What could she do? Like a sword’s stroke came the thought: “Run home yourself, Theria. Now while Tuchè yet lingers in the house. There is no time to lose.”
Aristonikè was sleeping again. Theria snatched a dark himation which lay for cover on the couch and wrapping herself, head and all, ran to the protection of the temple-colonnade, along this she hurried, the columns would conceal her, soon an angle of the cella would intervene.
Then she reached the Sacred Way and walked not too fast so as to avoid question.
Her weakness from yesterday’s ordeal was instantly gone. She only prayed that Nikander might be at home, that his action might be swift. And now for the highroad; now for the familiar street; now for the dearest house which she had thought never to see again!
Medon tottered to his feet at sight of her. More natural would it have been to see the ghost of his little mistress than herself.
“Is Father within?” she asked, but did not stay for answer. She sped into the aula and, oh, thanks be to Kairos, Nikander was there.
He, too, looked upon her as upon a dire spirit. Only madness could have brought her. But more terrible than his wildest conjecture were her words.
“Father, Father, it is bitter news I bring. Lycophron, Dryas. They have Medized and are fled with Persian spies. They are gone to hold back the Oracle message from all the Hellenes.”
Nikander sprang up, seizing her wrist, searching her face.
“Child, what madness! They are not gone away.”