LIGHT ON THE PATH.
The next evening, when Æole and Electra came out upon the hillside,
Hellen was not awaiting them. Then did each own to anxiety; and, as the
moments speeded, their uncertainty became sickening. Finally, as some
relief, Æole proposed that they should go on to the alley. To this both
inclined, the more as voices were heard nearing the temple from the
southward. In the alley they would be quite secure from interruption, as
it was seldom traversed after nightfall.
So they sought its shade; and, just within its entrance, paused to await
Hellen.
Exceeding was their relief when he joined them a little later. Hard was
he panting, not so much from his run, as from dread that he had missed
them. He muttered:
“It hath been sore trouble to get here. It seemed as though the messages
of the king would end not.”
“It may be his thought to stop these meetings,” spoke Æole.
“The voice is yet too young,” reasoned Electra. “Though, Oltis may
master him. Ah, that voice! My father told of one that was heard in a
temple of Khemi, and how the people hearkened unto it.”
“It seemeth a helper either of gods or man,” said Æole. “It is ever in
my thought that it cometh of our parents, whether they be of earth or
heaven.”
“Let us hope they are in heaven, Æole.” Hellen’s voice was savage in his
despair. “If they are of earth, shame upon them!”
“Hellen, I will not own thee, brother. Thus to charge the best we have
known in our lives. This is what Atlantis hath done for thee!”
Sweet peace was again spreading her wings. And Electra was fearful she
would get far away. Yet, Æole, in her sweet indignation, was right.
Hellen was almost impious. In dread, she looked from one to the other.
“Æole, our eyes were young when we were torn from them. Young eyes are
fond; they see no faults.”
“Would we had died young, Hellen. To grow old enough to see faults, such
faults in those so dear—and to charge them—should cause one to sorrow
for his birth.”
“Well would it be had we never seen the light. Thinkest thou that I
could have rested under it—thus to be robbed of my children? I would
have rent heaven to get them!”
“Hush, Hellen,” implored Electra. “Thou art sinning. To dare to think of
warring upon the gods!”
“Yea—well could I war upon any gods, that could look down, and not check
such evil. And make their heaven a thing of naught!”
He looked upon the shocked face of his reprove—to become penitent; and
mourned:
“Electra—Æole—it is ye who make me sin. My days and nights hold but one
thought—how to free you from the taint of the temple—from this island,
this fair, most evil spot—from this your dire slavery.”
Of their pity, they seized his hands. Each implored him not to be so
bitter, but to be calm, even hopeful, and to consider that God’s ways
are not the ways of men.
Thus stood they absorbed, unheedful of a gliding, noiseless shape that
was speeding toward them; that paused when near them to gaze with eyes
of pity, love; that, of its magnetism, was quick to draw Hellen’s glance
upon itself.
Gently did Hellen release the two clinging figures as he eyed the
quivering Sensel. Then, with a bound, he was almost upon him, his hands
outstretched to strangle. But, swift as a dart, did Sensel move to one
side, there to stand motionless, and regard Hellen with eyes wonderful
in their keenness and brilliancy.
Again did Hellen bound almost upon him; and again did the swaying
figure, with the same astonishing celerity, change its place.
“Enough of this play, Sensel,” cried Hellen, seeing it was futile to
come upon him. “Tell me—what meanest thou by stealing upon us to view
our misery?”
Sensel gracefully pointed upward; and, in low, musical tones, answered:
“There are gods in the heavens. Why cease to hope?”
“There are not gods for us. Parents—heaven—gods—are proving myths. The
evil spirits, though, have being.” Meaningful was Hellen’s tone and
look. “Yea, the evil spirits have being, and to good purpose for this
island.”
“Thou hast thrown from thee, then, the warm feeling for the Higher Good,
the trust of thine early years. Only the evil spirits have being!”
Strong was Sensel in his rebuking. “Because sorrow is thine, there is no
Higher Good. Because thou art not happy, only evil ruleth. Look to
thyself! For false spirits close about thee. Their thoughts are thine.
