She sat up in bed, gazing into the dark.
“I have helped Delphi,” she murmured, rather miserably. “At least I thought I had helped Delphi by my oracles. Shall I not love my city that I have helped?”
The miraculous saving of Delphi after days of danger, Theria’s vision on the mountain—all had intensified her already ardent love of home. Even her god Apollo was locally peculiar to his shrine. Gods were never quite the same when worshipped in distant temples. Apollo of Delphi was nearer to Theria than Apollo anywhere else. No, no, how strange of her father to propose her going away. And he wanted her to found a city! The greatness of the task appalled her. She lay back with a sigh.
Inessa! What did the city look like, lying ruined on its distant shore?—“The most beautiful shore in the world,” her father had called it. Apollo himself must love that city since he so insisted upon its rebuilding. A great mountain rose behind it, greater than Parnassos. This also her father had told her. She began again to wonder who could be selected to rebuild it. No doubt the priests had looked over the whole field and found no one. That was why they had chosen her. There could be no other reason for such choosing. Well, they would fall back upon Karamanor. Karamanor had commercial talent. Theria had always heard of that, and how from a little boy he had always got the best of it in every enterprise. Karamanor would make Inessa prosperous, send her ships over farthest waters, and make her rich as Sybaris. Oh, but that was not what the god wanted! There were plenty of rich colonies in the west. No, surely Apollo had some great entity for Inessa. An eidolon she called it, a spiritual ideal or image containing the force and character of the god himself. Beauty rising from it to meet the beauty of the divine mind. Song in abundance fostered, almost worshipped, there. Beauty of dance and of perfectly formed high-hearted youths. Justice, yes, even to the poor who expect no just dealings. And perhaps some new Philosophy which the god had stored in his heart to give to some philosopher yet unborn and who could be born only in this new place of free speech and high ideals, this place untrammelled by old-world mistakes. She thought of Pythagoras, Parmenides. Yes, it was from the west that the philosopher came and awakened the minds of men.
Oh, who could tell what the god of pure, unutterable beauty might do if only the place were prepared? Inessa was a god-appointed place, a god-appointed task. But Karamanor could not do it.
Then? What then?
It was her task. Theria’s! God-given!
She was unworthy, unable! Yes, yes, but the god would help her. Had he not always helped? Ah, out of such difficulties, such despairs, always that hand reached down, always that sudden brightness of mind which was the god’s presence.
She seemed to see Inessa on its shore forlorn, waiting for her!
She leaped from her bed and stood trembling in the darkness. What had she done? She had sent her father away; she had refused! A sentimental, maudlin refusal! Oh, if her father had only shaken her. He was too gentle these days, was Father. She must tell him quickly, quickly. She must tell him she would go.