And oh, they were waiting, they were shifting their feet. The Athenians stole glances at each other. Their eyes were despair. How her father was gazing at her! Oh, if she could only pray! A moment more and they would take her down from the tripod.
She had failed!
Flashingly a temptation crossed Theria, a temptation as old as magic—as old as priestcraft or the first mumbling worship of primitive man.
She would make the oracle. Make it herself! Better that than for Athens to go unanswered.
The god! He might strike her with his arrows. Nay, he would instantly destroy her.... Better that than let Athens go unanswered!
She stiffened straight as a reed on her tripod and flung her hands on high, cupping the palms as if to receive a gift. Never had the Athenians seen anything more beautiful. Athena, their own virgin goddess, might in some divine appearing be of this likeness.
And her voice, the intense, meaningful voice of the singer:
“Apollon, Apollon!
Apollon emos.
Ah idou, idou!