The girl had seen Apollo in a vision and was now going to carry the god’s worship over seas to a place where Polyphemus, the one-eyed giant, still lived and might at any time sally forth from some sequestered forest. Where also were men with heads turned backward. This from the women. The men knew better.
So they all gathered to the festive house with laughter, cousinly greetings, and jests. Nikander, richly clad and crowned with myrtle, received them at the door. Ah, there was the bridegroom, too. He was certainly handsome even though no Delphian. His dark head was crowned. He was clad in the crimson purple so dear to the Greeks. And here was Dryas, limping from his honourable wounds and greeting them all in his friendly way. How bright the torches burned in the aula! The smell of roast lamb was wafted from the kitchen to mingle with the odour of rose garlands everywhere. The slaves were bringing in the wine. Would the bride come soon?
In the midst of this worldly clatter the love that was between the pair burned, a thing apart like an altar flame on a still day, clear, unswerving toward the sky.
The ceremonies had begun in the morning when Nikander sacrificed the lamb to Hera Teleia. In the afternoon had come Theria’s maiden cousin bearing a pitcher of pure water from Castalia spring. Theria had received her bridal bath knowing that at the spring itself Eëtíon likewise was being purified.
Theria had been all joy, full of excited laughter, pranks, and dancing. But now her joy swept into an exaltation which kept her still and wistfully kind to all who served her.
As said her own Greek poet:
Young life grows in those sheltered regions of its own,
And the sungod’s heat vexes it not,
Nor rain nor any wind
But it rejoices in its sweet untroubled being.