CHAPTER XXXVI
REFUGE IN THE PRECINCT
In Delphi, where all was danger, the Precinct was perhaps the most dangerous place, yet Nikander with his faith did not think this, nor would any other Greek think it.
He hurried home and sought Melantho.
“We must go up to the Precinct at once,” he said. “Make ready as soon as you can.”
In an hour’s time they were all gathered with the slaves in the men’s aula. Bundles of clothes and little treasures were in their hands. Some of the slaves were weeping, but the family stood in that awed silence which precedes departure.
Theria seemed even yet but distantly touched by the world’s alarms. The calm of the vision mood was still upon her. Nikander believed that she would never wholly recede from this but would always retain that serenity of mind which marks one who has beheld a god.
Eëtíon came in asking for Dryas, but, seeing Theria there in her cloak, of course forgot all else. Theria was shy, but Eëtíon took her in his arms quite frankly and kissed her. Nikander looked upon them with an aching heart, thinking how many a hedge shut out happiness from these two.
Meanwhile, Dryas was pacing nervously to and fro under the balcony. Nikander averted his eyes. He could not bear that his son should be in the pangs of personal fear. But Eëtíon went directly to Dryas.
“Dryas,” he said, “would it not be well for you to take a last survey of all the rooms to see that nothing is left? Do it quickly, for all is ready.”
Dryas hurried off with just the sense of relief which Eëtíon had meant to afford him.
And as Eëtíon once more stood at Theria’s side, Nikander said to him:
“I want you, Eëtíon, to be with us in the Precinct as a son of the house. A son could not be more dear.”
Dryas returned.
“I’ve been through the rooms,” he said brightly. “There’s nothing worth while but this old thing in the storeroom.”
It was Lycophron’s old lyre which Theria had used all these years.
“Oh, yes, yes, I want it,” said Theria, taking it in her arms.
“Are we all ready now?” asked Nikander.
Theria began to look around. Her face flushed, then paled. Then she asked the question which Nikander had been dreading.
“Where is Lycophron, Father? Why isn’t he with us?”
Nikander put his arm about her and led her away from the others.
“Oh,” she said in a frightened voice, “I remember now. Father, did he go clean away—away from us?”
“My dear child, he is dead,” said Nikander, without tears. Then he told her of the kind oath of the kinsmen. Theria, too, must keep that secret.
But she only clung to him, sobbing. Eëtíon came to comfort her and before long she was able to go with them out toward the Precinct.
It was natural that the few remaining Delphians should cling as close as possible to the Great Temple. Nikander saw to his regret that the only obvious refuge for Theria was the Pythia House. It was the only building besides the temple itself upon the temple platform. Into the old prison place she must go.
But Melantho went in with her. And there was also an old blind woman, too feeble for fight, and a young mother borne on a litter with her hour-old child. Nikander was allowed to go in and out as the one upon whom all depended, and in front of the house Eëtíon and Dryas kept guard.
The great danger had broken down all conventions.
Before nightfall Nikander took Melantho and Theria out through a small gate of the Precinct wall, which was just back of the Pythia House. He gave Theria the gate key. Then he led them up a little path amid the talus of the cliff to where there was a tomb against the hillside. Nikander had caused a narrow hole to be made in the side of the tomb where a thick laurel bush would hide it. The door of the tomb itself presented a sealed front. Hither Nikander had brought provisions and here—so near by and yet secure—he told Theria she must come with her mother should the Persians enter the Precinct.
As they turned back toward the Pythia House he gave Theria a small sharp dagger.
“You will not use it too soon I know, for you are brave. You will know the moment if it comes. It is for both of you.”
With a strange sense that all this was quite a usual thing to do, they came back through the gate.
At twilight Nikander, passing Theria’s door, saw her with her head down, weeping quietly. He came and sat beside her, questioning her.
“It is Lycophron,” she said through her tears. “Oh, Father, I loved him! He was so good to me!”
Now Nikander’s grief for Lycophron had been bitter and lonely. He could hardly share it with Dryas, and Melantho knew nothing of the truth. So the grief haunted him like a hovering Erinyes.
“We must remind ourselves that it is best as it is,” he said dryly.
“Yes, best for him, but I miss his goodness. No matter who is kind to me I shall miss his kindness.”
“Was he so kind to you?” said Nikander. For there in the house, as so often happens, the father had not guessed the bond between these youngsters.
“Yes. Always he would stop and tell me the news I was hungry to know. He would spend time upon me when no one else thought of me. And, Father, when I was here dying of loneliness Lycophron sent Baltè to me—I know it was disobedient, but it was so kind. He gave Baltè money to use for bribes so she could get in and as if that were not enough, he sent me messages, just the ones that he knew I wanted most. He had a heart of gold!”
Suddenly Nikander bowed his head low in a passion of weeping. The unexpected praise—the unexpected bringing back of his son into the sweetness of the family life, broke him down completely.
Theria threw her arms about him, frightened at her thoughtlessness.
“Oh, Father, I should have thought of you before I said it,” she faltered.
“Dear child, you have given me something that I thought was for ever lost,” he answered.
He went out readier for the hard to-morrow than he had deemed possible.