“He is young Prince Pelasgus, the son of our king.”
Hellen, of his surprise, exclaimed so loud that his father again cautioned him. As he sat confounded, it was to listen to this.
“During our struggle with the tribes to the north, he served under me; and dear did we become to each other. He is noble, brave, good, and so true that he would not hearken that I should come without him. Though with ill grace was his father willing. But in all Pelasgia, there was not a youth who could run, turn, and bend himself as Prince Pelasgus—not one so strong. Thus he asked to use these gifts as a mask in my service. After some days, he came before me in his present shape; and I saw that this mask of serpent look would aid me. I now know that I could not have done without him. Sensel is an able one. And—the voice is his.”
“Father!”
“It is as I say. It is but in nature. Sensel learned it of a captive taken when the northern tribes fell upon us. He said it was quite common in his own land. But, as most of his tribe were killed, it is almost as if of the hidden.”
“How will Æole and Electra glory in this,” was said with due penitence. “From the first, they liked and trusted him. But I—how have I tried to stifle their belief in him. How have I scorned him for his serpent ways, his services to king and priests.”
“It is a lesson for thee. But look—yonder he cometh.”
“Let us go to him, father. I would kneel for his pardon.”
“Not here, my son.”
They descended from the tower. Upon meeting, Hellen would have embraced Sensel, had his father permitted it. As it was, his expressive face testified to his regret, his contrition for his unjust opinion, his former contempt, even before he whispered of such to the responsive Sensel.