“Ah, thou askest for Electra first,” was sneered with strange slowness and huskiness.
Hellen darted for him, and in his young strength, and emotion, would doubtless have prevailed had he not been mastered by the same force that had rendered him helpless when endeavoring to rescue Æole from the temple’s guards. An essence pungent and pleasant was thrown at him by Atlano, and he sank upon the ground. As he lay inert, the king continued:
“As for thyself, it was meant thou shouldst join the warmen in a falling upon the Afrite coast at a place where treasure can be gained. But, because of thy words, thou shalt be yielded on the altar. Amen and Poseidon are again calling for blood, as the late troubles prove.”
A fearful nausea came upon Hellen. He struggled to defy:
“Thou mockest Amen and Poseidon. My yielding upon the altar—all such—come of thy longing for blood. But the gods thou wouldst make so vile are ready to fall upon thee for the base deeds thou doest in their name. Rather would I be yielded on thine altar than stand in thy place!”
With fiendish face, the king bounded upon him, and would have strangled him had not a rustling been heard in the thicket. He looked to see Sensel glide out, quivering and pallid.
“King Atlano, thou art wanted in the temple. A great evil hath befallen.”
“Æole! Electra!” panted Hellen.
The king turned to go, but Hellen’s feeble hand caught at his robe.
“King Atlano, yield me upon thine altar if thou wilt, but spare Æole and Electra. It is but a crumb.”