“What’s ravid?”
“Oh, knockin’ down the houses and eatin’ the folk. So at last to quiet her they did take a boy—oh, a nice likely young boy of the village—and leave him for her in that cave.”
“What for?”
“To eat! Every day a boy!”
By this time Theria’s eyes were wide, and she reached furtively and caught Baltè’s skirt.
“But then there came the hero Eurymalos an’ he walked right into the cave, he did. An’ he caught Lamia and pulled her out, and cast her down the cliff. Then she fell down, down, a-bumpin’ and bangin’ her head all the way—right into the river Pleistos.”
“Paian be praised!” breathed the little girl.
“Yes, but them kind don’t stay killed,” said Baltè uncomfortingly. “Look at the other one, the Python now. Apollo killed her long since. But every fourth year the Sacred Boy has to go up there in the Precinct an’ kill her again.”
“But, Baltè, that’s only a play to make a holy memory to the god.” Theria felt sure of this, for not long ago her cousin had been the Sacred Boy in the play and she had heard Mother say that if Dryas continued to do so well in school, and if he grew graceful and fair, he, too, might some day be the “Boy of The Strepterion Drama.” She somehow felt sure that Dryas could not kill a real Python.
But Baltè shook her head.