“King Atlano!” ejaculated Hellen.
“Ha—Hellen!—What wouldst thou? Pardon for thy wrongdoing of this morning?”
“Nay. Do with me for that as thou wilt, but tear not Æole from me.”
“It is ordered that ye shall part, not to meet.”
“Mercy!” besought poor Hellen, looking upward.
Upon them was again falling the voice, and firmer, louder:
“It is not ordered that the brother and sister shall thus part. With every sun, will they meet.”
Appalling was the hush. In spite of himself, the king showed a mighty fear. He looked stealthily about him to see every face blanched. Indeed, their hearts felt blanched. Upward they gazed in voiceless horror, each as if intent upon finding some crevice, or flaw in the ceiling, that might explain the mysterious tones. But this was a stone ceiling, well cemented. Vain could be the most searching glances. Besides, the twilight was creeping on.
Protracted was the silence, until the king said, as if against his will:
“Hellen, it may be that thyself and Æole can meet each day. I shall speak with the high priest.”