Therefore cometh thy lack of warmth to the gods, of trust—thy wicked
thoughts. Hellen, beware!”
Æole and Electra drank in these words; and then looked furtively at
Hellen. Glad were they to see he was touched, that he seemed
conscience-stricken. And he was conscience-stricken, for Sensel’s tones
were even more forcible than his words. After some moments, he admitted:
“Sensel, I own that thou speakest truth. Of late, I have lost warmth,
trust. The Higher Good hath been shunned. But I am wild—torn with fears
for these. Therefore, canst thou wonder—blame?”
“I wonder not. I blame not. But I have come to tell thee the clouds will
lift. Soon will light be on thy path. Be calm, and wait. Thou art not
forgotten of gods or man.”
With a farewell wave of the hand, he turned away, and glided beyond the
thicket.
Hellen moved as if to follow him; but checking himself, moaned:
“He is right. Long is it since I have looked to the Higher Powers. My
trust is gone. I have been mad.”
“Hellen, my trust hath not failed. Sure am I that all is for our good.”
“Æole, thine are ever warmth, trust. But I am cold, full of doubt.”
“After the way of men,” interposed Electra. “Men are cold of heart
toward the Higher Powers, but to reason the more: and, of their
reasoning, see the less.”
“Thou art right. Ah, Electra, if thou wouldst but help me.” He looked at
her with tenderest eyes.
“Thou shouldst ask help only of the Higher Good and Truth, Hellen.”
Electra was blushing.
Æole, though listening, was thinking deep upon Sensel. During Hellen’s
last words, she was even saying to herself, “What a glance is that of
Sensel. What a voice is his. Without doubt, he is good. After this
night, Hellen can but believe in him.”
So full was she of this last thought, that out she spoke:
“Hellen, Sensel is our friend. Now wilt thou be sure.”
“Unless he is full of guile, Æole.” Then, because of her hurt
expression, he hastened to add, “Æole, doubt hath firm hold of me. But
thou wilt forgive.”
She was silent. Therefore, Electra entreated:
“Hellen, thine is a strong, honest spirit,—but it is weighed down by
these doubts. Throw them off that thou mayst soar to find trust, peace.”
Hellen, gazing into her earnest eyes, and listening to her thrilling
tones, was so carried away that he responded:
“Electra, but to hearken to thee is to rise higher. Come, dear one,—give
me thy hand—that some of the grand ether filling thee may pass into my
poor frame—to give life to my spirit, to raise it a little to the
heights thou speakest. Ah, Electra, my strength is of the body. Give me
that of the spirit.”
Electra was mute, though she held out her hand. This he took, and
continued:
“Dost thou not feel how my hand leapeth because of thy living words? And
thine will I keep as we go back, for it is time that we part again.” So
did his look linger upon her, that she, paling, glanced at Æole to meet
her sad eyes fixed upon them. Already was she understanding Hellen’s
feeling for Electra; and she feared for him, feared for his further
suffering. Electra meeting this sad gaze, thought, “She is not pleased
with me.” And answered by a look so humble and beseeching that Æole
darted to embrace her, and say with utmost expression:
“Dear, dear Electra!”
“Yea, dear Electra, it is!” Hellen was elated. “And dear Æole! Now, ye
dear ones, take hold of me. For, it is time that we go.”
Each clung to him; then buoyantly they sped to the temple.
The next evening, Hellen was again delayed; and again hastened to the
alley, hoping there, as before, to rejoin the waiting ones.
But, in the alley, they were not. Neither beyond the thicket.
Back he rushed to the tower with the faint hope that they might be
teasing. But neither were they here—not even at the top.
In a great dread, he tore down the staircase, and to the hillside
door;—thence back through the alley, and beyond the thicket: and there
paused to gaze on the stream as if it, if it would, might help him.
Then he called; and, for response, heard but the bulls that seemed to
mock at him. Where were they? Could they be hiding? Were they laughing
in some near nook over his distracted movements? No—too well he knew
their tender hearts, their impatience ever to greet him!
