Though the tongue was unknown, Pyrrha comprehended.
“Gracious Queen, I am of earth. I am one who holdeth thee deep in her heart, whose prayers will ever call down blessings upon thee, whose days and nights will be favored in thanking thee.”
“Thou sayest thou art of earth?” asked Atlana in Pelasgian, and so correctly that Pyrrha answered not for wonder.—“Thou sayest thou art of earth?” she repeated, after waiting.
“Dear Queen, I am of earth,—and until these last weeks—one of its most sorrowing daughters.”
“Most sorrowing. Then know I how thou hast felt. But—why wert thou sorrowing?”
“Dear Queen, I was a mother bereft of her children. Not that the gods had taken them to make Heaven more dear. But, through war—through fierce, cruel man—had they been torn from me!”
Atlana was rising higher, was looking at her piercingly.
“Dear Queen, it cometh to thee. Why should I hold thee so dear, why should I bow down to thee—I, a mother bereft of her children. Few such mothers are there in this happy world!”
“Thou—art—not—?”
“But I am—I am! I am that mother who mourned for her children, Hellen and Æole!”