Aristonikè began to moan again.
“Do not go, oh, lady, do not go.”
She caught Theria’s dress, clinging to it as with little claws.
“I did not think the god would mind,” spoke Theria anxiously. “Is it not for his priestess to heal if she can?”
Old Tuchè’s armour was not without its flaw. She loved the little priestess child. She gazed at Aristonikè and her face curiously changed as if some sweet were trying to mitigate its sour.
“Well, mayhap ye can stay, Mistress Theria,” she grudgingly consented. “I don’t say it’s not irregular. But, well, it’s to-morrow an’ next day for your silence. Is the child eatin’?”
“When you stopped her she was eating,” Theria made answer.
So Theria stayed. Aristonikè gazed at her, and slow tears began to pour down sideways from eyes upon her pillow.
“What use is it to be better?” she said fatally. “Whenever I am better they come again and, oh, they put me in the smoke and then it begins.”
“What begins?” questioned Theria.