“I wouldn’t mind if it killed me, just so I were Pythia,” Theria urged solemnly. “Just so I could speak for the god.”
“Well, you’re not going to be Pythia, my child. This whole question is nonsense. It grows out of nothing but your eternal desire to be doing something.”
Nikander was right. It was Theria’s burning desire to use the power that was in her which kept her constantly urging. Her face turned tragic and Nikander’s anger sharpened. He was under great stress.
“Now, no passion, mind. Theria, I have enough burdens in these terrible days without your foolish notions. Pythia—faugh! I’d be disgraced to have you Pythia. Silly girl!”
So he strode out of the house.
Theria ran to her room. She expected to cry but she did nothing of the sort.
“I will be Pythia,” she said, throwing her long arms above her head and clasping her hands.
“I will be Pythia—no matter what——”
The springs of poet inspiration are hidden and very strange. Could it be this opposition which drove Theria to make her song—the prize song of Dryas? The next day after these events that song came across Theria’s mind like the flash. Anger was part of its origin. Longing for outlet was another part. Strongest of all was the damming back of the birth-right power within her until it welled higher than its nature and broke over into song.