But, perhaps Sensel had come beyond the thicket, was there laughing at
his distress. Hellen waited, even hoping he might step forth. Hard was
it to bear up as the moments crept on, as his imagination grew riotous.
Erelong, he started to run back to the alley. And was on the point of
rounding the thicket, when a tall figure came upon him.
But, it was not Sensel. No, this was King Atlano! And without
attendants.
At Hellen’s stony stare, the king smiled derisively; and asked:
“Why art thou in such haste? Thou camest near falling upon me.”
“King Atlano, I seek my sister and Electra.” For his life Hellen could
not bow.
This the king noted. Though he corrected him not, but said, as if
indifferent:
“So, here is the place where ye meet.”
“For two nights past have we met here—as thou knowest, King Atlano.”
Hellen was now calm, and looking fearlessly at his tormentor. “This
third night, they come not.”
“Nay—they come not!” The king laughed as the evil spirits might.
“King Atlano, will they come?”
“They will not come.”
“Why?” The hot blood was surging now.
“I like not these meetings. Evil will come of it. Other handmaids will
ask to creep out, and meet their brothers—or, fonder ones.” Again the
king laughed, and so that Hellen writhed.
“But, the voice hath willed that we meet.”
“I doubt the voice. It may be jugglery[19]—jugglery known to Khemi.
There such arts are beginning.”
“Then is all in the temple jugglery!”
“Thou forgettest fear, awe. For such there is pain.”
“Tell me, King Atlano, where are Æole and Electra?”
Again the king smiled, and replied suavely:
“This night hath Æole been called to the inner holy place. Electra will
go in on the morrow.” So gloating had become his look and tone that
Hellen grasped at the air as if to steady himself; and repeated, dazed:
“In the inner holy place?”
“Yea.” Atlano’s tone was soft though his eyes gleamed cruelly. “The
priests have willed that thou art to be parted from Æole and Electra.
Their stay, for the coming time, is in the inner holy place.”
Hellen’s agony was bewildering. Despair so clogged his utterance that he
could only gasp:
“Not that—not that!”
“It is a high honor.” The king regarded him in triumph and derision.
Then Hellen’s tongue loosed. He towered grand in his passion.
“Thou knowest it is not a high honor. Thou knowest thine inner holy
place is a hell. Thou knowest that thyself and those priests are fiends
worse than those of hell—for ye are fair in seeming, and fiends look
what they are. Ye are monsters of self and sense! And, by your arts have
ye worked upon these islanders, until they see with your eyes, walk in
your ways.
“But—think ye there is no coming pain for this? Oh, poor, wretched,
groveling King, I tell thee sorrow and pain fast near thee. In the
height of this thy power cometh thy fall. The powers above are raging at
thee. Their vengeance is sure. It playeth about thee now. It is ready to
dart upon thee. It will crush thee. May it come this night!”
And Hellen sank upon his knees to implore:
“O ye Gods, send down your shafts of flame to confound this monster! O
spare to Æole and Electra their purity! Smite them dead ere worse
befalleth them!”
The king listened as if turned to stone. The audacity of this youth was
more dreadful than his words. Whilst he stood glaring, and unable to
speak, Hellen arose, and, in commanding tone, said:
“Yield to me Electra and Æole.”
“Ah, thou askest for Electra first,” was sneered with strange slowness
and huskiness.
Hellen darted for him, and in his young strength, and emotion, would
doubtless have prevailed had he not been mastered by the same force that
had rendered him helpless when endeavoring to rescue Æole from the
temple’s guards. An essence pungent and pleasant was thrown at him by
Atlano, and he sank upon the ground. As he lay inert, the king
continued:
“As for thyself, it was meant thou shouldst join the warmen in a falling
upon the Afrite coast at a place where treasure can be gained. But,
because of thy words, thou shalt be yielded on the altar. Amen and
Poseidon are again calling for blood, as the late troubles prove.”
A fearful nausea came upon Hellen. He struggled to defy:
“Thou mockest Amen and Poseidon. My yielding upon the altar—all
such—come of thy longing for blood. But the gods thou wouldst make so
vile are ready to fall upon thee for the base deeds thou doest in their
name. Rather would I be yielded on thine altar than stand in thy place!”
