When supper was eaten, and the altar fire was out, they put on beautiful azure robes; and sat in the darkness before the embers of the sacrifice in order to receive and give judgment. At daybreak were written on golden tablets their sentences, which were then deposited in the temple as memorials, together with the robes.
At the end, they swore not to take up arms against each other; ever to aid the royal house in case of rebellion; and, in common, to deliberate upon war, giving the supremacy to the house of Atlas. Further, the king promised never to decide upon the life or death of a kinsman unless he had the assent of a majority of the sub-kings.[[21]]
This was the most ancient and most important of observances. Yet rulers and priests had combined to neglect it—whilst the people looked on. No wonder was it that Deucalion shivered.
Upon recovering somewhat, he exclaimed: “Oltis, it is the crowning crime!”
“We have not lost through it. Let not thy mind be weighted.” Scornful was his tone.
“Oltis, I am borne to earth. Yet will I rise that I may bring the people to the ‘Deeps’—there to behold thy work—there to open their eyes—shouldst thou not do as I bid thee.”
The figure again growing into marble shuddered. Great beads of perspiration started. But no words came.
“Oltis, when day breaketh, thou wilt go with me to the portico, and tell the people this: That the powers above will that the Pelasgian children leave with me at once. A few words will do. Else—”
The marble again quivered; the lips murmured, “I will.”
Deucalion sat down before the wretched man, and pondered.