And indeed dizziness did overcome Pyrrha for the moment. But Deucalion held her; and whispered reviving words. Besides, these were her children kissing her hands, her face, her hair, her robe, and calling in heavenly fashion, “Mother!” “Mother!”
So she strengthened to weep of her joy; to look from Hellen to Æole, from Æole to Hellen in wonderment, so striking was their beauty, aye, better still, their nobility, their purity of expression.
And these children, in transport, were gazing upon their mother. They had borne into captivity an enduring remembrance of her grace, nobility and beauty; but the remembrance was as naught to this reality. They could not take their eyes from her; and, at last, Hellen exclaimed:
“Mother, how fair, how grand art thou. Sorrow hath not marred, but glorified thee!”
“She is a bright spirit,” added Deucalion. “Nay, Pyrrha, thou art a goddess.”
“Hail to the goddess Pyrrha!” cried Hellen.
At this, the officers and crew of Pyrrha’s vessel shouted as one, “Yea, yea, hail to the good goddess, Pyrrha!”
“They know thee, dear Wife,” whispered Deucalion, “the good fitteth well.”
But Pyrrha knew she was not good—that none are good save the Divine. She could not be good, but she could do good through the Divine influx.
Yet these exaggerated expressions were dear, coming as they did of love. For ever is love precious. So she received them, blushing even as a girl. No fear was there now of her fainting. Strong she stood with an arm about each child as the friends from the neighboring vessels came aboard to greet her husband. Sensel came also to clasp her hand, and glide away.