And Baltè, who never before had obeyed her little girl, came without a word.
They hurried back along the road. Nikander did not meet them on the way. Theria was the more terrified. Entering the house she heard music—the music of the physician. She ran to her father’s room.
He lay gasping upon the bed, his fine face drawn like an old, old man’s. His eyes, haunted with pain, turned toward Theria, but he did not speak; perhaps he could not. The physician in the corner sang nervously the healing ode of Apollo. Medon was clasping his hands.
“Oh, Missy, Missy,” he moaned. “The doctor gave the medicine and it did no good. Now he’s playin’ the music. When he does that—it’s the end—the end!”
The room was suffocating.
“Air,” thought Theria. “Father must have air.”
She stamped her foot at the physician. “Stop that wailing!” she commanded. “Stop it at once.”
The physician was glad enough to obey her. If Nikander died it could be the daughter’s fault.
Then swiftly, businesslike, Theria had them carry her father, bed and all, into the street and sent Baltè for hot water which she applied. She was trembling in very childishness of grief. Sometimes she flung herself upon her father, kissing him, begging him to live. But nevertheless she kept on with her simple remedies—remedies she had used before.