They seized Nikander, held him struggling, while priests and citizens broke upon the door and rushed into the house.
“Dryas, Dryas, help me!” Nikander shouted; but if Dryas was there he did not appear.
Nikander heard Baltè shriek as the priests caught up her nurseling. Forth they rushed again, his daughter white as death in a stalwart priest’s arms. So they hurried up the road toward the temple.
Then Nikander from his house saw temple slaves running to meet the priests, saw them all stop together. They crowded in confusion. Then from the confusion came the same temple slaves and to Nikander’s amazement they were bearing Theria in their arms, bringing her home again. The priests and citizens ran onward frantically up to the temple.
Nikander wrested himself free and ran to meet the slaves. They gave her carefully into his arms.
“She is dead, already dead?” he whispered.
“No—no, Master,” they assured him.
He did not pause to find out what had happened but hurried back with Theria to her couch, where on a sudden he could do nothing but weep and wring his hands. Baltè had to compose both her patient and him, assuring him over and over again that no harm had been done.
It was Dryas who, later, hurrying home from the Precinct, told Nikander what had happened.
“Aristonikè,” he announced, “passed into ecstasy suddenly without any rites and prophesied wonderful things. They carried her to the tripod even while she prophesied. The crowd of priests coming from our house reached the adytum just in time to hear her cry out: