“Further, hold no longer the Pelasgian children. This day, give them over unto the ‘Silent Priest.’ He, with the sun of the morrow, will bear them to their home.”
The lips closed.
Atlano and the priests had listened, shivering. Theirs was the corruption of these islanders—theirs, the profanations of altar and sanctuary. The sharp spear of dread was piercing them. It was minutes before Atlano could control himself to ask humbly:
“Mighty Spirit, is it in truth the will of our Father Poseidon that we give over the captives to the ‘Silent Priest’?”
“Thou speakest it.”
“Tell our father that we hearken. We pray that he will plead for us with Amen.”
“It is heard.”
There succeeded an awful silence. It was felt that the mighty spirit had departed. And, as before, Æole lay as dead.
Though the throng, in its expectation wavered not—to be rewarded within an hour. For then, Hellen cried:
“Look—look! Again cometh the color into her cheeks!”