“Father, thou didst dare too much. What pain hath it caused Electra and myself.”
“I knew ye would cheer each other. Further, there was the thought for the queen.”
“In truth, it was dire thought for her, for thee, and for Sensel, day and night,” spoke Electra. “It was not right of thee!”
“Now is thy time, Electra, to chide, to scold. Already hath Æole done her part. I will hearken well, for I merit all.”
“If she can scold who hath lain in her sleep, free of dread, what might I say who have been waking through it all. Sir Deucalion, I will seal my lips. I should say too much.”
“Right, Electra, say no more,” interposed Hellen. “Or, I, too, will join thee. But, father, instead, will I speak of Electra. Without her, I could not have borne it. Though she was torn with grief, she waited upon the queen, helped the ladies, cheered poor Azu who hath been stricken over the queen; and at times, walked with me talking in bright manner—and to the helping of the captain and sailors—for the captain told me they watched her white robe as it were a beacon.”
“But I knew she would do thus, Hellen.”
“Ye will spoil me. I have done but what I should.”
Deucalion was suddenly falling into revery. Hellen was about to address him, when Electra checked him. Then the two began to pace about the deck, ever regarding him anxiously. After a little, Electra whispered:
“Thy mother?”