Now again she must cross a bare upland. The sun was high and burning as it can burn only on such heights. She started across in the fearsome blinding glare, the sweat pouring from every member. Curiously enough, in the midst of the sunlight she saw moving along in front of her—_a shaft of golden light_! When she entered a shadow of jutting cliff the golden light endured in the shadow. If she paused, it paused. It was quiet as if a dream pervaded it. It seemed to smile as do those faces that peep from bushes or caves, which smile and afterward destroy. Theria shrank back. It shrank with her. No evading it that way. A terror seized her. She wrung her hands. Should she run back to the forest? No, there it would only gain power. She tried to remember a charm against spirits which Baltè had taught her, but she had no memory left. Now a lofty cliff baulked her path. Against this cliff, facing her, the light stopped and stayed very tall and stately. It quivered, growing brighter to a focus, and suddenly out from it as from a sheath stepped a youth, tall as befits an Immortal and of beauty tender as the dawn. Golden were his tresses, golden his flowing vesture, golden his sandalled feet which did not touch the ground. But the quiver girt upon his shoulder was silver-white, silver also the bent bow in his hand. Should she not know him, she who had known him so well? Up went her hands in worship; up higher yet her worshipping heart. “Thou hast come to kill me,” she whispered. “Blessed art thou, glorious child of Leto. Not lightly shall thy dear Oracle be flouted and thy worshippers deceived.” Apollo did not gaze upon Theria, else she would forthwith have died. But just above her he gazed, delicately smiling, and as he smiled, he toyed with his silver bow. Already was the shaft set on the string, and along that arrow back and forth ran the white fire which whensoever it reached the tip broke into flame. Now he nodded his head and spoke aloud: “Theria, daughter of Delphi, begone from my tripod! No priestess of mine art thou. No voice of Apollo can enter thy mind close-guarded with reason, Begone! Begone!” Theria cowered before that voice, crouching to the earth. But the god spoke on, almost tenderly, as to a frightened child: “Nay, cower not, my maiden, my bow shall not hurt thee. Nay, for I love thee. Hast thou not sung at my bidding Hymns for my glory, songs which I to thy spirit Breathed and created?” Suddenly the god threw back his golden head and laughed. And with his laughter the cliffs echoed as with stricken lyres and heavenly flutings. He was laughing at Theria! He spoke again: “Thou poor child of a mortal wouldst compel good fortune for Hellas _Steal_ it—from gods unwilling! Good lack! But I love thy courage! “But now behold, little one, wilt thou grant me to speak in Delphi?