She lay in her bed trembling. It was long before she could reason with herself and believe that this was a foolish, childish fear.
CHAPTER XX
LOVE IN THE LANE
Theria paced to and fro in the large upper room, weaving. She had unskilful hands for this craft also as well as for spinning. Her figures of gods were stiff, her colours never true. But these days the long task was grateful. The whole household seemed hushed, as before a storm. Even Melantho now knew how near the Persians were. She, too, must be told. “Last week they were at Pydna, to-day we hear they have reached Larissa in Thessaly.” So the vast armies approached nearer, nearer, fateful, certain, awful, and the tiny land toward which they came seemed crouching with arms upheld to ward off a blow.
But Melantho was unexpectedly quiet. She had taken charge of the house as never before. And there was need. The slaves were irritable with fear, disobedient. This morning Olen had run away.
As for the Argive youth, Theria had not seen him since the night of Dryas’s singing. She had forsworn her beloved window. Better so than to see him again. That one moment of piercing beauty in his face. Ah, that had taught her the danger. Tender-conscienced child that she was—she was remorseful for every moment that she had lingered at the window listening to his speech. Those moments were not worthy of Nikander’s daughter. One day she went into the storeroom to fetch a book-roll which she had left there. The floor again was strewn with flowers, faded and dewy fresh, as though thrown there each day.
That the Argive youth should keep coming. This haunted her. Patient, persistent, each evening, lonely in the lane. How was she to drive him from her thoughts?
She looked up from her weaving. Her father had opened the curtain of the doorway. He came toward her. There was in his face a finality which brought her to her feet.
“Father! The Persians!”
“No, child,” answered Nikander’s low voice. “The delegation of Athenians is in Delphi.”