“But you are not the Pythia.”
On a sudden the wish of many moons sprang to Theria’s lips.
“Father, let me be the Pythia, the next Pythian priestess. Oh, Father, you do not know how I can pray to the god and—and how——”
“Nonsense; the Pythian priestess is a stupid girl. You would never do.”
“But the Pythia need not be a stupid girl,” Theria was talking now breathlessly. “Father, when I pray, Apollo answers me. He does.”
Nikander took her chin in his hand, lifting her pleading face.
“What a queer child it is,” he mused. “What do you mean by Apollo answering you?”
“I don’t know, Father; but he does. Oh, with the coming down upon me of something out of the air like wings—no, not like wings—but I know it is the god.”
Her eyes grew mystic with a curious inner seeing.
“You strange Theria,” said her father. “If you saw all the visions of the gods it would not make you a good Pythia. You know perfectly well that the Pythia is a girl of empty mind. The mind must be vacant for the god to speak through it. She is but the mouthpiece of the god. Besides all this, she writhes in agony when the oracle comes upon her. Sometimes it kills her.”