“O King, I believe the gods are in this. I believe they look upon us in anger.”
Atlano’s was the utmost suavity. “Though why should the gods look upon us in anger, Hafoe?”
There was silence.
Oltis, who had been glaring at Hafoe, now addressed him.
“Thou believest the gods look upon us in anger, Hafoe? One week since, thou didst mock at our rites in the temple, thou didst laugh at the people because they still hold enough of the faith of their fathers to come and worship in form, if not in spirit—with the lip, if not with the heart.”
“Who mocked, who laughed with me, High Priest Oltis?” returned Hafoe, angrily.
“I. And I mock and laugh still. I am not one to change. I tell thee, Hafoe, I mocked and laughed because I believe not. I fear no gods. I know not if there are any!” And Oltis brought his fist down heavily upon the small table at the head of his couch, in his defiance.
The other priests shivered. Whence had come this strange sensitiveness? Such language as that of Oltis and Hafoe, such derision of holy things, had been heard hourly in this inner sanctuary, and heard lightly—even by those who could not quite steel themselves in unbelief. But now, an indefinable dread, a strange horror, was creeping over them as they listened. Therefore, they looked with disapproval upon Oltis because of his defiance. They would have rebuked his temerity, had they dared, would have bid him incur no further displeasure from the all too evident Unseen.
Yet, even as they looked with growing disfavor, did they begin to wonder, and shortly, to stare in amaze.
What was coming over him?