Now Theria opened her eyes. They were like black lakes and lonely as the stars.
“Theria, darling, darling Theria. No harm shall come to you now, Theria!”
But she looked straight into his face without a spark of recognition.
“It is I—Eëtíon,” he said, taking her face between his hands. “Kiss me, my maiden!”
“Apollon,” she murmured. “Apollon.” She did not close her eyes again, but kept them fixed upon Eëtíon’s face in a way that froze his spirit. Eëtíon was not skilled in Apollo’s ways; he knew nothing of mantic power by which men with their natural eyes see things unseen. He could only recognize that Theria’s spirit was farther from his than the farthest planet.
“Apollon,” she said again.
She was in that far serenity that knows not time nor change, the indifference that comes of too great knowledge from the gods.
Of a certainty she was going to die, and that very soon.
Eëtíon sprang to his feet. Fool, fool, that he was to bring his darling where she could get no help from leech or magic. If she died here it would be he who had killed her. The fear of Apollo now came over him. Apollo would blast them both if he took her away for his own. Again he lifted Theria in his arms and carried her back toward the path where he hoped Baltè might meet him.
Baltè did not appear at the head of the Kaka Skala, but presently came Delphic citizens bearing their household treasures to hide in the hills. These, seeing the dying maiden, helped him gladly.