“Let them be brought before me.”
Maron signed to an officer, who hastened to the middle of the vessel, where there was a small apartment used for storage, to return with the two miserable ones. When these beheld the fierce, dark red face of the king, they cried out in alarm.
“Bring the rod,” ordered the king, “and let Zekil come before me.”
The two children had fallen on their knees to supplicate for deliverance. This Atlano well understood from their signs, their tones, their agony. With contempt he looked down upon them until the bronze rod was brought. At his word a blow upon the back of each brought the hapless pair to their feet. But their tears had ceased, and, with eyes shining of indignation, they held to each other. Their shoulders were smarting, but the pain was as nothing beside the indignity, for these children had known only tenderness and reverence hitherto.
Then, as the youth Hellen turned from his sister to flash at him a look as haughty, as fierce, Atlano smiled in derision, and asked:
“Maron, is this the son of a king?”
“Most gracious King, he is the son of a great chief. Zekil knoweth; and yonder he cometh.”
Soon Zekil was on board, and kneeling to the king. When bidden to arise, he stood up as if well satisfied with himself.
“Zekil, whence came these children?”
“Most gracious King, we brought them from the coast above.”