It was a terrible moment for Deucalion. Over him swept a mighty dread—a dread to go nearer these. Yet, stifling this, he began to run down the long apartment, tottering as he ran. And came beside these large white objects—that proved to be beautifully sculptured coffins of alabaster, mounted on great blocks of red syenite.
In the extreme of weakness, he fell against the first; and moaned; and implored for courage to look within.
And arousing, did so—to weep and groan, to run like a madman from one to the other until he had looked in all.
For, here were no priests in these alabaster coffins. Instead, were the embalmed bodies of what had been fair maidens—each with a lifetime of woe upon its features. Such haggardness, such suffering, surely never before were stamped on young faces. So fine was the embalming that every line showed as in life—and with its weight of agony.
He ran from one to the other, crying, “Ye powers—could such things be? Their poor bodies tell the tale. The pretty ones—the tortured ones! Ah—those thrice-cursed monsters! Yet they live—live to gloat upon their work. Ye gods—crush them out. Never again let such work mar the face of earth. Æole, Æole—to see what was before thee!”
He fell on his knees, the tears streaming, and besought:
“Mercy, ye gods! Help! Set us free from this house of death! (Ye vile islanders—to lose these fair ones—and not pull down this pile!) Help me, ye gods, to save my dear ones. And give Electra, too. Aid me still to master king, priests, people, until I am on the sea, and bearing my dear ones to Pelasgia. Ah, Æole, Hellen—what sorrow is like unto this?”
He arose; and ran again, as if distracted, from coffin to coffin.
“Ye pretty ones! Where were your fathers—your mothers? Was it for this ye were given them? Do the gods grant that men may live lost to all save sense, and die in peace in such? Never! Thrice-cursed island, thou art doomed! Thou and thy vile people will vanish as down blown by the wind! And coming ages will doubt thy being; or, if not doubting, will mock at thee!”
When he had turned from the last coffin, and was staggering about aimlessly, he came upon a door set low under the stairway. “Ah,” he muttered, “I know. It leadeth to the embalming room—the private one of these priests. Well know they the art—as these tortured ones show.”