THE VOICE.
Drear was the night to Hellen, given over as it was to agony. He was
torn with futile promptings; but, toward morning, came slight
alleviation, as soon he would be with Æole. Scarce, though, had he
arisen from his almost untouched meal, than Maron appeared with an order
from the king. He was to go at once to the harbor with a message for the
chief priest of the temple of Ouranos, and await answer.
“Maron, it meaneth that the king would be rid of me. I will not go.”
No pity stirred within the huge swarthy Maron because of this youth’s
drawn face, his passionate, desperate outcry. With grim smile, he
replied:
“Thou wilt speed. The king is in haste. Come.”
“I would first bid Æole good-morning.”
“Linger not, for the galley waiteth. Come—come.”
The despairing youth complied; and, as he went, Maron further enforced
the king’s order. Though deaf was Hellen. Wild, murderous thoughts were
chasing through his brain. He felt he could have strangled this pitiless
man beside him with delight, and thus whetted have rushed upon the king.
Hard—hard was it to forbear.
Upon arriving at the galley, Maron was obliged almost to drag him on
board; when at once it shot off—Maron remaining to watch until it was
out of sight.
As Hellen sailed, torture the more possessed him. Three times was he on
the point of bidding the rowers return. When over half way, his anguish
conquered; and he gave the order, the men obeying, dissatisfied, as they
were hoping to join some cronies at the port.
Tardily the glum rowers retraced the way. Meanwhile, Hellen’s fears so
lightened that they almost ceased to exist as the palace came into view;
and, as he ascended the steps of the landing place, he laughed at
himself, so much did the vicinage of Æole encourage him.
He hastened to the courtyard, and was about to enter when obliged to
give way to a closed chariot that was being driven therefrom.
But, following this chariot, rode some guards of the temple. As they
dashed past, Hellen became rigid for the moment. Now were his fears
confirmed. That chariot contained Æole. She was being borne to the
temple—was lost unless he could tear her from her captors.
His inanity vanished. Madly he flew through the palace grounds; and
eschewing the grand roadway, made a short cut up to the gateway of the
outer court of the great temple.
Here he paused to gather breath and strength, until he heard the chariot
approaching. Then he stepped just within the gateway, and waited,
indifferent to the curious looks of the few loitering guards.
The chariot came through the gateway slowly. When abreast of him, he
sprang on its step, thrust aside the curtains, and beheld his sister
unconscious. In a second he was beside her, and drawing her into his
arms. Then in defiance, he eyed the clustering guards, who were seizing
him as they bade him come out. And, with a madman’s strength, shook them
off, to hold his sister the firmer.
The guards, exclaiming in fierce tones, began to pull him as if to
pieces. Still he held on, the while looking for some weapon with which
to end their sufferings. Death must come to them. It was their only
saviour.
Suddenly, a priest appeared beside the contestants. It was Partlan, a
creature of Oltis. As he looked within the chariot, and perceived Hellen
struggling, this priest grinned much as a hyena does when assured of its
prey; and then felt for something within his vestment.
With a sign to the guards to relinquish their hold, he drew forth a tube
much like a siphon. As the luckless Hellen was wondering that he should
thus have been let alone, Partlan began to play upon him a spray that
caused him to sink back benumbed, though still maintaining hold of his
sister.
Then Partlan gave the word, and the chariot went on through the court to
a side portico of the temple extension. Here Æole was taken from
Hellen’s arms, and given over to several handmaids. And Hellen, who had
partially retained consciousness, swooned.
When Hellen revived, he found himself lying upon a couch in a room
through whose one aperture the sunset light was streaming. He raised to
look about him; and, at once, his eyes fastened upon a high grating at
the farthest end. Upon hearing a clicking behind him, he turned, but saw
nothing. Again he looked toward the grating, to become horrified at
perceiving behind it a tall, imposing, red-garbed, masked figure.
Stonily, Hellen returned the gaze of this worse than specter, his dread
augmenting because of the dizziness overcoming him. It was something of
relief when the figure, in lowest tone, spoke.
“Youth, thou art to bend, to obey. Wouldst thou bring evil upon thy
sister and thyself? Is it thy will to see thy sister upon the altar? The
high priest hath said she will be gift, or handmaid.”
“Better the gift upon the altar,” spoke Hellen as he strove to overcome
his weakness, and arise.
“Shouldst thou no longer chafe, thy sister will but be a handmaid. This
I promise thee.”
“Who art thou that art so able to promise?”
“Thou hast heard of the ‘Silent Priest’?”
“I have, and I have seen him.”
“I speak for him.”
“Then he hath brought this upon us. And thou art his base helper, his
tool!”
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:
“Follow him.”
Hellen, as if charmed, went after the noiseless, gliding, quivering
shape, through an opening door, and down a wide passage to a great
apartment to the north of the temple proper. This was the gathering room
of the priests, and several of these stood about the door.
