Gautama, too, had prostrated himself, while a stifled, smothered feeling kept him silent. For a time, Yermah forgot that the three bronzed men who stood looking at the shepherds gathered about the shore were not Atlantians.
It seemed doubtful what kind of a reception they were to receive, until Yermah called to the natives in their own tongue.
“Our Dorado! Come to us out of the sea!” they shouted almost beside themselves with joy.
“O thou blessed one! Dost thou see the scourge laid upon us?
“Thy father, Poseidon, and all thy countrymen, save us, poor Guanches, are perished. Evil days have fallen on Majorata. Dost thou not see the new mountain choking and filling her wide-open mouth? Tell us how thou art come.”
“Thy servant brother, Hanabusa, skilled in sailcraft, is my deliverer.”
“The sun and stars lent countenance to our venture,” said he, “save when obscured by a passing shadow. Then the corposant ran in balls and spirals from sheet to sheet, and we could not fail.”
“I am of the Monbas,” said Ben Hu Barabe, “far to the west, and I am brother to thee in sorrow. The destructive power of the Divine took all my people.”
“And I am of the Mazamas,” said Cezardis, coming forward. “My country lies under sheets of ice mountains high, and no living thing is there.”
“Misfortune is known in the land of Mexi, whence I come,” said Gautama. “Flood and fire hidden in the earth made us tremble for days lest we all should perish.”