As Kluto said, the ‘Silent Priest’ had remained in the inner sanctuary to gaze upon Oltis who still showed no life save in the eyes, that of his agony, were almost bursting from their sockets.
Yet alas for Oltis—the greatest shock was to come. His humiliation and despair were not complete.
When the fleeing priests were without, the ‘Silent Priest’ moved nearer; and standing over him, severe in his majesty, gave utterance to speech. Fearful was it to hear his deep tones in the gruesome apartment, but more fearful to witness the great beads that started upon Oltis’ forehead at sound of this voice.
“Yea, Oltis—I can speak when I will. The time hath come. I have to say I go from thee for a little. I would look into the hidden things of the ‘Deeps.’ Then will I come back.”
In Oltis’ eyes was a look of utmost horror, and the perspiration rolled off him. Yet he stirred not—even when the ‘Silent Priest’ after lighting a hand lamp, had left the apartment to penetrate those mysteries which had been supposed so artfully veiled.
Deucalion entered the passage dividing the withdrawing rooms of Atlano, Oltis, and Urgis. Unheedful of the lavish luxury disclosed by the open doors, on he hastened, his eyes, his thoughts intent upon a door at the end that was set low in the wall.
Reaching this, he pressed the lower left hand corner. There was heard the sound of something smoothly moving. The door was disappearing within the wall, disclosing a stone stairway extending into darkness.
Lamp in hand, he darted down this to come upon two doors side by side. He pressed upon the lower right hand corner of the left one; and it yielded, gliding into the wall about the other which was but an imitation.
As though blinded, he stepped through.
When the film had cleared from his eyes, he beheld spreading deep, a vast, crypt-like apartment whose high ceiling was supported by pillars of red syenite; and about which were burning lamps securely fastened in niches. The walls were covered with a coating of lime so smooth that the figures painted thereon in rich colors and quite elegantly, stood out in fine relief.
As these figures treated of the gods and the future life, Deucalion would have been glad to study them, had the occasion allowed. As it was, he but glanced at them; and then his eyes darted from point to point. Almost instantly, at the farther end, where the shadows were thickest, they lighted upon some indistinct white objects, that moved with every vibration of the still rocking building.
It was a terrible moment for Deucalion. Over him swept a mighty dread—a dread to go nearer these. Yet, stifling this, he began to run down the long apartment, tottering as he ran. And came beside these large white objects—that proved to be beautifully sculptured coffins of alabaster, mounted on great blocks of red syenite.
In the extreme of weakness, he fell against the first; and moaned; and implored for courage to look within.
And arousing, did so—to weep and groan, to run like a madman from one to the other until he had looked in all.
For, here were no priests in these alabaster coffins. Instead, were the embalmed bodies of what had been fair maidens—each with a lifetime of woe upon its features. Such haggardness, such suffering, surely never before were stamped on young faces. So fine was the embalming that every line showed as in life—and with its weight of agony.
He ran from one to the other, crying, “Ye powers—could such things be? Their poor bodies tell the tale. The pretty ones—the tortured ones! Ah—those thrice-cursed monsters! Yet they live—live to gloat upon their work. Ye gods—crush them out. Never again let such work mar the face of earth. Æole, Æole—to see what was before thee!”
He fell on his knees, the tears streaming, and besought:
“Mercy, ye gods! Help! Set us free from this house of death! (Ye vile islanders—to lose these fair ones—and not pull down this pile!) Help me, ye gods, to save my dear ones. And give Electra, too. Aid me still to master king, priests, people, until I am on the sea, and bearing my dear ones to Pelasgia. Ah, Æole, Hellen—what sorrow is like unto this?”
He arose; and ran again, as if distracted, from coffin to coffin.
“Ye pretty ones! Where were your fathers—your mothers? Was it for this ye were given them? Do the gods grant that men may live lost to all save sense, and die in peace in such? Never! Thrice-cursed island, thou art doomed! Thou and thy vile people will vanish as down blown by the wind! And coming ages will doubt thy being; or, if not doubting, will mock at thee!”
When he had turned from the last coffin, and was staggering about aimlessly, he came upon a door set low under the stairway. “Ah,” he muttered, “I know. It leadeth to the embalming room—the private one of these priests. Well know they the art—as these tortured ones show.”
He hastened to this door, and pushed it open. Here again was darkness. He went for his lamp; and then stepped through into a low passage; and thence through another door into a very large apartment. As he had surmised, it was the private embalming room.