When fairly within this apartment, Hellen’s listlessness fled. He had
caught sight of Æole at the farther end. She was standing before the
chief priest Urgis, who was seated at a table; and by her side, and half
supporting her, was a maiden apparently as young as herself.
In his eagerness, Hellen hurried past his dust-colored guide, and paused
almost beside Æole. With strange intensity, he took in her grace, and
the subtle charm of expression pervading face, hands, and limbs,—each as
potent as her magnetic glance. Æole’s soul fascinated in repose, in
activity—in turn of the head, curves of the limbs, shaping of foot,
movement of hands,—in voice, smile, buoyancy of tread. It was as though
the material body gladly served as glass the most transparent to
disclose the spiritual body within, in all its purity, beauty, and
perfectness of organization.
But, as Hellen gazed and wondered, he became aware of the power of a
pair of eyes of rare beauty and intelligence. These were set in the head
of the maiden supporting Æole, and so magnetic were they that his
careless look became fixed, whereat she blushed, and turned the eyes
away. He was quick to observe that hers was a type of feature not purely
Atlantean, a type similar to Queen Atlana’s in its large brown eyes,
rich olive complexion, and fine, dark, waving hair. Who was this bright,
beautiful, imperial young creature? To his surprise, conjectures about
her began to rival his anxiety for Æole; though not for long. For Priest
Urgis, with due solemnity, was addressing the newcomers.
“Maidens, we of the temple greet thee. And hearken ye well, Electra of
Khemi, Æole of Pelasgia, and to this: It is the will of the gods that,
from this day, the great temple holdeth you. For this honor, cease not
to give thanks. For this high place, call forth thy powers.”
“But, Cousin Urgis!” remonstrated Electra, proudly, and to the amaze of
the gathering priests. Never before had incipient handmaid lifted her
voice thus.
“Hush, daughter,” interrupted Urgis, his unctuous, hypocritical tone
vanishing. “Not here canst thou speak unless bidden. Thou art to
hearken, and to this.”
Electra turned from him with such royal indifference as to amaze the
beholders the more. But Urgis, unheeding, continued:
“Thou, Electra of Khemi, daughter of the princes of Atlantis and Khemi,
and owner of many arts gained in the palace of the high priest, art
deemed most worthy this honor. Much have we heard of thy fond care of
the mother passed away, and of the high, bright powers of thy mind. Thus
hath it been thought fitting to call thee to the service of our Father
Poseidon. Then greeting to thee, Princess Electra, and worthy Cousin.”
At this mention of her mother, the tears came into Electra’s eyes, and,
in spite of herself, dashed down upon her robe. But her spirit being
brave, she was endeavoring to compose herself to answer, when Urgis
continued:
“And thou, Æole of Pelasgia, hast been so long with our gracious queen
that we know thou wilt do well in all that will be asked of thee. Much
have we heard of thy gentle ways, thy warm heart, thy quick mind, thy
zeal—gifts of value in a handmaid. Then greeting to thee, Æole of
Pelasgia.”
Profound was the quiet when Urgis ceased. Indeed, all were waiting for
speech of Electra, whose tears were drying. After pausing in impressive
manner for a few seconds, Urgis concluded:
“Sensel, it is for thee to lead these handmaids to their rooms. There
let them be served with food. In the morning will their duties begin.”
Then spoke Electra in low, sweet tones that thrilled.
“Priest, Cousin Urgis, to thy words of greeting I hearken not. Happy was
I in the palace of my Uncle Oltis. Why force me hither? Why tear me from
my duties, the dear presence of my cousins? And—I am a princess of Khemi
and Atlantis.” Haughtily she regarded him. “It is not a high place. No
princess hath ever served in a temple. Cousin Urgis, be just—have
mercy.”
“Electra of Khemi, it cometh of more light. In the coming time,
princesses, like those of less place, may look to be called as
handmaids.”
“By what right, Cousin Urgis?”
“To the High Priest it hath been given of the gods.”
“Oltis—given of the gods!”
The contempt of her tone astounded even Urgis.
“Tell Oltis that I believe it not. Tell him I will not yield. Tell him I
will lift my voice until I arouse this sluggish Atlantis!”
Hellen’s heart beat wildly. What strength was hers thus to speak.
Besides, how rich and soft was her voice with all its agitation. How
exalted her look!
She resumed more calmly, and in most loving tone:
“Now, Cousin Urgis, I will withdraw to the palace, and take with me this
maiden.” And she looked at Æole reassuringly.
“Never! Here wilt thou stay. And speak not again, else worse will come
upon thee.”
She took Æole’s hand, and whispered: “Speak for thyself.”
Æole glanced upward at the frowning Urgis. The look was of such effect
that he said gently:
“Is it thy will to speak, Æole of Pelasgia?”
