“Hellen, I will not own thee, brother. Thus to charge the best we have known in our lives. This is what Atlantis hath done for thee!”
Sweet peace was again spreading her wings. And Electra was fearful she would get far away. Yet, Æole, in her sweet indignation, was right. Hellen was almost impious. In dread, she looked from one to the other.
“Æole, our eyes were young when we were torn from them. Young eyes are fond; they see no faults.”
“Would we had died young, Hellen. To grow old enough to see faults, such faults in those so dear—and to charge them—should cause one to sorrow for his birth.”
“Well would it be had we never seen the light. Thinkest thou that I could have rested under it—thus to be robbed of my children? I would have rent heaven to get them!”
“Hush, Hellen,” implored Electra. “Thou art sinning. To dare to think of warring upon the gods!”
“Yea—well could I war upon any gods, that could look down, and not check such evil. And make their heaven a thing of naught!”
He looked upon the shocked face of his reprove—to become penitent; and mourned:
“Electra—Æole—it is ye who make me sin. My days and nights hold but one thought—how to free you from the taint of the temple—from this island, this fair, most evil spot—from this your dire slavery.”
Of their pity, they seized his hands. Each implored him not to be so bitter, but to be calm, even hopeful, and to consider that God’s ways are not the ways of men.