With lamp held high, he walked in its fell shadows, examining. Here was the crooked piece of iron for drawing out the brain through the nostrils. Here was the Ethiopian stone for making the incision in the side. There were the palm wine, the powdered myrrh, the cassia, the other aromatic drugs. There were the bandages of linen, the gum, the natron, even the cinnamon. And—yes—there in the most distant corner—were more of those pure, translucent alabaster coffins. Empty—waiting for whom?
The apartment was shaken with his groans. He felt if he staid longer his senses would give way. Wildly he ran back into the vault, and toward the stairway. His soul was filled with horror. His eyeballs burned. His body shook as if with palsy. So overcome was he that, on the topmost step, he fell panting. And could not rise for many minutes. When he did, it was to totter to the inner sanctuary. Here he fell on a couch, groaning repeatedly.
Finally, his strength returning, he went over to Oltis, and said, “I have been down the stairway.”
Over the marble figure passed a tremor.
“I have seen the dead handmaids in their alabaster coffins!”
There was another tremor.
“Whose work was this?”
The marble lips moved.
“It was that of Atlano and myself.”
“This was in thy base search for that draught said to give life without end? To get this, thou hast tortured those fair young creatures?”
“Yea. And the younger and fairer, the more the power,” burst from Oltis. “Viril knew! Viril found it out for his own use! But was so base as not to tell us!—Though, among his goods, we found a torn piece of papyrus that gave us the clue. On it was written some of the parts forming the draught. The blood of maidens—lovely maidens—was one. And, as their blood dripped from them into the crucible, they were to stand and stir the blessed mixture. Ah, how we worked! How we tried to find the missing parts. Maiden after maiden lost her life!” Oltis had become gloating in his remembrance. “And if, at times, Atlano would have had mercy, I would not. His mercy, thou canst judge. As for myself, no maiden was so fair as the one, who, in her mixing, most promised the draught. For, there is power in maiden blood! Once, we almost reached it. Once, I believed I should be High Priest—King, forever! But it came to naught.” And his head sank on his breast.
“Yea. Their blood was their life!”
“This was done in the room yonder?”
Deucalion had pointed to a door at the northwestern corner.
“Yea.” Oltis again raised his head;—his eyes were resuming their savageness. “Since thou camest—for some reason—we have not had the wish.”
“Then—why came Æole into this inner place?”
“Ask me not.”
“Ah—Æole—my child—my child!” cried Deucalion, involuntarily. And he fell on his knees to utter his gratitude.
“Thanks, ye gods! Thanks that I came in time. Thanks for these powers that have aided me to this. Ah—Æole—Hellen—to have you again in Pelasgia. To bring you to the arms of your mother!”
Most terrible was the cry that burst from Oltis. In his horror at this, sudden revelation, he started to his feet—but only to sink to his couch, helpless. Untold agony was upon him. Light had come that was paralyzing, blinding. Groan after groan rent his stiffened body.
Deucalion arose to gaze at him; and quickly he calmed almost to stupor. Then Deucalion questioned him.
“Where got ye the coffins?”
“They were made in Khemi;[20] and brought into the vault in the darkest night.”
“Doth Kluto know aught of this?”
“He knoweth not. He was raised to this inner holy place as thou camest. He hath not been told.”
“The other higher priests know?”
“They know, and aided, hoping for the draught. In the temples of all the great cities are the priests seeking. I have been among them.” Here was a sigh that had terrible meaning.
“The rulers, like the king, have aided?”
“Yea.”
“That is the reason the captains meet no more?”
“Yea.”
“That is the reason the sixth year was not kept?”
“That was the year before thou camest. We had not the time.”
“O most wretched people! With all thine ease, there is now no time for the keeping of thine oldest law, one handed down by thy father Poseidon! How couldst thou dare to let the sixth year go by, Oltis?”
“I care not for the olden laws. Thinkest thou because such are graved on their columns that they must stand forever? We can make laws now for ourselves; and have.”
Deucalion shivered.
