Surely now the god would strike her. This greatest of all sins upon her—— He must strike her. She crouched, as if avoiding a blow. Then she achieved her one Pythian act: She really fainted quite away. CHAPTER XXV BITTER CONSEQUENCES Day after day Nikander came to the Pythian House to inquire after his daughter. “She has recovered,” they told him. “She eats once more; but there is upon her the apathy that follows the utterance.” “What does she do?” “Gazes for hours at nothing,” was the reply. “The usual thing. Though it is not usual that the apathy come so soon. She has gone but once to the tripod. Aristonikè now, not so strong a girl was she, but she went many a time under the ecstasy before this apathy attacked her.” Nikander went home with heavy heart. He dared not tell Melantho his anxiety. Melantho’s way was to increase trouble by bewailing it. And Theria was but one of his deep anxieties. His two sons these days seemed to have constant business in which they gave Nikander no part. This was natural for Lycophron. He was wild and loose-living. It would be a sorry day for him if he had to tell his father all his doings. But of late he and Dryas had become very intimate. From morning to night they were together. Even when in other company, Nikander saw glances pass between them. Lycophron was the worst possible example for a soft, gentle boy like Dryas. Yet Nikander did not like to break the brotherly tie. He still loved his eldest son. Meanwhile, of course, Theria’s ailment was far different from what Nikander supposed. It was no exhaustion of nerves from indulging in trance and supernatural sight. It was agony of mind. Apollo had not killed her! This was her chief grievance. The mighty Immortal had allowed her to contemn his shrine, to deceive his questioners. Yet he did nothing—and continued to do nothing. What sort of a god was he? And the Athenians had gone joyously home with their oracle. So the old temple dame had told her. They were treasuring it as the word of the god. They were acting upon it. The whole city was moved in effort to understand and fulfil the sacred words, Theria’s words! She laughed hysterically. She could talk to no one of what she had done. The oracle must remain to help the Athenians as best it could. And what of all the oracles, age long, multitudinous, the pride and wonder of her childhood? Were they all like this—fraud and deception? This thought beat down Theria’s spirit as with strokes of a sledgehammer. “No—no—no,” she would say aloud. Those oracles had helped the poor—they had punished the wrong-doer, they had founded colonies and controlled states. And surely Aristonikè had genuinely felt the god-possession. Had it not wrecked her, body and mind? But the doubt remained, tormenting all the golden preciousness of all the reverences of her life.