now the hour of the oracle was come. Dreamily Theria was conscious of being led into the temple. Knew that her hair was hanging loose, the sacred veil and crown upon her head. Ah, the dear, dear temple! There were the splendid golden eagles, the navel stone, first of Delphi’s treasures, Pindar’s chair which she had kissed. And over yonder the Athenian consultants waiting with awed faces. Oh, the god would help them. She was sure, now, sure! Suddenly the priestesses kindled to exceeding brightness the eternal flame on the altar; put into it many branches of dry laurel. The cella was filled with smoke, especially the space behind the altar where within temporary screens the priestesses waved the half-extinguished laurel branches. The priests pushed Theria into this enclosure. How sweet was the smell of the smoke. So smelled the little altar at home, the—— Oh, it was choking her! She started forth from the screen. They pushed her back again. She began to struggle and to gasp—they held her—oh, fatal consequence! Their roughness made her angry. Weak as she was she fought them back. It was almost unknown that the Pythia should have such strength at this stage of the ritual. At last they brought her forth, her eyes streaming, her nose also, her lungs burning as with fire. Down the rough-hewn steps they led her into the dim holy of holies. Bed rock was the floor and in its midst the narrow opening of a cave. Over the blackness of this abyss stood, solemn, tall, and terrible, the brazen tripod. From the blackness below would rise the breath of the god. In awe-stricken silence the priests and Athenian consultants, again lifting on high their branches of supplication, filed into the small dank place. They filled it quite and ranged themselves with religious care. Theria saw everything: the golden statue of Apollo, the special laurel tree in its tub; and there was her father looking as she had never seen him, his face set, white as chalk. She must not fail him—all the life of her dear Hellas hung upon her now.