Hellen’s agony was bewildering. Despair so clogged his utterance that he could only gasp:
“Not that—not that!”
“It is a high honor.” The king regarded him in triumph and derision.
Then Hellen’s tongue loosed. He towered grand in his passion.
“Thou knowest it is not a high honor. Thou knowest thine inner holy place is a hell. Thou knowest that thyself and those priests are fiends worse than those of hell—for ye are fair in seeming, and fiends look what they are. Ye are monsters of self and sense! And, by your arts have ye worked upon these islanders, until they see with your eyes, walk in your ways.
“But—think ye there is no coming pain for this? Oh, poor, wretched, groveling King, I tell thee sorrow and pain fast near thee. In the height of this thy power cometh thy fall. The powers above are raging at thee. Their vengeance is sure. It playeth about thee now. It is ready to dart upon thee. It will crush thee. May it come this night!”
And Hellen sank upon his knees to implore:
“O ye Gods, send down your shafts of flame to confound this monster! O spare to Æole and Electra their purity! Smite them dead ere worse befalleth them!”
The king listened as if turned to stone. The audacity of this youth was more dreadful than his words. Whilst he stood glaring, and unable to speak, Hellen arose, and, in commanding tone, said:
“Yield to me Electra and Æole.”