“From Leonidas at Thermopylæ. He was to beg the Spartans to come quick and help.” “Those laggard Spartans,” cried Theria. “Why do they not go to help their king without his begging and summoning?” “Leonidas is already fighting the Persians—he and his Spartans,” said Baltè proudly. “So few against so many. Only three hundred Spartans and a few allies. If the Persians beat they’ll be comin’ straight here—straight to Delphi.” “But is there no one to help Leonidas—no one at all?” “The Athenians be helpin’, so they say. The Athenians’ ships, Missy. But the Persian ships be twenty to one. Oh, dearie, if only a sea storm would fall upon the Persians. Medon keeps wishin’ for a storm. Medon was a sailor long ago and he knows the ways of ships. He says the Athenian ships would be safe in the Eubœan Strait where they are now. But the Persians be outside around some rocky points up there. A storm would wreck them sure.” Theria suddenly awakened to the fact that her heart was overflowing with interest. Just as she used to do when she was pent up at home and could do nothing, would beat her hands together, agonized because she could do nothing. Now that some power was in those hands, would she abandon it? She trowed not! Oh, if she only knew the question before the Oracle! But she could in no wise find this out. Then she must give her oracle as best she might not knowing the question—trusting that it must in some way concern the fate of Greece. She would pray for that storm which was to help the Athenian ships. Baltè’s word showed her the way. Theria might doubt the voice of her Golden God, she might almost doubt the existence of Apollo. But the things of Nature—the sea, the mountains, the winds—these she could see or feel. These to her were persons, clear-imaged, well known, and having much power. They were gods nearer to men in whom all men must believe. To these Theria still could pray. When the day came she once more mounted the fateful tripod. This, then, was the oracle which Eleutheria the Pythoness gave to Hellas: O ye who are born in the bright air, Driving the ships as thistles in the harvest, Shepherds of clouds, piping to white flocks so loud a tune, Children of Thrace All Hail. Boreas, Thine are the whirlwind-footed steeds; Zephyrus, Thine are the tossing locks and head full-winged; Euros, Thine are the rounded cheeks piping no visible flute; Notos, Thine are the blessings and cursings; All Hail!