Then he made the motion to spring, his hand out-clutched, Oltis, with tongue again mute, awaiting him: but in spite of his mad hatred, his baffled revenge, he had not power to arise. In his immobility and dread, he moaned:
“My foe—Deucalion—here—under my hand—and I not to feel it. How often have I longed to yield him on the altar—that ‘Silent Priest.’ Baffled, and by such arts! Oh, for Deucalion! To have him here for one instant, even!”
“Call to mind how thou didst pale before him but last night,” derided Oltis. “Wouldst thou grow weak again under his eyes? The man is master of strange, dire powers. Well is it he hath gone. Though—the queen!”
“Name her not. Ah, how hath she known thee. How hath she borne with me. What sorrow hath been hers. Mine eyes open to it. Fool that I am. Oltis, add another to thy doings. Call me fool!”
But Oltis again was dumb.
“Oltis, I curse thee! Some good was in me when I came to the throne. Some good was in me as long as I hearkened to the queen; but that good, thou hast turned to evil. The evil in me thou didst pander to—so that I am what I am. And why, Oltis, didst thou pander? It was not for warmth for me. Nay, nay, I read thee. I saw thou didst look to be king. I knew of thy draught of death; that thou hadst just got it in shape so that it would leave no sign. (Thy father, of his age, needed not such art.)—Ah, but I like to see thee writhe!—And well I bided, laughing at thee. Poor Atlana, how often hath she warned me. Now—for thee!”
He half arose, Oltis again awaiting him, his eyes flaming; but, as before, he sank in his chair, his muscles refusing to go farther.
“Why can I not walk?” he cried frantically. “Oltis, thou art bewitching me? Or, is it, in truth; the gods? We made the show not to believe in them—did we not? We believe now, ha—ha! Let us not fear. Let us curse each other—and them. Then will I go from here, and hunt up those lagging priests. This light on the altar groweth too dim. The gods will be getting in even worse temper because of it. Come, Oltis, raise thy voice. Let us curse together!”
Again he essayed to rise. But, in that moment, all power of volition forsook him. Instantly, his feet, hands, head, body, seemed encased in iron, in iron weighing tons. Not a muscle could he move for the immense pressure. His tongue was the deadest weight of all. His will was all of strength remaining him; and that struggled long, superhumanly. But the end was that he like Oltis could only sit as stone, and stare before him—and into the terrible eyes opposite.
Yet, how active was the mind becoming. How keenly, already, was it suffering in its recollections of evil, its regrets, its humiliation at being baffled—its horror of the oncoming fate. Oh, for madness, instead!