At last, so gradually that she could not tell when it began, the pain abated. Nikander’s eyes grew clear and his breath came even once more.
“Daughter!” he spoke at last. “My darling girl.”
And Baltè, putting down the steaming pot of water, gave a shout of joy.
Meanwhile up in the Precinct the festival was going forward, but Theria had forgotten it.
At length Nikander was strong enough to be carried back into the aula where he fell asleep. Then it was that Theria heard the sound of pipes and shouting in the street. Instinctively she ran upstairs to the window.
The sacred drama was over. Here came the actors—now a happy, laughing rout. It was the custom that the Tempè procession leave the city in haste so as to out-distance all evil. First Dryas came running in the beautiful leaps which Greek racers used. His hair was streaming in the wind. He held aloft his silver bow in triumph and great joy. Then came the swift boy chorus with backward burning torches and beauty of fluttering garments, then the sacred women having an awkward time of it to keep the boys in sight. And the crowd laughing at them and shouting:
“Good luck for the journey. The luck of Loxias.”
So shouting, laughing, the picture of joyous life, they disappeared down the road.
Ah, there was the last gleam of Dryas’s silver bow!