This violation in not observing the sixth year was most heinous. The first men had inscribed its regulations on the great column of orichalcum, before mentioned, that stood in the grove of Poseidon in front of the gateway of the great court. Here, before this column, were the king and sub-kings (or royal rulers), to meet every fifth and sixth year alternately, in order to consult about public affairs, inquire into weighty transgressions, and afterward pass judgment. It was a grand Congress. But before judgment was passed, certain pledges were given, and in this wise:
The sacred bulls that ranged the inclosures on the northern slope of the mountain were hunted by ten chosen men with staves and nooses. When one was caught, he was led up to the column, and struck upon the head to fall dead before the inscription. Then, on the altar near the column, were his limbs offered a burnt sacrifice. Afterward, a cup was partly filled with his blood; and in this, each one of the Congress cast a blood clot. Then the rest of the victim was laid on the fire. Thereupon, each took a golden vessel, drew from the cup, and poured a libation upon the fire, at the same time swearing that he would punish transgressors, that he would not violate the inscriptions, and that he would not obey any ruler who would command him to act contrary to the laws of Poseidon. After drinking, each vessel was dedicated to the temple.
When supper was eaten, and the altar fire was out, they put on beautiful azure robes; and sat in the darkness before the embers of the sacrifice in order to receive and give judgment. At daybreak were written on golden tablets their sentences, which were then deposited in the temple as memorials, together with the robes.
At the end, they swore not to take up arms against each other; ever to aid the royal house in case of rebellion; and, in common, to deliberate upon war, giving the supremacy to the house of Atlas. Further, the king promised never to decide upon the life or death of a kinsman unless he had the assent of a majority of the sub-kings.[21]
This was the most ancient and most important of observances. Yet rulers and priests had combined to neglect it—whilst the people looked on. No wonder was it that Deucalion shivered.
Upon recovering somewhat, he exclaimed: “Oltis, it is the crowning crime!”
“We have not lost through it. Let not thy mind be weighted.” Scornful was his tone.
“Oltis, I am borne to earth. Yet will I rise that I may bring the people to the ‘Deeps’—there to behold thy work—there to open their eyes—shouldst thou not do as I bid thee.”
The figure again growing into marble shuddered. Great beads of perspiration started. But no words came.
“Oltis, when day breaketh, thou wilt go with me to the portico, and tell the people this: That the powers above will that the Pelasgian children leave with me at once. A few words will do. Else—”
The marble again quivered; the lips murmured, “I will.”
Deucalion sat down before the wretched man, and pondered.
“Those who pressed within this inner holy place yesterday, may have noted that there were no signs of the missing handmaids. And, of this, the people may have been told. They should, then, be more than ever in doubt as to their present place—unless they are dead of all feeling.
“Though, what else can come of a people who can bear such mockeries, who break the marriage laws, who wed within forbidden limits, who are given over to feasting, drinking, pleasuring; who think no longer of raising higher the mind, but only of delighting the body; and yet, who, in the midst of all, daily see and touch monuments that speak with force of past virtue, of a worship once most pure.
“Should these islanders be brought in to see the sight below, it would not help. For the island is doomed. Not long could these evils last even if the islanders should still be as stone, after seeing. And any trouble now, will but hinder our going.
“I have it. I will write what I have seen; and ere leaving, will send it to the people of Chimo. They are the best and strongest of these islanders. Yea that will I do. It may help the handmaids, should the doom of the island be stayed a little.
“But, ah, this strange inner sight, why faileth it? Why, for many days, hath it left me, so that I know not if Pyrrha liveth. Yet, why should I doubt, after what I have felt and seen? Sure am I that she liveth. Sure am I that, in the end, joy will be ours. Yet am I weak—weak!”
Whilst thus Deucalion mused and suffered, the day broke. With the first entering rays of the sun, Oltis stirred; and gradually shook off the now willing iron bands. Shortly he arose, but only to fall back of his weakness. Then Deucalion gave him of the life cordial, after mixing with it a few drops of a red elixir. Thereupon, Oltis arose, and stretched as if arousing from sleep. Some minutes afterward, he was walking about unsteadily. And Deucalion waited a little.
“Oltis, lean upon me. We will go to the portico.”
He complied. Sad was it to see the docility of this hitherto proud and intractable man. As they walked, Deucalion spoke low:
“Say but the words that will speed the children and myself on our way to Pelasgia.”
“I know thee, at last, strange man,” was returned wearily. “But what knowledge! Ah, if Atlano but knew! Even as it is—how hath he longed for thy blood. And—to find—thou art—Deucalion!”
“This knowledge must be thine alone. He is not to know.”
“I will be dumb. But how hast thou mastered us.”
“I will master you—when, with the children, I am on the sea, and facing Pelasgia.”
“How didst thou get such power? Are there gods?”
“Oltis, there are. Know sorrow for thy sin, ere it be too late.”
“I cannot. Of what use is such sorrow? It would come only of fear. Should the fear be no more, I would be as I have been.”
“Thou speakest truth. Sorrow for sin should come of the heart alone. But that may be thine. Sorrow thus for warmth to the gods.”
“Sir Deucalion, I know no warmth of feeling. I never knew such for aught of earth—not even for my children. How then could I know it for the gods, if such there be? I tell thee if there is a life beyond, I am doomed.”
“Say not so, Oltis. If one spark of feeling could begin to glow in thy heart, it would spread, giving heat, life to all the inner man—wouldst thou grant it air. Faint though the spark, it groweth with little feeding.”
Oltis sighed; then said, “I could strangle thee, now, had I the power. That is my spark of feeling! To be thus humbled, weakened! Oh, but to have my fingers about thy neck, to see thine eyes burst from thy head, to fix that head on a pillar in the air, to watch the birds of prey gather its flesh, mite by mite! How I ache! How I pant for thy blood!”
“Have done,” spoke Deucalion sternly, “or worse will befall thee than thou dreamest. Wouldst thou be given over to the tender mercy of the people?”
“I will do that I am forced to. But—for one moment of freedom!” Dreadful were his writhings.
“Calm thyself. We are almost at the portal.”
And, at the portal they were—most suddenly to come out before the watching islanders.
The sun was just above the horizon when the shouts arose, “The High Priest!” “The ‘Silent Priest’!” “Behold!” “Behold!”
Atlano, who was talking with Urgis, turned; and perceived the two standing on the portico. Intense chagrin was expressed in his face as he gazed and wondered. The ‘Silent Priest’ not killed! But, instead, thus appearing,—bearing up Oltis who was trembling as an aged man. “What meant it?”
But the high priest was beckoning. In answer, the people surged forward. When there was quiet, Oltis spoke.
“King Atlano, Priests, People, these troubles are of the gods. Anger them no further. Hearken to this, their will. Ere the morn is two hours older will the Pelasgian children leave, and with the ‘Silent Priest.’”
Atlano’s derisive laugh burst forth. But the people began to cry their acquiescence. It was:
“So shall it be!” “So shall it be!” “We will be rid of them!” “They are a scourge!”
The guards encircling Atlano appeared alarmed. Already they were fearing some manifestation against him. But he, with wonderful coolness, replied to Oltis, “How are we to believe that the gods thus will?”
“In like manner as the people believed that, at will of the gods, the handmaids were forced into the inner holy place—never to be seen more!” Loud rang the imperial voice, seeming to be thrown from high above.
Atlano paled in a terrible way. Many of the priests fell on their faces. The people groaned, and pressed about the guards so that the latter were forced to point their spears and raise their battle axes. And, oh the sullen discomfiture smoldering in some eyes, the menacing lightning ready to dart from others!
But Atlano was brave. He spoke again, with boldness, “Oltis, go within. Thou art feeble, too feeble, to stand there. Thy mind giveth way—as hath thy body. Go within.”
Oltis indeed proved the weakness of his body by falling against the ‘Silent Priest,’ who lifted him, and bore him inside, after signifying that he would return.
When Oltis had been laid upon his couch in the inner sanctuary, the ‘Silent Priest’ reappeared before the ominously quiet people, and signed that he would at once depart, recommended them to the mercy of the gods, blessed them, and bade farewell.
Then to Sensel, who was near, he delivered a roll of papyrus addressed to the queen.
As for Atlano, he felt it was policy to be quiescent. After the besotted conduct of Oltis, there was no knowing what might happen. As to the voice, he would still disclaim it.
Then, as the ground was resting of its tremors, he ordered the guards to disperse the excited, awakening islanders. When the great court was quite emptied, he entered the temple to seek Oltis that he might upbraid him for his faint-heartedness.
Speedily he was beside the wretched high priest, who lay with closed eyes, scarcely breathing: though not a word was vouchsafed to all his questions and vituperations. Thus, as a resource, he bethought him of the queen and her charges; and, returning to the courtyard, called his guards, and drove to the palace.
As he passed along, much the people marveled. Never before had a king of Atlantis been known to require protection in driving between the temple and the palace. Attendants, of course, were customary;—but guards! What meant such a passing as this?