“Hist, little mistress, we must not speak in this place.”
“But, Baltè, perhaps he is ill.”
“Medon is there, and Philo.”
Theria suddenly recalled that her father’s hand when she touched it had been cold as ice. How curiously he had stumbled as he turned from the crowning—an ill omen that. Theria had a sure instinct concerning illness. She knew that her father was in trouble. All the joy of the festival and of the out of doors folded its wings in her heart. She could think only of her father.
Now she was dimly aware that the old Hosios had let open the gates and bade Dryas enter. She caught Baltè’s hand.
“I’m going back home,” she said. “Baltè, come quickly.”
“But, little mistress, what a crazy notion is this?”
“I’ll be back for the festival. Oh, I’ll be back in time. But I must meet Father.”
“But, little mistress——”
“Baltè, come at once!”