Men of Delphi, men in the terrible need, Men upon whom is descending a host like the sands of the sea, Pray to the winds! And ye Men of Athens, men of the swift-moving galleys, Men of the long oars smiting the hoary ocean, Pray to the winds! And pray most of all to your brother by marriage Because of Orithyia, daughter of mighty Erectheus, Pray to the winds! That oracle is famous. Never in all the history of Delphi was an oracle received in such dire need. Never one which to the Delphians themselves was more precious. For it was the Delphians themselves who had asked the question and to whose hearts the oracle gave courage and hope. They sent messengers at once, carrying the precious words of courage northward to the ships of Artemisium and to the little band of heroes at Thermopylæ, and eastward to Athens city, crying: “Apollo, the Son of Leto, is on our side. He bids us pray to the Winds.” CHAPTER XXVII THE MESSENGERS Aristonikè was dying. No more did she notice even the linnet, Theria’s gift, which sang so sweetly in the solemn house. A fever burned through all her limbs. As evening came on old Tuchè was fain to take her out of the close house and lay her in front of the door on the high temple platform. And because the little maid would not go without Theria, Theria came also. So they two sat, Theria and Tuchè, on either side the couch. Little do the young consider thoughts of the old. Theria did not guess that Tuchè hated her because Aristonikè loved. The little Pythia was Tuchè’s nurseling and Tuchè was cut to the heart to have her turn to another in her last hours. But Theria, holding the hot little hand, had thoughts afar off. Her soul was in bitterness because she had again deceived her god. That was yesterday and she was yet weak from the ordeal. She wondered if Eëtíon would cease to love her if he knew what she had done. Certainly her father would not love her, nor would any of her kin. Far below lay the sheer abyss of Pleistos valley. Nearer at hand Delphi itself nestled into the gigantic half circle at the mountains’ base. Precinct and town seemed floating in a violet mist. For the day was nearly done. But this was the hour of the Phaidriades, the glory of the cliffs. Theria turned and looked above to where they stood facing the west. The setting sun poured his light direct upon these high embattling walls turning them to gold, to beryl, to amethyst. They gave forth light again as with a shout, a clashing of golden cymbals, and a prayer. They hushed the spirit of the gazing priestess. As the reflected light retired upward with the sinking of the sun one spot on the cliff held the glitter. It was the famous votive chariot of Gelon, a chariot of polished bronze.