“Atlano, I see thee again, and not harmed! The gods be thanked forever!”
“Yea, thou seest me again. Though better were it had I been left to feed the birds in Pelasgia!”
“Could I but cheer thee.”
She kissed his hand and yearned for the embrace that would not come.
“It is because of thy croaking, Atlana. From the first thou didst look with cold eye upon it. And the other women of the land have helped thee. Thy bodings of evil, and theirs, have helped towards our loss, our ruin! Knowest thou not the power of thought?”
“Say not so, Atlano. Say not our thoughts could have such power. Small cheer would it bring to mourning wives and daughters. Ah, wretched Atlanteans—wretched women! And to think I could greet thee with smiles, with these sorrowing ones about us! It is cruel—cruel! But my heart will leap that thou hast come back, though with no kiss—no fond clasp within thine arms.”
She bent her head as a tall lily might when overborne by a bitter blast, and then raised her eyes appealingly.
“Yea, I have come back, and in what manner? Hard is it to raise my head, harder to look about me. I am craven! Small heart have I for kiss or clasp. But here they are, since thou dost ask for them.” And he proceeded to do both so coldly that she drew away from him in haste, her eyes flashing, her cheeks crimsoning, that she had thus besought him. But her indignation was short. It was plain that he was suffering sore in his humiliation; and her wifely pity triumphed when he began to pace moodily. Only love and tenderest sympathy shone in her eyes when at last he ejaculated:
“Could I but hide myself. Would I were a priest!”—the last being uttered in derision.
Hoping to divert him, she whispered:—