With fiendish face, the king bounded upon him, and would have strangled
him had not a rustling been heard in the thicket. He looked to see
Sensel glide out, quivering and pallid.
“King Atlano, thou art wanted in the temple. A great evil hath
befallen.”
“Æole! Electra!” panted Hellen.
The king turned to go, but Hellen’s feeble hand caught at his robe.
“King Atlano, yield me upon thine altar if thou wilt, but spare Æole and
Electra. It is but a crumb.”
Atlano, smiling as the fiends, removed the hand, saying:
“Thou wilt hear from me with the morn.”
Then, motioning to Sensel to lead the way, he rejoined the attendants
awaiting him in the alley.
Hellen watched until he had disappeared. If he could but move—but fly
after him—but crush him!
Not long though, did his agony endure. It was scarcely five minutes when
the thicket again rustled. The startled Hellen listened, and with hope.
The rustling was repeated. Then, wonderful, his muscles began to grow
less rigid, his blood to course warmer. In another moment he was leaping
to his feet, and towards the thicket—when, from behind it, appeared the
‘Silent Priest’!
“The ‘Silent Priest,’” murmured poor Hellen.
The silent one approached, and extended his hands to grasp Hellen’s.
Instantly, their soft, firm pressure gave confidence and strength to the
forlorn youth. All fear and distrust vanished, and he looked into the
noble countenance bending over him with strange yearning.
The priest signed that Hellen must follow him; and he acquiesced,
feeling as if this strange being could draw him to the worlds end. Arm
in arm they walked to the tower, to mount it, the priest showing an
agility as great as Hellen’s.
They sat down on the ledge. And, to Hellen’s amaze, a sudden, strong
hope possessed him. Could it be owing to the tender manner of this
priest? Or could the warm pressure of his hand have aught to do with it?
Neither spoke, and both turned their eyes to the water, in the direction
of the far-off Pelasgia. After a little, Hellen moaned:
“Ah—home, home! As if we sorrowed not enough in being torn from it! Yet,
what was that pain to this? The woe of this night! Tell me, ‘Silent
Priest’—how can I save my pure ones, or kill them ere too late?”
“My son, a way openeth. Thou wilt come out of this with thy sister. But
woe—woe—to this wicked island!”
Great was the shock to Hellen at the first tones of this voice. But it
was as nothing to that which followed. For, this hitherto voiceless
priest was not only giving utterance to Atlantean speech at the first,
but continuing his sentences in Pelasgian.
“Who art thou?” Hellen seized his garment and stared, bewildered, in his
face.
“Have care, Hellen. I am no priest of Poseidon. Feelest thou not—who—I
am?” The ‘Silent Priest’ extended his arms in longing.
Hellen was speechless from the ecstasy of hope.
“Hellen, this is but a mask—this garb. Feelest thou not—that—I am—?”
“My—father?”
“Yea—yea—Hellen, thy father!”
But Hellen was unconscious in the arms so eagerly enfolding him. His
strained condition could not bear this quick change from agony to joy.
Self-reproachful, his father chafed his hands, and gave him of a
medicine he carried within his vestment. Overwhelming was his relief
when Hellen unclosed his eyes to look at him, and opened his arms for a
long embrace.
When he was able to sit up, his father whispered:
“We have need of care. The stones have eyes, the air hath ears. Now,
hearken, for soon will I go back to the temple.”
Hellen pressed his hand in assent; then asked:
“But, first—mother. Is she well?”
“Thy mother is as well as she can be under her great grief.”
“The gods be thanked. Ah, what a wretch am I! Father, when thou knowest
my evil heart, thou wilt not own me.”
“Fear not, Hellen. Thou art but man. And now, hearken.”
“I will.”
“Hellen, after the Atlanteans had borne away thyself and Æole, I reached
Larissa to find thy mother nigh to death. Day and night I watched until
she came out of the shadow. Then I besought ransom of the people. But
they were deaf, in their rage at the Atlanteans. I ceased my pleadings
after it was given me to feel, yea, to see—hidden things—and to be sure
that all would end well.
