Nikander ran to her, lifting her in his arms as though she were a child, calling her endearing names, weeping with relief. He laid her on a couch in the aula while they brought the torches.
But one look at Theria’s face and wide-open eyes sobered him.
“Theria, Theria,” he called to her terrible silence.
“Oh, Nikander, don’t you see that she is dying?” cried Eëtíon, brokenhearted.
Nikander rose solemnly to his feet. “She has beheld a god,” he said. “She is yet in the vision.” He turned to Eëtíon. “Has she spoken any word?”
“She called upon Apollo thrice, but since then this silence. Oh, Nikander, what does it mean?”
Nikander bowed his head. Knowing what he knew of Theria’s sacrilege, he fully believed this state to be a doom from Phœbus himself. He believed that she would die. And when he lifted his head, trying to speak, Eëtíon’s anger melted before the anguish in his face.
Nikander as a worshipper of Apollo had recognized at once the mantic ecstasy. He knew also the accepted means of breaking the ecstatic state. He had Baltè bathe Theria in warm water and gently rub her body. He himself brought his lyre and sitting at the bedside played strong, clear music in the Doric mode.