To Hellen’s astonishment, she implored, in tones almost as firm as
Electra’s:
“Priest Urgis—with Electra—I ask, Why force me hither? For I, too, was
happy—quite happy with Queen Atlana. Further, I have a brother; from him
part me not. For we are strangers, captives—and sorrow much for
Pelasgia. Yet are we ever able to cheer each other. I need him; he
needeth me. Priest Urgis, I beseech thee, let me go to my brother!”
So heartrending was her tone that Hellen could endure no further. Thus
he cried:
“But—here is thy brother, Æole—thy brother who hath not power to save
thee!”
He extended his arms as she turned, bewildered. Upon perceiving his
suffering expression, she uttered a cry that brought more tears to
Electra’s eyes, and sprang to embrace him.
Priest Urgis, enraged, arose, and ordered the pair to separate. At the
same moment King Atlano entered. There was a falling back, a dread hush,
as the king’s eyes fastened upon the pathetic tableau. Scowling, until
his face grew black, he advanced menacingly toward the unhappy brother
and sister.
But he was impeded. Someone had caught at his robe. He turned to
perceive it was Electra.
“King Atlano, in the name of our Father Poseidon, I ask that Æole and
myself may go from this place.”
“Electra, ask naught in the name of Poseidon that is not his will. By
his wish thou art here. Thou hast but to obey.”
“Never hath a princess been pressed into the temple. I shall call to the
queen, to the rulers.”
“Thinkest thou any call of thine will reach them? Thou wilt be too well
watched. It is the will of thine uncle thou art here; therefore, yield
to it.”
“Thou saidst it was by wish of Poseidon a moment since.”
It might be truly said that the listeners held their breaths. Even
Atlano’s was suspended for some seconds.
“Electra, the wish of Poseidon is the will of thine uncle.”
“Thou answerest with cunning; but tell me, is Oltis ever thus ready to
obey the higher powers? Is not this a strange humility? Is there naught
behind?” Here a thought presented itself. “I believe not that the higher
powers are in this. It is further false speech—another shield for the
working of evil by Oltis. And I know his will, his wish. He hath an eye
for my riches.”
Atlano was confounded, but only for the moment. He made the movement as
if to withdraw from her detaining hand. But she held on firmly, and
continued:
“Yea, his will, his wish, is my riches. Bear to him the word to take
all, if he will but leave me free. I speak for Æole, likewise.”
The king at this was more than confounded. His face paled, then flushed,
and the words would not come. After a terrifying pause, he said in a
tone subdued, conciliatory:
“Electra, another word, and thou wilt know sorrow. Mock not the will of
Poseidon.”
She relinquished her hold on his robe, and fell on her knees to implore:
“O Poseidon, our father, our god, I ask this of thee: Is it thy will
that I am here—that these wishes of king and priests shall have weight?
Grant some sign, either of yea or nay. Is it thy will, or is it not thy
will?”
Stricken with awe, king and priests listened to this first, bold appeal
to Poseidon that had ever been made within the temple by aught save the
initiated. And a fearful quiet succeeded. Unconsciously, each was
expecting an answer. And it came. Far up, near the top of the high
vaulted ceiling, a low, soft voice dropped the words:
“It is—not.”
They stared dumbly upward, awaiting more. In a few seconds, was added:
“But—out of this—will good work.”
The three unhappy ones took in a little hope. The priests appeared less
terrified. Atlano, recovering, looked about in triumph, before deriding:
“That was a weak voice for a god. I thought the gods thundered when they
spoke to men. Electra wilt thou try again?”
Electra shuddered. She felt it was blasphemy.
Atlano subjoined, “It is time to end this. Where is Sensel?”
From the door glided in the dust-colored shape.
“Sensel, lead these handmaids to their rooms.”
“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.”
“King Atlano, wilt thou grant us Electra?”
A glad light came into Electra’s eyes. This Atlano perceived.
“Hellen, thou askest too much. Electra cannot join you.”
“Electra will join the brother and sister.”
The voice was now faint, and far away. It seemed as if it came rather
from above than beneath the ceiling. Some of the priests were so
overcome as to fall on their knees abjectly. With uncertain voice,
Atlano called to Sensel, who had again retired to the doorway:
“Sensel, lead these new handmaids to their building, and let them be
served with food. In the morning, will their duties begin.”
With one dread look at Hellen, Æole turned to comply. But Hellen seized
and embraced her, and held tight Electra’s proffered hand. Thus they
stood, until Sensel said, softly:
“Come.”
Then Æole drew away from her brother’s arms, walking as if faint.
Electra, with a proud air, went after her, and took her hand.
When they had passed out, the king said to the dazed Hellen:
“For thee, thou wilt go to the palace. In the morning, come hither for
thy duty. But think not, I shall forget thy wrongdoing. Go!”
Hellen, following an attendant, tottered out.