“This knowledge must be thine alone. He is not to know.”
“I will be dumb. But how hast thou mastered us.”
“I will master you—when, with the children, I am on the sea, and facing Pelasgia.”
“How didst thou get such power? Are there gods?”
“Oltis, there are. Know sorrow for thy sin, ere it be too late.”
“I cannot. Of what use is such sorrow? It would come only of fear. Should the fear be no more, I would be as I have been.”
“Thou speakest truth. Sorrow for sin should come of the heart alone. But that may be thine. Sorrow thus for warmth to the gods.”
“Sir Deucalion, I know no warmth of feeling. I never knew such for aught of earth—not even for my children. How then could I know it for the gods, if such there be? I tell thee if there is a life beyond, I am doomed.”
“Say not so, Oltis. If one spark of feeling could begin to glow in thy heart, it would spread, giving heat, life to all the inner man—wouldst thou grant it air. Faint though the spark, it groweth with little feeding.”
Oltis sighed; then said, “I could strangle thee, now, had I the power. That is my spark of feeling! To be thus humbled, weakened! Oh, but to have my fingers about thy neck, to see thine eyes burst from thy head, to fix that head on a pillar in the air, to watch the birds of prey gather its flesh, mite by mite! How I ache! How I pant for thy blood!”