Suddenly the priestesses kindled to exceeding brightness the eternal flame on the altar; put into it many branches of dry laurel. The cella was filled with smoke, especially the space behind the altar where within temporary screens the priestesses waved the half-extinguished laurel branches.
The priests pushed Theria into this enclosure. How sweet was the smell of the smoke. So smelled the little altar at home, the—— Oh, it was choking her!
She started forth from the screen. They pushed her back again. She began to struggle and to gasp—they held her—oh, fatal consequence! Their roughness made her angry. Weak as she was she fought them back. It was almost unknown that the Pythia should have such strength at this stage of the ritual.
At last they brought her forth, her eyes streaming, her nose also, her lungs burning as with fire. Down the rough-hewn steps they led her into the dim holy of holies. Bed rock was the floor and in its midst the narrow opening of a cave. Over the blackness of this abyss stood, solemn, tall, and terrible, the brazen tripod. From the blackness below would rise the breath of the god.
In awe-stricken silence the priests and Athenian consultants, again lifting on high their branches of supplication, filed into the small dank place. They filled it quite and ranged themselves with religious care.
Theria saw everything: the golden statue of Apollo, the special laurel tree in its tub; and there was her father looking as she had never seen him, his face set, white as chalk. She must not fail him—all the life of her dear Hellas hung upon her now.
Great Apollon! Akeretos, the priest-president, was lifting her up to the high seat of the tripod!
Now she must shake the laurel tree. For in the laurel was the life of the god. Yes, she was shaking it. The consultants stood waiting, waiting.
Suddenly she had a queer sort of panic. She had been expecting forgetfulness so intensely for so many hours. Now instead of forgetfulness everything became horribly clear—all memories, all thoughts, home, Eëtíon, nonsense rhymes which Baltè used to sing her. Great Paian! she must not laugh.... That would be sacrilege.