Atlano was confounded.
“Yea, and the curse is already upon thee for that dread mockery. The blood of that poor king is a blight upon this island, a mildew; and thou wouldst add another, further mock the gods. If thou hast heed for their favor, hast thou no thought for their anger? Hast thou no faint, deep feeling that evil broodeth over this island? Hadst thou my dreams! Night after night they come.”
“Atlana, thou art getting an old woman.”
His tone was contemptuous, but his eyes had lost their boldness.
“More than that. I am ages old. Each night of brooding care hath been as years.”
“What care canst thou have known?”
Was he in earnest, or did he speak thus to hide even from himself knowledge that she had suffered, and through him? Atlana could not tell, but she would not upbraid. Such had never been her fashion. Though better might it have been if Atlano could have seen himself, as in a glass, through her wifely chidings—at times.
He continued in a tone strangely conciliatory:
“Thou art not well. New air will help thee. Too long hast thou staid here in this palace. What thinkest thou of a short stay on the western coast where the breezes most have power—say Chimo? There the new pyramid riseth high. Wilt thou go?”
“With thee, yea.”