“Yes, I am to pray for a good oracle from the god. Oh, Eëtíon, I feel now that it may be granted me.”
“But you! Great Hermes, you cannot be Pythia. Your father will not allow that!”
“But Father commands it. He says it is the only hope of saving the Athenians. I must do it!”
“Theria, no, no!” he said wildly. The horror of the thing broke over him and the horror of her being torn from him, for ever beyond his reach. “What a frightful mistake. Nikander should know better. You are not fit for a Pythia. The tripod will kill you. It will destroy your mind. Theria, you must listen to me!”
She was listening indeed. His misery was sweeping down her high mission as the gale sweeps down the grain. She clung to him, saying no word.
“I can take you away from it. Oh, it is a horrible fate. My darling, for the god’s sake let me save you. I’ll take you to the islands. No one will find you; no one.” He was drawing her toward the hill.
That moment her spirit returned to her.
“No, no, Eëtíon. You cannot save me that way. Oh, you know you cannot!”
His hands dropped to his sides, his head drooped.
“Yes,” he faltered. “Not that way, but how, how? You must not be Pythia. You are not fit for pythiahood. I have seen the present Pythia—pale, weak, and above all, empty, ignorant. Oh, darling Theria, you cannot be made like that! I must save you!”