Thus, on they talked—of past horrors, of the present brightness, of the happiness fore-gleaming from their children’s hopes—until the queen began to stir. Her restlessness increased. Erelong, she was turning toward them. After an intent look, she extended her hand to Deucalion.
“I wronged thee,” she murmured. “Forgive.”
“Gracious Queen, I have naught to forgive. We will be but the dearer friends. It is all in knowing the right. Thou hast thought it over since.”
“Well and long have I thought it over. And I know the worst. Think not I have been deaf whilst lying here. My body hath been as a stone, but the mind hath been quick. My poor Atlanteans! Oh, to be of help to them! We are bereft, bereft!”
“Then—thou knowest?”
“Yea, whilst lying here, I have heard that within and without to make me know our island is no more.”
“Some of thy people are left thee.”
“Call them not people. Call them Atlanteans. It is the dearer name. We are of Atlantis—though it is no more.”
“Dear Queen Atlana, thy thought for these thy Atlanteans will make it well for thee. Thy wish to cheer them will bring thee cheer. Cheer cometh in giving cheer. And, here is Pyrrha for thy sister. Erelong we hope to see thee thine old self.”
“Never, Sir Deucalion, can I be mine old self. Mine old self was full of hope, of joy, of sweet, warm feeling. Mine own self! Ah, I am dead—dead!”