CHAPTER XXXIII
AT EËTÍON’S CALL
What Dryas reported was true. The Delphians were deserting their town, whether from great faith or great fear, who could say? Their temple guard could not be called an army. It seemed as vain to wait for the Persian as to wait for the onsweep of a flood at the breaking of a dam. The dam had broken at Thermopylæ and the flood was coming.
Men sent their wives and children across the gulf to Corinth and thence to Achaia, and when there were no more boats others sent them to Amphissa in Locris. The men of Delphi hurried up into Mount Parnassos, to the Korykian cave and to other fastnesses known only to themselves.
Only about sixty people were left in Delphi and of course the armed temple guard.
Nikander sought out Melantho.
“Dear wife,” he said, “I have chartered a little boat to take you and your own special slaves to Corinth. It will be a long journey for you, but do not be afraid. You will be safe in Achaia.”
“And Theria?” she asked.
“Would God I could send her!” said Nikander brokenly. “But she is too ill to be moved. She is weaker than ever since that terrible experience with the priests. Even were she strong enough, the priests would not allow her to go. The Pythia is not allowed to go away.”
He looked up, wondering at Melantho’s silence. Melantho was a timid creature and the most submissive wife in the world.
“Am I like the kegs of cheese that they carry up to the cave?” she asked huskily.
“Kegs of cheese!” asked Nikander blankly.
“Am I goods and chattels, not even so much alive as the dogs of Delphi? The dogs stay.”
Great Paian! Melantho was angry. Nikander had never seen her angry in his life.
She stamped her foot.
“I will not go,” she cried. “I’ll turn over the boat and swamp it if you put me in it. I will not go when—when all my dear ones stay.”
Then she melted with streaming tears. Poor Melantho! After this little outburst she would have done anything Nikander required.
But Nikander took her in his arms, loving her as he had never thought to do.
“My dear Melantho,” he said. “I begin to think I am the stupidest man in Delphi. Of course you shall stay.”
It was no easy matter to care for two helpless women at such a time, but Nikander was glad that Melantho was to stay. As for Baltè, nations might rise or fall, she had one care only, to watch her nurseling. And now Baltè was busy with new plans. She had long ago given up her sieve and taken it back to the kitchen where she gave it a kick of scorn.
Theria was steadily growing weaker, but her eyes as Baltè studied them looked not quite so glassy, not quite so blank as at first. Sometimes Baltè actually saw in them a great sadness. When any one came into the door, Theria’s eyes would slowly, painfully direct themselves thither, seeming to search, and when the search was made this deep sadness or disappointment would settle upon her face. And once, instead of relapsing into blankness after their pitiful searching, the dark eyes closed and tears stole down between the lids.
What did her child want? Baltè asked herself this question. Asked Theria every question she knew. For while Nikander could not bring himself to speak to that strange, blank face of Theria, Baltè talked and asked and crooned as any nurse crooned to her baby.
Though to all her asking Baltè received no reply, yet at last she thought she knew her darling’s wish.
The next day she met Nikander in the outer aula.
“Master,” she said, “I know now what little mistress wants.”
“Great Heaven! has she spoken?” asked Nikander.
“No, Master, but her eyes speak to me.”
“They do not to me,” said Nikander sorrowfully.
“Oh, Master, ye must not be wroth with little mistress if I tell ye that she loves that good youth that found her on the mountain. Don’t ye blame her for it. She is a human child and Eëtíon loves her so dearly. She wants to see him, Master. She wants to see him.”
“Poor Baltè, you cannot know that.”
Baltè told what she had seen.
“You forget,” said Nikander, “that your little mistress is priestess. It would be absolutely improper.”
“She’s goin’ soon where there’s no proper nor unproper,” retorted Baltè in her broadest Doric. “An’ if she goes, what harm to gi’ her this wee bit of joy beforehand? An’ if she dies for lack of it, then it’s ye will be her murderer.”
Baltè was determined to supplicate her master with the unrefusable supplication if she could get consent no other way.
But at this moment came Eëtíon, all excited over what the priests had done.
“It’s ye I am talkin’ o’, young man,” announced Baltè. “The master here says ‘no’. But the little mistress is pinin’ away for a sight of ye. She is thot.”
“Is she better? Did she ask—oh, Nikander——” pleaded Eëtíon.
“Baltè is dreaming. Go back to your little mistress, Baltè.”
But Baltè stood her ground. “If the lad calls her she’ll answer him. Mark ye that.”
“Will she answer? Do you really believe she will answer?” asked Eëtíon, his lips quivering with the memory of Theria’s unanswering silence on the mountain.
“O love o’ Leto, stop askin’! Come!” said Baltè.
And Nikander suddenly consented.
Eëtíon came in with awe as one comes into a death chamber.
He knelt by her couch, laid his brown, trembling hands over her two white ones, and, leaning close, called her—once, and again.
Then an amazing thing happened: There passed slowly from off the dark lakes of eyes something as it were a shadow, leaving them sweet and sensible, leaving in them an ardent, dreamy look.
Then the dream gave place to lovely awakening, which was Theria’s self—a surprised, outreaching love.
Her lips framed a word: “Eëtíon.”
Eëtíon forgot all about him. He gathered her close, kissing her, calling her. And now she spoke quite aloud, calling him in return with names and epithets as dear.
“You have not forgotten me,” he was saying, “Oh, I thought you had forgotten.”
“Never, never. I could not forget you in Acheron,” was her murmured answer.
“Speak to me, me, also, my daughter,” pleaded Nikander.
“Yes, Father. Dear, dear Father,” came her answer. No trace of fear or unaffection for all his angry words which had sent her away. She reached out her arms to him like a returning child.
Baltè clapped her hands with loud sobs and shoutings. She, too, must kiss and rejoice over her little one.
“Baltè,” said Nikander solemnly, “may the gods in my age give me such wisdom as yours. For my part I shall never question yours again. So now, dear Baltè, go and fetch Melantho.”
Melantho came, and Dryas. One would have thought to hear the rejoicings in the house that no Persians were anywhere in Greece. Then presently Baltè was for sending them all away. They must not tire her darling.
Theria clung to her lover’s hands. “Will you come again, Eëtíon?” she pleaded. “Say you will come again.”
Nikander doubtfully opened his lips but Baltè waved a warning finger.
“Indeed an’ he will, my darlin’,” she said with authority. “Old Baltè will see that he does.”
And Eëtíon, leaping up, kissed Baltè’s withered cheek, at which Theria’s first sweet laugh was heard.