She had been sent to her room and poor Baltè watched her like a Cerberus. No chance to be throwing jewels from windows even if Theria had thought of it. As a matter of fact, she forgot it utterly.
It was next morning before she met her father.
His face was darker than she had ever seen it. He seemed to look at her strangely and from a great distance.
“Oh, yes, Theria,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I am in too great anxiety to care whether you are punished or not.”
“Father,” she exclaimed, instantly concerned for him alone. “What—what has happened to you?”
“The Medes are at our door, child,” he strainedly answered. “And at present I see no one who is going to resist them.”
She laid hand upon his arm, but he hurried away out of the house.
All that day Theria was in disgrace. Her mother set her an extra long task of weaving and with extra severity made her ravel out all her mistakes.
These were many. Theria could think of nothing but her father’s worried words: “The Medes are at our door.” The phrase rang over and over again in her ears. The Medes were the Persians. Did Father mean that the Medes were in Phokis—or on Mount Parnassos itself? How soon would they fall upon Delphi? Oh, if she could only question her mother. But her mother would know nothing about it.
In the midst of her worry her promise to the slave concerning the jewels flashed across her mind. “But it was last night I was to give him the jewels, last night, poor slave. He must have come—and gone away again. Will he come to-night? Oh, surely he will.”