“The queen hath left the palace?” vociferated Oltis.
“Yea, for half the day.”
“And—with the Pelasgian children—and—their father—Deucalion?”
Atlano almost fell back in his chair. As it was, he was obliged to lean upon it; and then stared at Oltis, his eyeballs protruding, his lips ashy.
“I say—with Deucalion. Thy Deucalion—the ‘Silent Priest’—hath mastered us.”
“Oltis, thou ravest!”
But Atlano felt it was not raving. Like a flash, it went through him. He fell into his chair, confounded, baffled. Great sparks danced before his eyes; his tongue refused to move. If he could but speak the dreadful thoughts surging in his brain; if he could but kill Oltis for telling him this!
Oltis spurred on, in spite of his helplessness and fear, continued:
“The Silent One is Deucalion. I knew it when ye had fled. He spoke to me. The horror of it!—He said he would search into the hidden things of the ‘Deeps.’ He opened the door. He went down the stairway. He saw the handmaids. He threatened to bring in the islanders. He forced me to go on the portico, and speak. Ah, he is a master!” The marble figure sighed as if it would rend itself.
Atlano was writhing and groaning in his torment. But joy—his voice was coming. He hissed, “Oltis, thou art a craven. Oh, for strength to get at thee! To aid—Deucalion! I will strangle thee for this. Then will I be king, high priest, chief priest in one. For Urgis shall die, likewise!”