“Then came new misery. The tribes to the north sought battle with us;
and I was forced to leave thy mother, and go against them. For a year
did this last.
“In the end, the loss and ruin were theirs. Then came I home to find thy
mother again nigh to death. But, after a little, new life came to her,
and with it hope. She was strong in the thought that we should get our
children—was of one mind with me—for, if knowledge can come from above,
such was mine. But of this later.
“Yea, thy mother was her old self, and urged me to again plead with the
king and people for help. Our hopes proved in reason, for they agreed to
lend us a few vessels. Then friends gathered about us to do the rest.
And I built the boat in which I came hither.
“Thus, after years of dread waiting, thy mother and I, with these dear
friends, sailed for the Great Rock that riseth where the Middle Sea
joineth the ocean. There, under its shadow, I left them. And, as a
priest of Poseidon, came to these Atlanteans.
“Ah, Hellen, that day I knew thee, even as my foot pressed the sands.
Hard was it to keep from flinging myself upon thee in thy strong young
grace and pure look. Hellen, my dear son, all I had borne was as naught
when I beheld thee. How it was that I ran not to thee to cry, ‘Hellen,
here is thy father!’ I know not. So strong was my yearning.”
“And, father, what were my feelings. Thy grand looks seemed beyond
earth. Ah, how thou didst draw me! Though, after that, was I willing to
think of thee evil.”
“It was nature working in thee.”
“But—how these Atlanteans have bent, yielded to thee.”
“They fear the gods now that they have become wicked, and dare not make
light of my warnings. Though Atlano and Oltis hate me, and would harm me
if they dared. How often, by my signs, have I chided them, and made them
cease their evil. Upon their fears am I working that I may free thyself
and Æole. Oh, most wretched people!”
He had arisen. And raised his eyes as if imploring heaven’s mercy.
“But—Sensel—who is he, father?”
Deucalion sat down again, and whispered:
“He is young Prince Pelasgus, the son of our king.”
Hellen, of his surprise, exclaimed so loud that his father again
cautioned him. As he sat confounded, it was to listen to this.
“During our struggle with the tribes to the north, he served under me;
and dear did we become to each other. He is noble, brave, good, and so
true that he would not hearken that I should come without him. Though
with ill grace was his father willing. But in all Pelasgia, there was
not a youth who could run, turn, and bend himself as Prince Pelasgus—not
one so strong. Thus he asked to use these gifts as a mask in my service.
After some days, he came before me in his present shape; and I saw that
this mask of serpent look would aid me. I now know that I could not have
done without him. Sensel is an able one. And—the voice is his.”
“Father!”
“It is as I say. It is but in nature. Sensel learned it of a captive
taken when the northern tribes fell upon us. He said it was quite common
in his own land. But, as most of his tribe were killed, it is almost as
if of the hidden.”
“How will Æole and Electra glory in this,” was said with due penitence.
“From the first, they liked and trusted him. But I—how have I tried to
stifle their belief in him. How have I scorned him for his serpent ways,
his services to king and priests.”
“It is a lesson for thee. But look—yonder he cometh.”
“Let us go to him, father. I would kneel for his pardon.”
“Not here, my son.”
They descended from the tower. Upon meeting, Hellen would have embraced
Sensel, had his father permitted it. As it was, his expressive face
testified to his regret, his contrition for his unjust opinion, his
former contempt, even before he whispered of such to the responsive
Sensel.
Afterward, still under cover of the bulls, were imparted to Hellen
confidences at which he marveled. Then Deucalion and Sensel hastened to
the temple.
Hellen remained to walk up and down the alley in a condition of mind far
removed from that in which he had parted from Atlano. Now hope was not
only showing herself, but promising abiding.
NOTE.—“Down to the present century, ventriloquism was regarded as a
physiological mystery. And, of old, it seemed awful when the river
Nessus saluted Pythagoras, when a tree spoke before Apollonius, and
when a newborn infant, or animals, or statues talked.”