“Yes, Father, I knew that.”
“They have received their answer from the Oracle. Child, the message needed no interpreting priest. It was fearful and fearfully clear. The Pythia in her own voice, in ecstasy upon the tripod, warned them out of the shrine. ‘Quit Athens,’ was her cry. ‘Flee afar; fire and sword shall come upon your city—and not yours only, but many cities. My temple sweats blood; get ye away from my holy place; and steep your souls in sorrow.’”
“Father, how dreadful; horrible!”
“The priests, of course, are horror-struck. But they are triumphant, too. They have prevailed over me. The Athenians! Theria, the Athenians dare not go home with that message. We have told them, Timon and I, not to go home with it. That message would put their armies to rout before the Persians should strike one blow.”
He stopped. His face took on a deep regret, almost abhorrence. Then he said hurriedly:
“Theria, I have come to make you the Pythia. It is a last resort. You say you can pray. God grant you can! Oh, my child, put into this consecration every effort, every spiritual strength you know!”
She was so dazed that she could only stand before him trying to say “Yes.”
“You will leave the house early to-morrow morning. You will have your days of rites and preparation. But the Athenians will await your days. We will enter the Precinct as supplicants—you and I. The Athenians also as supplicants. Supplication may win the god.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes. But his mind was far away, wrapt in the purpose for his state.
“Theria, the honour of the Oracle, the very saving of Athens and of all Hellas are in your hands. Pray, pray!”