“This was in thy base search for that draught said to give life without end? To get this, thou hast tortured those fair young creatures?”
“Yea. And the younger and fairer, the more the power,” burst from Oltis. “Viril knew! Viril found it out for his own use! But was so base as not to tell us!—Though, among his goods, we found a torn piece of papyrus that gave us the clue. On it was written some of the parts forming the draught. The blood of maidens—lovely maidens—was one. And, as their blood dripped from them into the crucible, they were to stand and stir the blessed mixture. Ah, how we worked! How we tried to find the missing parts. Maiden after maiden lost her life!” Oltis had become gloating in his remembrance. “And if, at times, Atlano would have had mercy, I would not. His mercy, thou canst judge. As for myself, no maiden was so fair as the one, who, in her mixing, most promised the draught. For, there is power in maiden blood! Once, we almost reached it. Once, I believed I should be High Priest—King, forever! But it came to naught.” And his head sank on his breast.
“They died then?”
“Yea. Their blood was their life!”
“This was done in the room yonder?”
Deucalion had pointed to a door at the northwestern corner.
“Yea.” Oltis again raised his head;—his eyes were resuming their savageness. “Since thou camest—for some reason—we have not had the wish.”
“Then—why came Æole into this inner place?”
“Ask me not.”
“Ah—Æole—my child—my child!” cried Deucalion, involuntarily. And he fell on his knees to utter his gratitude.