With regained strength, Hellen leaped from the couch, and darted toward the grating, his hands outstretched, menacing.
But, as he reached it, he was overborne by a sweet, subtle force. A tenderness exquisite pervaded him, so that his threatening hands fell limp, and he stood motionless, eagerly gazing.
“My son,” pathetic, persuasive were the tones, “if thou wilt but wait, a way will open for thee and thy sister out of this bondage. This is but the step toward thy home. Dost thou not feel that I speak truth?”
“I do, I do.” Hellen was mastered.
“Then chafe no longer, but wait for the light.”
“I will.”
The figure then looked over, and beyond Hellen, and said with authority:
“Lead this youth to the chief priest.”
Hellen turned sharply to behold close behind him a weird, unnatural shape, closely habited in dust color. How had it come almost within touch without noise or rustle? And how of a serpent did it remind him as it stood tall, slender, vibrating, and observing him with brilliant, piercing eyes.
The red-garbed figure waved his hand in farewell to Hellen, saying: