Theria’s room was small, hardly more than a closet. Like all Greek bedrooms, it was windowless, but opened on a sunny court.
She was glad to be alone. The coming three days seemed hardly enough for her prayers and importunities to her god. The Athenian danger possessed her. She felt inspired and strong. She stood in the middle of the room lifting her hands. They almost touched the low ceiling.
“O Paian, dear Son of Leto. Am I not thy supplicant? A supplicant thou canst not refuse? Have I not given all my jewels, Apollon, Apollon? If I had more I would give all to thee.”
Here the old house mistress entered without prelude.
“You are to take off that gown,” she said, “and put on this, the simple garb of the Pythia.”
She held forth a sort of long shift. It was fine-fluted in the ancient fashion and yellow, the accepted colour of the Apollo priesthood.
“Send me my tiring woman,” said Theria.
“Your tiring woman is gone home. You will have the usual temple slave. The Pythia has no touch with outside folk.”
“Baltè is not outside folk. I will refrain from all speech with her, if that is the rule, nor will I allow her to speak.”