Then fine it was to behold the youth’s flashing eyes, his proud crest, and the brave air with which he turned to repel this mighty-looking warrior. Though Pyrrha, by tone and grasp, endeavored to restrain him, as she, in her Pelasgian, pleaded for mercy. Vain, however, were her sweet tones. The chief’s hands went about young Hellen; the cruel men pressed sore; and Pyrrha and her daughter, bereft, sank upon their knees, heart pressed to heart, to cry to heaven for help.
But again went the hands at their work. The mother was drawn back ruthlessly, and the maiden wrenched from her arms. Brave, unyielding, Pyrrha struggled to her feet, prepared to follow, to drag her children back. But the evil spirits held high their captives, and gathered about them in mass as they moved onward to the ships. Dark became everything to Pyrrha; her lovely body tottered, and she fell unconscious. Heaven at last was kind.
The other women, with their children, collected about her. But to all efforts for her revival, she responded not. So they forbore, to fall on their knees, and gaze dumbly at the vessels, which, with booty and captives, were already beginning the journey southward. When these were out of sight, they arose, their thought only for the miserable creature who had revealed Deucalion’s family to the despoilers. As one, they fell upon her with their tongues; and of her it need hardly be told that, for the balance of her life, it would have been better had she never been born.
The despoilers hastened southward to hear evil. The brave Atlanteans who had disembarked to destroy these Pelasgians, had met with defeat. Yes, Atlano had been pressed back into Attica by Deucalion, and there had been routed by a small army under Pelasgus. In consequence the ranks of the Atlanteans could only tear their way to the coast, many dying as they went of exhaustion or wounds, so that Atlano with the other survivors appeared but as a handful to those awaiting them on the ships.
When Atlano was again on his own vessel, his rage and humiliation were so intense that none dared to venture near him to tell of the presence of the two young captives. Even Maron, his chief attendant, kept aloof and eyed him in fear—the great, grim, swarthy Maron, who had never known awe until now.
But the king had not been long on board when, as he stood gazing upon the shore of this uncrushed Pelasgia, he heard a sound as of sobbing, and that not far from him. Surprised, he listened for some seconds, and then signed to Maron. The latter came forward eagerly, while the others of the vessel scarcely breathed in their interest.
“What is that noise, Maron?”
“Most gracious king, it cometh from the two children made captive on the coast above, at a place where some of our vessels landed for booty.”
“Who took them?”
“Most gracious king, it was the chief captain, Zekil.”