“Surely will I. Oh, there, I’m most forgettin’ the message Lycophron sent you. ‘It’s an oracle,’ says he, laughin’. ‘I can give oracles as well as any one. You tell Theria: “Keep up heart. Argos has become Delphi for her sake.”’ It’s a queer message that.” “‘Argos has become Delphi,’” she repeated, puzzled. “Argos, Argos. Could it be the Argive?” Theria began to laugh softly, her eyes full of tears, clinging to Baltè and kissing her. “Darling old Baltè,” she said. “Darling, dear old Baltè.” “He said you’d like it,” said the old slave, nodding her head. Oh, dangerous message. Lycophron did not look ahead. He meant to be kind. CHAPTER XXVI “PRAY TO THE WINDS” Next week happened what Theria most feared: An important oracle was required. Theria learned by chance that it was important. Old Tuchè in her excitement over it forgot how loudly she was speaking in the court. “This time an oracle they _must_ have,” she was asserting. “It is a matter of state. The new Pythoness can’t get it. I wonder what they’ll do with her, anyway.” Theria was in despair. Should she refuse to try? Feign illness? Then a new pythia would sit upon the tripod to babble at nothing or to give some dread, discouraging word. Nikander had placed Theria in the Pythia House counting upon her prayerful help. Should she step down and leave him without that help, or was it her duty to go upon the tripod and feign again for Hellas’s sake? But gods in Olympos! she did not know the question nor who was asking it. She could not deceive if she would. She would refuse to try. Upon this decision Theria found relief for her troubled mind. No more should they starve her and push her through the smoke. She could rest. She no longer cared for anything but to be left alone. That evening, like a light among shadows, came old Baltè again. Theria’s first question concerned her father. “Master is sad, very sad,” the old nurse told her, “but so is everyone sad. It’s like a storm gatherin’ on Parnassos—those Persians coming. And everybody is afraid like as when they hear thunder and the darkness comes closer. Oh, darlin’, if I could take you out of this house and keep you in the fastness of the mountain. There it will be safe. Only there.” Again the danger brought to Theria its dark and solemn peace. “Poor Baltè,” she said. “How could I live in the mountain with Delphi destroyed? Could I be a peasant all my days?” “You could never be a peasant,” said old Baltè proudly, “and you would always have one slave. Old Baltè will last long.” “Dear Baltè,” she answered, and kissed her. Baltè was a Helot from Sparta and some high Spartan blood ran in her veins. But Baltè had more to tell. “Yesterday came a runner. Poor lad, he was sore spent. Your father brought him in from the highroad and gave him wine and made the slaves rub him well. Then he sent him on his way to Sparta wi’ another runner to help in case he fall.” “Whence came the runner?” asked Theria.