Just at this moment an eagle circling down from the cliffs above made a swoop like a falling stone for the altar where the early sacrifice lay. Instantly the young man seized a bow, near at hand for such adventure, lifted it Apollo-wise, and shot the bird. The he bounded down the temple steps to seize it.
And Theria quick as thought darted into her beloved fane. How lofty it was within, the flickering light from the hearth-flame playing everywhere and meeting palely the day that poured in at the eastern door. This hearth-flame was eternal and must never go out. An old priestess was tending it. Theria paused by the famous navel stone which marked the centre of the earth. Who knows how many thousands of years men had worshipped it. It was a rude stone, but immeasurably holy. Two golden eagles were perched either side of it—commemorating those whom Zeus had sent to meet at Delphi. Farther within, near the Statues of the Fates, was Pindar’s chair, waiting for him always to come and sit and sing inspired songs—the songful Apollo welcoming the human singer and giving him of his own divine fire.
Theria bent and kissed the chair for the love she bore the poet. As she did so her shoulder was seized and roughly shaken.
“What do you mean by coming in here when I had forbidden you?” said the furious priest.
Theria was too startled to speak.
“Answer me!” he shouted.
“I had wished for this,” she faltered. “Perhaps I can never come——”
“I should say not.”
Theria came to herself and stood like a tall goddess.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” she cried. “How dare you?”