Surely never was a happier, humbler band of victors than these who now returned along the road to the Precinct. Nikander and Eëtíon bearing Dryas on a litter, the temple guardsmen now laughing aloud with some recollection of battle triumph, now awed into silence, as one of them told of the divine shoutings he had heard, or the terrible dealing of those rocks which fell from on high upon the enemy.
The other Delphians who had rushed down from hiding in the hills kept silence. Every one of them was wishing that he had stayed with the guard in the Precinct.
Outside the gate Theria met them with outstretched arms and tears of joy. She kissed Eëtíon and her father, and knelt down by Dryas’s litter, bending over him in love.
“Darling Dryas.” Then, “Quick, I must help him.”
Dryas’s face was white with pain, but he caught her hand.
“I am safe now,” he whispered. “Really, really safe!”
He closed his eyes.
“He saved my life,” spoke Eëtíon proudly.
“And fought better than any of us. Oh, my son. Dear, dear boy!” cried Nikander.
“I saw him in the fight,” asserted one of the guard. “That’s true what you say.”
In the entrance portico of the Precinct they set him down, while Theria sent slaves for water and wine and other slaves homeward for the remedies of her own.
Soon she was bathing Dryas’s deep wounds, staunching their flow with the wine, setting the poor broken leg, which, while it would mend, would never let Dryas walk perfectly straight again.
Dryas bore his pain with a look which ever and again started her tears, the look of a child come home.
As soon as Melantho came to replace her Theria turned to attend Eëtíon’s wounds. She knelt before him, binding up his bleeding ankle, then carefully washed the deep gash in his shoulder where the sword had grazed over the top of his shield. Her heart sang with the task.
Nikander, perhaps because he was an older, more skilful warrior, had received only scratches. Indeed the fight had not been long. The Persians had been conquered by the god ere ever man struck one blow.
More and more Delphians crowded into the Precinct. The happy news seemed to have mounted on wings of its own to those who had been hidden on Parnassos.
They came down in groups or singly, and each as he entered had to hear the story again from those fortunate ones who had stayed. All the talk was of the wonders, the portents, the direct action of the god. They told each other the tales which were to become the rich traditions of their race. Their faith grew with the telling.
And who shall say that their faith was vain? Even we to-day receive the benefit of that strange repulse, which helped to keep Europe what it was, to make it what it is to-day. We may not explain it as they did, but the mysterious, deciding succour is a basic historical fact. Apollo had saved more than his visible treasures by this prompt defence.
Now other Delphians came in with armfuls of battle-litter they had found on the road, the curious wicker shields, despicable in Greek eyes, rich torn garments, gold chains, head pins set with rubies, the silly Persian caps which set them all a-laughing, and whole mule-packs of trousers which made them laugh still more.
“Men, full-grown men, to hamper their legs with such a foolish gear!”
They found also the curious horse heads which the black men had worn. They were but skins flayed, with ears and mane remaining.
“And we thought those were monsters and were afraid!” laughed one.
“But all the gold must be saved for the god, no gift of ours, but his own, his right,” said another.
Instantly all assented to this. Their hearts were dewy fresh with gratitude. They were like noisy, happy children.
Melantho was bending over Dryas. He had reacted now from the first shock and was restless with fever.
“Oh, let us go home,” pleaded Melantho. “See, this is no place for my sick boy. Oh, I want to go home.”
Poor home-body, she was almost in terror at being from under her accustomed roof.
Nikander held Dryas’s hand. His face clouded as he answered her.
“If we go, we shall have to do without Theria’s help,” he answered.
“I can care for my son,” said Melantho. “But Theria—surely to-day the priests will let her——”
Nikander was looking away. “I do not dare to provoke them,” he said very low.
Dryas stirred with a moan of pain.
“Yes, wife,” said Nikander decisively. “I know that we should go.”
He went over to where Theria and Eëtíon together were binding up the leg of a stout young guardsman, he howling with true Greek ardour.
Nikander touched Theria’s arm.
“Daughter,” he said, “Dryas is growing worse and I fear we must take him home.”
“Yes; and, Father, we must see that the litter-slaves walk slowly and very steadily. I will try——”
Tears filled Nikander’s eyes.
“Dear heart, I wish I could take you with us. I do not dare to take you,” he said.
Theria whitened as sorrow stole over and fixed itself upon her face.
She moved close to him.
“I had forgotten,” she whispered. “Oh, Father, I want to go home—home!”
Nikander answered nothing. He could not answer. He led her over to a corner.
“Oh,” she moaned, “that I should have begged to be priestess. How foolish, witless——”
“I was the fool to allow you. But remember, Daughter, always remember the deed which priesthood let you do. Your Prayer to the Winds was answered, abundantly answered. You helped to save the fleet, my darling. And you did it thinking you must die for doing it.”
His praise took her by surprise, but it only made it more impossible to part from him.
She stole into his arms like a frightened child. He dared not tell her the hope he had for her. It was too faint a hope for that. He knew well that his best comforting was to remind her of what her priesthood had accomplished.
“Your Salamis oracle. We have yet to hear from that. The battle must even now be raging at Athens. They tell me that never would Themistokles have kept the Athenians to their task but for that oracle to hearten them. You gave the oracle as being your own, but you know now it was the god’s.”
She was trembling with the sobs she must keep still.
“And, Daughter, never go to the tripod again,” he urged. “Promise me that.”
“Never, never the tripod,” she answered.
“No matter how they push you, no matter what rites.”
“No—no.”
Here Eëtíon came over to them, asking, “What is it?” and before they answered knowing what it was.
“But no, no, no, Nikander. Not the Pythia House again,” he pleaded.
Nikander had to take charge with decision.
“It must be, Eëtíon. It must be. Go, Eëtíon, and take Dryas home. I will care for Theria.”
There was no chance for good-bye in what the lovers felt to be the last parting.
As for Nikander, mounting the Sacred Way with his arm about his child, the joy of victory, the safety of Delphi, were lost in bitter heartaches and self-reproach.