When the prince had bidden them arise, Captain Pelio spoke out loud, and in reverence:
“Thou art our king! We had begun to fear thou wouldst not come back. Long mayst thou live—and in our hearts—as did thy father!”
“Ah, king it is. If it could but be ‘Sir Prince’!—But, Sir Captain, tell me of my father.”
“King Pelasgus, I would tell thee this. Think not that thy father ran from the waters. Ah, no. From the heights, the two mighty men beheld him meet the waters as if in glad greeting. He tried not to fly as did the others.”
“It is no wonder, with my mother gone.”
He was so weak and trembling, and hoarse of voice, that Deucalion put his arm about him, and asked for him, “Sir Captain, where lieth the body of the king?”
“It lieth beside that of the queen.”
Deucalion was trembling sorely, but the bowed figure of the prince forced him to continue. “Sir Captain, as thou seest, the prince, our king, is weak of his grief. If I am faint, what is his state. It is best we go back to our vessels for this day; but, on the morrow, we will see thee and all, again. And now, for the prince, I thank thee.”
The captain bowed low. Of his pity, he could not speak.
Gently did Deucalion seat the pliant prince. Then, after waving farewell, he speeded off. Hard, hard was it to watch the suffering in this face so dear, harder to note the dryness of the eyes, the rocking of the body. And no reply could he get upon speaking. In anguish rowed Deucalion on.