Great Apollon! Akeretos, the priest-president, was lifting her up to the high seat of the tripod! Now she must shake the laurel tree. For in the laurel was the life of the god. Yes, she was shaking it. The consultants stood waiting, waiting. Suddenly she had a queer sort of panic. She had been expecting forgetfulness so intensely for so many hours. Now instead of forgetfulness everything became horribly clear—all memories, all thoughts, home, Eëtíon, nonsense rhymes which Baltè used to sing her. Great Paian! she must not laugh.... That would be sacrilege. And oh, they were waiting, they were shifting their feet. The Athenians stole glances at each other. Their eyes were despair. How her father was gazing at her! Oh, if she could only pray! A moment more and they would take her down from the tripod. She had failed! Flashingly a temptation crossed Theria, a temptation as old as magic—as old as priestcraft or the first mumbling worship of primitive man. She would _make_ the oracle. Make it herself! Better that than for Athens to go unanswered. The god! He might strike her with his arrows. Nay, he would instantly destroy her.... Better that than let Athens go unanswered! She stiffened straight as a reed on her tripod and flung her hands on high, cupping the palms as if to receive a gift. Never had the Athenians seen anything more beautiful. Athena, their own virgin goddess, might in some divine appearing be of this likeness. And her voice, the intense, meaningful voice of the singer: “Apollon, Apollon! Apollon emos. Ah idou, idou! Ships, ships—see—see!” Oh, how fatally clear she remembered all her father’s words. All that he had told her of the Athenian policy. “Sails, galleys of the glancing sails. To Salamis, Ye Athenians. Fight at Salamis. Oh, more ships. Strange, strange ships—locked in the land. Down—down—down!” She was keen as a hawk. She saw her father start with horror. He was remembering his inadvertent talk with her. She must not be too exact, she must not let him suspect what she was doing. She began to mumble. Baltè’s nonsense rhymes would do while she was gathering thought. Her message must not be too hopeful. Now she had it! She broke forth into hexameter verse. Once in a long while the Pythia did this and it was considered more exact. The priests could not remake it. “Pallas cannot prevail to appease great Zeus in Olympos, Though she with words very many, and wiles close-woven entreat him. But I will tell thee this truth: and clinch it with steel adamantine: That when all else shall be taken—all that the boundary of Cecrops holdeth within, _A bulwark of wood_—this Zeus will grant to Athena the goddess, Sole to remain, a defense to you and your children. “Salamis, thou the divine! Thou shalt cause the sons of women to perish.” She began to sway, holding her hands still above her, repeating, “Salamis, thou the divine.” Then mumbling at nothing.