Thereupon, another priest, of his shrewdness, warned:
“Such foreheads come not of the gods. Call to mind that ye spring from Poseidon. Was not the forehead of Poseidon even as our foreheads? Are not our foreheads as his? Then have a care. Else will ye mock!”
“But how fair, how white are they!” demurred a yellow man of the Eskaldi.[[13]] “Of a truth, the gods love such a color!”
“Get thee beyond the mountains of Shaphana,[[14]] whither we found thy tribe famishing,” scoffed the priest. “I speak but to Atlanteans. Atlanteans, we are of the gods—we are red. But other things are for our thoughts than skins and foreheads. We are the children of Poseidon. Let us look to it that we anger him not. For, what a day is this!”
Then, shaking his head in a manner that drew forth the cries and groans of the bystanders, he made the sign, and was driven off. The other priests followed.
During this conversation more galleys had approached; and from one got out a few warmen and sailors. These were at once questioned by men, women, and children. But short was the listening, when the air was rent with anguish. Then those unbereaved led the mourners to their homes, themselves sick of shame and despair.
What had come upon Atlantis? Never had a king been so humiliated. Never before had the ships returned without brilliant booty. Fun-hi was as a grain of sand to this. And, ah, the non-returning! Woe to the stricken ones—the desolated homes!
The thinking ones, in their places of retirement, trembled at what this might mean.
The king, with his attendants, drove on to the palace court. He alighted; and, waving off the clustering ones, passed on to the queen’s apartments. He would tell Atlana that this had come of her croakings.
But Atlana was standing alone in her bower room, her arms outstretched, the glad tears pouring. She hastened to embrace him, crying: