Soft continued the nights and bright the days as they sailed by the islands, and along the Afrite Coast. Quick were they in sighting the green gay Atlas Mountains, and then Cape Spartel. Upon viewing the latter, intense became Deucalion’s emotion. With eyes eager and face flushing, he cried in husky tones: “Ah Æole, Hellen, now is your mother near! With what a heart I passed yon point to go onward to Atlantis! Sensel, can we ever forget?”
Sensel could reply only by pressing the hands held out to him. Then, with moistening eyes, both watched, as did the three beside them.
On they pressed into a strait; and toward a point on the African Coast, the ancient Abyla and the Ape’s Hill of the moderns. Nine miles across lay the great rock, afterward named Alube by the Phœnicians, and Calpe by the Greeks. It is the Gibraltar of to-day.
These two points, the Rock of Gibraltar and Ape’s Hill, constituted the ancient Pillars of Hercules. Not that the Greek hero had any part in their naming. Rather they were named for the Tyrian deity whose worship the Phœnicians introduced into all their settlements. Long after the sinking of Atlantis, in a forgetting, perhaps unbelieving age of maritime sloth, these Pillars, the guards of the Mediterranean, came to be considered the ends of the earth. Thus sank the glories of the island into fable!
When well off Abyla, the vessels steered northward toward the famous Rock, the rock that was raising its mammoth proportions high—that rock that has since been called “a mountain of histories”—the rock that was overshadowing the waiting ones!
Eyes hopeful yet fearing, eyes sad to desperation, were fixed upon it—every heart throbbed wild—as the vessels crossed the waters of the strait to the green and gray coast from which the Great Rock jutted invitingly in its virgin stillness, even then exerting its strange fascination: a fascination that would impel to itself the Saracen Tarik, thousands of years later; a fascination that would cause Moor and Christian to engage in warfare, as the years went on; a fascination that would bring contention between Christian Spain and Christian England in the Middle Ages; a fascination that would draw upon itself, in modern times, that memorable, terrible siege of four years when French and Spanish exhausted their resources but to prove its latent magnetism—in that it continued to hold, against all odds, the English garrison that had so long nestled in its rugged bosom!
On their right, spread the beauteous Mediterranean; on the left, was a small bay toward which lay the Rock’s only sloping side. Erelong, all eyes began to ask of Deucalion which course should they take, this Deucalion who was standing so motionless with rapt face. Before them was the south end of the Great Rock, steep, precipitous, inaccessible; and upon its grim height they began to look in fear. Should they go to its left or its right?
But, when the moment came, Deucalion was ready to give the order. “Behold, the point on the right. That will we round. There left we the vessels. Æole, Hellen, then shall we sight them!”
So extreme was his agitation, that they forgot their fears in desiring to calm him. Bravely Æole spoke:
“Yea, Father, mother is there—as thou didst say.”
“Yea, mother is there,” echoed Hellen.
“As I did say,” murmured Deucalion vaguely. Then he closed his eyes, for they were drawing very near. Already the Great Rock seemed looming over them.
“Round that point, Hellen, with speed,” he aroused to command. “Then shall we behold them!”
Hellen’s galley rounded the point, but not speedily; rather slowly, timidly. Would the vessels of Pyrrha and her friends be there moored? Would Pyrrha appear in answer to their shouts?
In the moment of rounding, none of these interested ones dared raise their eyes. But blessed sounds broke from the Atlantean sailors. In this moment of rounding, they burst into cheers, for all their saddened hearts. Then the fearing ones took courage. They lifted their eyes; they looked; they beheld the Pelasgian vessels lying as if enchanted on the bright, smooth waters of the beautiful haven.
The cheerings strengthened as the other vessels also rounded. These mighty tones quickly brought life to the enchanted vessels. Their decks filled with patient, faithful, loving ones whose joyous welcomings answered these newcomers—these returning Pelasgians, these sad-eyed Atlanteans.
But Deucalion, Æole and Hellen stood faint—waiting for the one form to appear. The moments seemed ages.
Though surely the hurrying of a few officers below on Pyrrha’s vessel boded good. The three strained their eyes for the view of that dear form when it should hasten to respond. Holding each other tight, they reeled, when an officer returned, leading, rather supporting a white-robed lady. That was she. That was the wife! That was the mother! Deucalion and his children staggered to the edge of the prow, to wave and kiss their hands. And it was “Pyrrha, wife!” “Mother!” “Mother!”
Pyrrha raised her head, and looked; and ran, weeping her thanks, to lean far over the vessel’s side, and hold out her arms.
On went the galleys toward her. When Hellen’s was alongside, the rope thrown, and the plank laid, such a speeding across as there was by Deucalion and Hellen, with Æole between.
Pyrrha awaited at the end of the plank. The spectators, as one, burst into cheers, when the four met and entwined. Though their fears were for the mother. Would she faint, perhaps sink under her happiness?
And indeed dizziness did overcome Pyrrha for the moment. But Deucalion held her; and whispered reviving words. Besides, these were her children kissing her hands, her face, her hair, her robe, and calling in heavenly fashion, “Mother!” “Mother!”
So she strengthened to weep of her joy; to look from Hellen to Æole, from Æole to Hellen in wonderment, so striking was their beauty, aye, better still, their nobility, their purity of expression.
And these children, in transport, were gazing upon their mother. They had borne into captivity an enduring remembrance of her grace, nobility and beauty; but the remembrance was as naught to this reality. They could not take their eyes from her; and, at last, Hellen exclaimed:
“Mother, how fair, how grand art thou. Sorrow hath not marred, but glorified thee!”
“She is a bright spirit,” added Deucalion. “Nay, Pyrrha, thou art a goddess.”
“Hail to the goddess Pyrrha!” cried Hellen.
At this, the officers and crew of Pyrrha’s vessel shouted as one, “Yea, yea, hail to the good goddess, Pyrrha!”
“They know thee, dear Wife,” whispered Deucalion, “the good fitteth well.”
But Pyrrha knew she was not good—that none are good save the Divine. She could not be good, but she could do good through the Divine influx.
Yet these exaggerated expressions were dear, coming as they did of love. For ever is love precious. So she received them, blushing even as a girl. No fear was there now of her fainting. Strong she stood with an arm about each child as the friends from the neighboring vessels came aboard to greet her husband. Sensel came also to clasp her hand, and glide away.
Very soon Hellen went to bring Electra. When this beauteous maiden bent before her, Pyrrha gazed surprised, admiring; and next held out her hand and drew her to her to kiss her well. Still retaining the hand, she asked of Deucalion, “Are all the Atlanteans like this?”
“Would that they were. The spirit of Electra is as fair as is her body of flesh. With them the outer body was fair, but the inner one had become evil of shape. Moreover Electra hath in her veins the best blood of Atlantis and Khemi.”
“Her parents are above. There were Alto the king and his two brothers. Alto was the father of the last king, Atlano. The wife of King Atlano was Atlana, the daughter of the second brother by a princess of Khemi. The mother of Electra was the daughter of the third brother and wife of a prince of Khemi; and her brother was Oltis, the last high priest. Yet, though Electra was a princess and his niece, Oltis placed her in the temple as handmaid. From there, we freed her.”
“Why did Oltis thus?”
“He hated her father Cairais because Cairais well knew his evil spirit. And he longed for the riches, that would come to Electra. Further, he wished to trouble Queen Atlana who loved Electra well, after her mother.”
“Father, sudden was the passing away of Cairais. Could it be that Oltis poisoned him?”
“Ask me not, Hellen.”
“If Atlano had died, would Queen Atlana have reigned?”
“I feel sure that she would, though she is not all Atlantean. Hitherto, the kings and queens have been of pure race. But the Atlanteans were so fond of Queen Atlana that they would have made light of her Khemian blood; and the more so that they hated Oltis.”
Pyrrha had continued to hold Electra’s hand; and the latter had been regarding her brightly in her lack of comprehension of Deucalion’s and Hellen’s words. Thus Pyrrha’s heart warmed the more.
“Would that she knew our tongue, Deucalion.”
“It will come to her soon. In six months Sensel and myself mastered Atlantean.”
Pyrrha looked again at Electra. It was strange how this young girl attracted her. With growing delight, Hellen watched his mother’s interest. As to Deucalion, he was exultant—that is, within. Things were going as he wished.
For the next half hour, Deucalion was busy recounting to Pyrrha and their tried friends the main events as they had occurred since he parted from them. They listened to exclaim continually. When he had finished, for this time, he spoke in touching manner of his gratitude to these dear Pelasgians, exalting their constancy to Pyrrha and himself.
In turn, Illyr and wife, Ephes and wife, Pelop and wife, with their children, declared the stay with Pyrrha had been a bright holiday, and that theirs was the pleasure of gratitude. Stoutly they insisted that the obligation was on their side. This sweet wrangling was to the keen enjoyment of Hellen, who, with Æole and Electra, still stood beside Pyrrha.
But, where was Sensel? After kissing Pyrrha’s hand, he had vanished, not to return. Repeatedly had Æole looked about the vessel for him; and had as often wondered if he were within the small cabin, or had gone below to the sleeping apartments. At last, as she was gazing wistfully at the stairway leading to the latter, she perceived a head rising into view. But this was a head on which was a cap of white linen with crown encircled by a fillet of scarlet cloth that tied in a bow behind and with ends depending!
Moreover, this figure, as it further arose into view, displayed a most elegant garb. There was a broad cape of purple wool fitted to the shoulder, and reaching to the waist; and adorned with yellow lace. Beneath, was a coat of scarlet cloth fitting close to the body, opening in front, and reaching to the knees. Still beneath was an inner garment of yellow linen that fell in graceful fullness to the ankles. About the waist was a golden girdle; and shoes of red leather ornamented the feet.
It took but a few moments to view all this. And ah, but it was a rare figure and garb; and bewildering—for the height was Sensel’s!—Further, were not these brilliant eyes meeting hers, Sensel’s, also? Was not this his smile?
Her head swam as this noble, elegant, lissome shape approached to bow gracefully, grandly to her and all. Next, she began to wonder why everyone, even to her father, should bend with utmost deference, in return.
But Deucalion, who was much enjoying her perplexity, hastened to explain.
“Æole, Sensel hath left us. In his place is Prince Pelasgus, the son of our king.”
She closed her eyes, stunned. But the prince was taking her hand. Thereupon, recovering somewhat, she opened her eyes, looked at him calmly; and withdrawing her hand, made a low obeisance. He was the prince. He was not Sensel!—Though most unhappy thoughts were crowding upon the shock of this revealment, she managed to speak with sweet dignity.
“Prince Pelasgus, this cometh upon me without warning. Little dreamed I that Sensel was other than he seemed.”
Deucalion’s satisfaction was something to behold; and this the keen-eyed Pelop laughed over to himself. For, the former was thinking, “Æole is like her mother. She will rise above the pressing weight ever.” Then aloud, he added, in Atlantean, that Electra might be benefited.
“Yea, Æole, this is the young prince who shared with me the perils of war, and who was firm in his wish to aid in freeing thyself and Hellen. And, who, after short trial, so ably took upon himself the shape of Sensel.”
“Ever have I known the noble spirit of Sensel,” she returned.
“So ever have I,” interposed Electra. “Scarce did I open mine eyes when I heard he was the prince.”
“Thou—didst know—he was the prince?”
“Hellen told me but this morn.”
“Why was not I told?”
“It was for the reason that the prince wished thou shouldst believe him but Sensel until we reached here.”
“But Sensel”—Æole checking herself, turned to the prince. “Why was this, Prince Pelasgus?”
“I knew that thou didst look upon Sensel with good will; but I knew not how thou wouldst look upon the prince.”
A great load seemed lifted. She said naively, charmingly, “Thou wert right to think I should like the old beyond the new. There have been many princes, but never another Sensel. Prince Pelasgus, ever shall I joy to think of thee as Sensel. No higher thought could I have for thee.”
Over Sensel’s—Prince Pelasgus’ face passed a beautiful glow, and his eyes shone with a loving light that all might see. Pyrrha, comprehending, glanced at Deucalion, to find him watching the two in delight. As to the friends of their exile, they were receptive also.
For one, the keen-eyed Pelop whispered to his wife:
“I see it. Those two are fond.”
She was as interested. “They are a noble pair. And most fair to look upon. May it be so. Well I like it that his eyes are so dark, and hers so blue. As thine and mine.”
Pelop laughed to himself. Well he knew his Peloppa’s taste for romance. Then he looked about with a view to further discovery.
“Look at Hellen. How he bendeth over that fair Atlantean.”
“It is another pair, that I see. Ah, Pelop, but our voyage over the Middle Sea will not drag!”
Again Pelop laughed, and hugged himself; and said with feeling, “We were young once, Wife.”
“And not so old now. Thou wilt speak for thyself; and I for myself. Ah, but our own joy maketh me kind to all who wish to pair. May I live to aid our children along the same bright path!” And she looked at her gamboling ones with the air of a prophetess.
“If one were old enough now, Peloppa. But matters will soon mend. And our Zoe will be another like thyself.”
“How?”
“She is bright of mind.”
“She is.”
“She hath a quick tongue.”
“Pelop!”
“And—a most tender heart.”
“It is well thou didst add that.”
“And—she is one to hold most dear.” Here his tone was such that Peloppa, in spite of the eyes about her, could but put her hand within the one he so eagerly held out.
Then they forbore further talking in order to listen to Deucalion, who, at inquiry of Epha, was again started upon the subject of Atlantis; whilst Prince Pelasgus talked with Pyrrha and translated much to Electra, who stood with an arm about Æole.
After a little, Pyrrha inquired of her husband, “When can I see the queen?”
“On the morrow, I hope. She is better, though she seemeth to see no one about her, not even her ladies. If she could but arouse. It may be that thou wilt do it, that thou wilt bring her back to peace. She is lost in grief.”
“The poor queen—without kin, without a land!”
“Poor people!” said Prince Pelasgus.
“We will make it bright for them in Pelasgia,” spoke Hellen.
“We will,” declared Deucalion.
“We will,” echoed all.
“We know what it is to be strangers in a far land,” added Hellen.
“Yet—we had our land to look to,” said Æole.
“Ho for Pelasgia!” cried these Pelasgians. And then looked sadly over at the Atlantean vessels. As with one impulse, they moved to the vessel’s side to watch the Atlanteans long and affectionately; and thus adopted them into their hearts.
The Atlanteans appeared to understand, for they returned the looking with smiles, sad though they were to desperation. Not one of them but was mourning the loss of near or dear ones. Indeed, many were envying Celesa’s relatives, that they had returned. But their grief must be in silence, for they yet had their queen.
On the morn of the morrow, Pyrrha left her vessel elated. At last she was to behold this woman who had so tenderly cared for her children; and entered the withdrawing room confident that she could help.
As she passed on to the queen, Deucalion beckoned for the ladies in waiting to come out. These, after listening to his explanations, sat down under the awning, and regarded each other in wonder. Was this Pyrrha—this fair, grand, most lovable looking woman but one of a type? If so, what a race was the Pelasgian, after Deucalion and his children!
Pyrrha stood beside the queen reverently, adoringly. Indeed her love so went out from her as to affect the pale, passive recipient. For Pyrrha had gazed but a little while, when Atlana turned and looked full at her, and this though she had come without noise.
Of her amaze, the queen strengthened to raise somewhat, and stare at the angelic face bending over her; and finally whispered:
“Who art thou? Comest thou of the gods?”
Though the tongue was unknown, Pyrrha comprehended.
“Gracious Queen, I am of earth. I am one who holdeth thee deep in her heart, whose prayers will ever call down blessings upon thee, whose days and nights will be favored in thanking thee.”
“Thou sayest thou art of earth?” asked Atlana in Pelasgian, and so correctly that Pyrrha answered not for wonder.—“Thou sayest thou art of earth?” she repeated, after waiting.
“Dear Queen, I am of earth,—and until these last weeks—one of its most sorrowing daughters.”
“Most sorrowing. Then know I how thou hast felt. But—why wert thou sorrowing?”
“Dear Queen, I was a mother bereft of her children. Not that the gods had taken them to make Heaven more dear. But, through war—through fierce, cruel man—had they been torn from me!”
Atlana was rising higher, was looking at her piercingly.
“Dear Queen, it cometh to thee. Why should I hold thee so dear, why should I bow down to thee—I, a mother bereft of her children. Few such mothers are there in this happy world!”
“Thou—art—not—?”
“But I am—I am! I am that mother who mourned for her children, Hellen and Æole!”
Atlana, who had raised until she was sitting erect, burst into tears, weeping as if she could never cease. Pyrrha, as she supported her, looked around for Deucalion; and beheld him standing near the door, smiling. He signed that it was well. So she began to dry the queen’s tears, pausing at times to embrace her, upon perceiving that such pleased her.
Still the life-giving tears ran on, sobs coming heart-rendingly, so that Deucalion looked upward to murmur:
“Thanks, ye Powers! And let the stream run long and fast. Let it be the beginning of life to the desert place. May that parched field, her mind, be so well watered that new flowers of hope may bloom again, and shed their fragrance upon her sad Atlanteans. Ah, poor queen, poor people!”
Long was it before the tears were spent. Then Atlana put out her hand for Pyrrha’s. “I would kiss thee,” she murmured.
Pyrrha leaned over. When Atlana had kissed her cheek, she pleaded, “Thou wilt not leave me?”
“Dear Queen, from now, am I thy sister, nurse.”
“Ever wilt thou be my sister. But not for long my nurse. Already, I feel new life. And thou hast caused it—thou—sweet spirit—thou—”
“Pyrrha, call me Pyrrha.”
“Thou—sweet Pyrrha—thou mother of Æole and Hellen.” So lovingly lingered she over these names that Pyrrha kissed her again and again, while Atlana sighed, content. Afterward, she asked as a child might, “Am I to know rest again? Long is it since I have felt such ease?. I could sleep. Should I, dear Pyrrha, thou wilt not loose my hand?”
“Nay, dear Queen. I will but hold it closer.”
With the confidence of a child, Atlana pressed the hand to her heart, and lay back passive, drowsy, shortly to slumber so serenely that Pyrrha marveled.
Soon Deucalion drew near. “All will be well,” he whispered, “but how knew she our tongue? Never was I so wondering!”
“Nor I, though I knew she had studied it, so well did she speak. Only this morning Æole told me that, when herself and Hellen had learned somewhat of Atlantean, the queen began to study Pelasgian. Thus, it came to pass that, on the one day, they would talk in Atlantean; and, on the next, in Pelasgian.”
“As thou sayest, she speaketh it well.”
“She looketh wise; and, of a truth, is sweet and fond.”
“Ah, Pyrrha, such a heart is hers. But it was wasted on her husband. How hath she missed the good thing in life. Atlano could care but for himself.”
At this dread name, Pyrrha shivered. Deucalion put his arm about her, and bade her lean upon him. Then she whispered, “Ah poor queen, life hath not been life to her! To be so fond, and have naught but a stone!”
“Say, rather, life is not life to the one who is not fond. Life was not life to Atlano. Life is not life to the wife or husband who knoweth not tender feeling. Such pluck but dead fruit.”
“Ah but thou speakest truth. With each moment of our wedded life how glad have I been that thou wert so dear. All bitter hath had its sweet. Though grief hath held me, yet have I had thee to think upon, to look for, to hearken unto.”
“Yea, and to joy in, for of me art thou sure. To think I have come into heaven again! And from hell. Ah, that island, Pyrrha, that fair Atlantis! The thought of it cometh upon me strong at times, so that I find it hard to bear up. That fair, grand, most favored spot—a heaven but for man!”
Thus, on they talked—of past horrors, of the present brightness, of the happiness fore-gleaming from their children’s hopes—until the queen began to stir. Her restlessness increased. Erelong, she was turning toward them. After an intent look, she extended her hand to Deucalion.
“I wronged thee,” she murmured. “Forgive.”
“Gracious Queen, I have naught to forgive. We will be but the dearer friends. It is all in knowing the right. Thou hast thought it over since.”
“Well and long have I thought it over. And I know the worst. Think not I have been deaf whilst lying here. My body hath been as a stone, but the mind hath been quick. My poor Atlanteans! Oh, to be of help to them! We are bereft, bereft!”
“Then—thou knowest?”
“Yea, whilst lying here, I have heard that within and without to make me know our island is no more.”
“Some of thy people are left thee.”
“Call them not people. Call them Atlanteans. It is the dearer name. We are of Atlantis—though it is no more.”
“Dear Queen Atlana, thy thought for these thy Atlanteans will make it well for thee. Thy wish to cheer them will bring thee cheer. Cheer cometh in giving cheer. And, here is Pyrrha for thy sister. Erelong we hope to see thee thine old self.”
“Never, Sir Deucalion, can I be mine old self. Mine old self was full of hope, of joy, of sweet, warm feeling. Mine own self! Ah, I am dead—dead!”
She leaned back, and closed her eyes. Deucalion pressed her wasted hand and spoke in softest tone, with intent to bring her out of her sad thought.
“Dear Queen, I should have said a little like thine old self. That will be much. And now I would warn thee when next thou seest me, I will be more of my old self—in garb. I shall be no priest of Poseidon. I shall be in Pelasgian dress, fairer of skin, and shorn of this beard. I would not change until thou couldst be told.”
“In any dress, thou art Deucalion, the kind, the noble. Pyrrha, how blest art thou! But go, Sir Deucalion, that I may soon behold thee as Pelasgian. Whilst thou art gone, I will look at Pyrrha.”
“Not this day, dear Queen. But on the morrow. Though now will I leave thee that thou mayst look upon Pyrrha.”