With the confidence of a child, Atlana pressed the hand to her heart, and lay back passive, drowsy, shortly to slumber so serenely that Pyrrha marveled.
Soon Deucalion drew near. “All will be well,” he whispered, “but how knew she our tongue? Never was I so wondering!”
“Nor I, though I knew she had studied it, so well did she speak. Only this morning Æole told me that, when herself and Hellen had learned somewhat of Atlantean, the queen began to study Pelasgian. Thus, it came to pass that, on the one day, they would talk in Atlantean; and, on the next, in Pelasgian.”
“As thou sayest, she speaketh it well.”
“She looketh wise; and, of a truth, is sweet and fond.”
“Ah, Pyrrha, such a heart is hers. But it was wasted on her husband. How hath she missed the good thing in life. Atlano could care but for himself.”
At this dread name, Pyrrha shivered. Deucalion put his arm about her, and bade her lean upon him. Then she whispered, “Ah poor queen, life hath not been life to her! To be so fond, and have naught but a stone!”
“Say, rather, life is not life to the one who is not fond. Life was not life to Atlano. Life is not life to the wife or husband who knoweth not tender feeling. Such pluck but dead fruit.”
“Ah but thou speakest truth. With each moment of our wedded life how glad have I been that thou wert so dear. All bitter hath had its sweet. Though grief hath held me, yet have I had thee to think upon, to look for, to hearken unto.”
“Yea, and to joy in, for of me art thou sure. To think I have come into heaven again! And from hell. Ah, that island, Pyrrha, that fair Atlantis! The thought of it cometh upon me strong at times, so that I find it hard to bear up. That fair, grand, most favored spot—a heaven but for man!”