And it came.
They looked to see—the peaceful bay, the busy landings, the speeding or quiescent vessels, the houses, the hurrying figures of the port, the glory of the distant hills?—
Alas, they saw them not!
What was this? In mistake had they entered some unknown bay that had been scourged by the furious elements? Yon hills were blasted. This was not their tranquil harbor, their happy port! Where were the vessels, the houses, the active figures, the smiling hills? This place was a nightmare!
Almost frenzied, strangers and returning ones looked about them—all save Deucalion and Prince Pelasgus who stood frozen.
But—on went the vessels—the fact growing upon the horrified beholders that some mighty rush of waters must have swept the place—this harbor they had hoped to enter, some in resignation, some in exultation. For, trunks of trees, pieces of houses, portions of vessels, everywhere began to impede their progress. Soon were descried the floating remains of animals—and later, here and there a gruesome remnant of humanity. At sight of the first of the latter, the women fled shrieking below. The men could but remain to gaze mute, despairing, heartsick. And some, in derision, thought, “Is this the haven of peace promised the stricken Atlanteans?”—It was a mockery.
But on they went, their eyes fastened on the wrecked haven, the ruined hills, until Deucalion ordered,
“We will turn yonder point.”
It was done. They rounded this to perceive, in a sheltered cove, a few vessels and some apparently hastily constructed cots on the shore. They shouted. And figures appeared on the vessels to answer lustily. Then spoke Prince Pelasgus:
“Deucalion, come with me into the boat that we may question them. Let the vessels rest.”