“My son, a way openeth. Thou wilt come out of this with thy sister. But woe—woe—to this wicked island!”
Great was the shock to Hellen at the first tones of this voice. But it was as nothing to that which followed. For, this hitherto voiceless priest was not only giving utterance to Atlantean speech at the first, but continuing his sentences in Pelasgian.
“Who art thou?” Hellen seized his garment and stared, bewildered, in his face.
“Have care, Hellen. I am no priest of Poseidon. Feelest thou not—who—I am?” The ‘Silent Priest’ extended his arms in longing.
Hellen was speechless from the ecstasy of hope.
“Hellen, this is but a mask—this garb. Feelest thou not—that—I am—?”
“My—father?”
“Yea—yea—Hellen, thy father!”
But Hellen was unconscious in the arms so eagerly enfolding him. His strained condition could not bear this quick change from agony to joy. Self-reproachful, his father chafed his hands, and gave him of a medicine he carried within his vestment. Overwhelming was his relief when Hellen unclosed his eyes to look at him, and opened his arms for a long embrace.
When he was able to sit up, his father whispered: