THE EARTHQUAKE CONFOUNDS.
In the inner sanctuary, the lamps were casting feeble radiance, the
altar fire acting strangely capricious, when Atlano, Oltis, Urgis, and
the superior priests met for conference upon the day’s awful events.
Close they drew their couches, and reclined to cast about them looks
serious, apprehensive. Only too apparent was the ease affected by Atlano
and Oltis as they surveyed the dark countenances upon which alarm was
setting its seal—as they averted their faces from the majestic, upright
figure that was eyeing them so fixedly.
This silent one—how they were longing to fall upon him, to strangle, to
trample him under their feet! What was the strange power that held
them—that forced them to his will? Cravens had they become!
After an ominous quiet of some minutes, and when Atlano was beginning to
chafe under the anxious gaze of these white-robed, imposing figures, he
said, with affected buoyancy,
“This night we meet not here for mirth. The troubles of the day claim
our thought. But, first, I would ask are any among you shaken—weak of
spirit?”
They looked at each other in doubt how to answer. Finally, Hafoe, a
priest old in wickedness, spoke out.
“O King, I believe the gods are in this. I believe they look upon us in
anger.”
Atlano’s was the utmost suavity. “Though why should the gods look upon
us in anger, Hafoe?”
There was silence.
Oltis, who had been glaring at Hafoe, now addressed him.
“Thou believest the gods look upon us in anger, Hafoe? One week since,
thou didst mock at our rites in the temple, thou didst laugh at the
people because they still hold enough of the faith of their fathers to
come and worship in form, if not in spirit—with the lip, if not with the
heart.”
“Who mocked, who laughed with me, High Priest Oltis?” returned Hafoe,
angrily.
“I. And I mock and laugh still. I am not one to change. I tell thee,
Hafoe, I mocked and laughed because I believe not. I fear no gods. I
know not if there are any!” And Oltis brought his fist down heavily upon
the small table at the head of his couch, in his defiance.
The other priests shivered. Whence had come this strange sensitiveness?
Such language as that of Oltis and Hafoe, such derision of holy things,
had been heard hourly in this inner sanctuary, and heard lightly—even by
those who could not quite steel themselves in unbelief. But now, an
indefinable dread, a strange horror, was creeping over them as they
listened. Therefore, they looked with disapproval upon Oltis because of
his defiance. They would have rebuked his temerity, had they dared,
would have bid him incur no further displeasure from the all too evident
Unseen.
Yet, even as they looked with growing disfavor, did they begin to
wonder, and shortly, to stare in amaze.
What was coming over him?
Even as his hand fell had he become as it were transfixed. The hand that
lay heavily, began to press heavily; the entire body grew in rigidity;
and a deathlike pallor was overspreading his face. Atlano, who had been
gazing alarmed, demanded:
“Oltis, what aileth thee? Cease that staring.”
But Oltis continued to stare, and remain rigid. Fearful was it to see
his pallor, even amid this deathlike repose, increase. Hafoe, wan and
trembling, lifted his hand from the table. But it fell a dead weight.
The eyes, in their growing glassiness, were horrible. Hafoe cried:
“Oltis, dost thou live?” But not a quiver of the eyelids answered,
although the eyes lost none of their intelligence.
Stonily they watched, wondering if he would come out of this to laugh at
them. Finally Atlano spoke.
“Oltis, cease thy spells. Wouldst thou have us as thyself?”
Upon this, the king arose stiffly, and, with some exertion, walked
beside him to gaze in his face, and feel of his skin.
“Oltis, thou art a corpse, with life in it! What—aileth—thee?”
But Oltis replied not save by his eloquent eyes. Every other part of him
was marble. Nervously, Atlano bade a priest bring the life cordial. This
was applied to brow and nostrils, but had no effect. Still Oltis was as
dead, except in glance.
Thus, Atlano sat down. To the terrified priests who had gathered about
the stricken one, he said:
“Sit ye again. We will talk together—and Oltis can listen, that is if
his ears are as alive as his eyes. Should we settle aught, such can be
laid before him, when he cometh out of this.”
But they were quivering with dread, and the calm they tried to assume,
made it but the more apparent. The voice of Hafoe shook, his words
dragged feebly.
“O King Atlano, let us have a care what we say!”
“We are here to talk upon the troubles of the day, and to settle this
matter of the Pelasgian children,” resumed Atlano. Voice and manner had
gathered assurance.
“Was not the matter of the Pelasgian children settled this day?” asked
Kluto, the youngest of the priests.
“It was not settled;” and Atlano looked at him confidently.
“King Atlano—meanest thou—that thou hast the thought to keep them—after
thy promise?”
“My promise to what? Kluto, believest thou in that jugglery?”
“King Atlano, thou didst seem to believe even as much as we.”
“Have a care!”
“I mean naught save to fall before thee. But I have the dread that the
earth is about to fade away. Didst thou note the thick, dark look of the
air before we came in here—and how gloomy was our supper room, even with
its many lights?”
“I did.”
“And, King Atlano, hast thou noted how faint is the flame on the altar
of the temple—and on this?”
“I have.”
“And these lamps in their paling?”
“I have.”
“Then what thinkest thou of it all?”
“It is that the air is heavier than common.”
“May such not be to our woe!”
“We can but wait and see.” Atlano’s laugh rang mockingly.
But with his words, the priests were startled at perceiving a change in
Oltis. They pointed; and the king looked to see him slowly raising his
hand from the table. Then it paused as if to warn.
“Ah—he doth rouse.” And Atlano arose, and went to him. Lightly he seized
the hand, saying as if to it, “Thou wouldst warn us—wouldst thou? Down!”
But the hand, in this position, was as iron; and moved not when Atlano,
with all his strength, would have pressed it to the table again. It
remained fixed in the air, enforcing its warning.
After several trials, Atlano returned to his couch. Very pale, but
determined was his face. He said to the trembling priests as he stood
and looked his haughtiest,
“Why cower ye? Think ye this is also of the gods? Think ye this will
baffle me?”
The silent one, the only priest calm and undaunted, arose, and looked at
the king in rebuke. Atlano, unwilling to own to himself the strange
effect of this look, struggled to shout:
“And I would tell thee, ‘Silent Priest,’ that whether thou comest of
heaven or hell—thou art not to stand and look at me thus. To thy couch!
Further, turn from me thine evil eye. Or, thou too, wilt find that, when
the king willeth, the highest in the temple, if it needeth, shall feed
the holy fire.”
The silent one stood calm, unblenching.
“Wilt thou to thy couch?”
And King Atlano made a step forward as if he would fall upon the man
towering so grandly before him. Another step, and he called:
“Urgis, Hafoe, Sudor, Kluto—come—that we may bring him to the earth!”
But neither Urgis, Hafoe, Sudor, Kluto,—nor any other priest—moved at
his bidding. They could but stare at this priest as he stood in his
majesty and fearlessness, could but wonder at the strange power of his
eyes. This strength of look must be what held them. Though, why held it
not Atlano, who was still advancing, with hand stealing within his
garment after his weapon, the mysterious liquor, that had rendered
Hellen impotent.
Well the priests knew this liquor, for they, in their secret laboratory,
had concocted it after an almost illegible receipt found among the
possessions of the dead Viril, who had been their instructor in alchemic
arts. Well they knew its power! Now, they awaited, in their immobility,
for its sure effect.
Onward drew Atlano with gleaming eyes and stealing hand. And, when well
upon the ‘Silent Priest,’ who still maintained his wonderful look, would
have drawn the weapon forth to fell him. But, with the significant
attempt, came dread resistance. The hand refused to move, to come from
out the folds that held it!
Atlano, in his struggle to free the helpless member, grew black in the
face, black of his terror and desire for revenge. Yet, he made as though
he would still advance upon the immovable figure, desisting only when he
found himself inert. Then did his tones ring through the sanctuary.
“Man—or demon—I fear thee not! I fear not thy spells. Think not this
will confound me. I say to the voice—to those not seen—that I will not
obey. I will not yield the Pelasgian children!”
Then went up the cry of terror from this inner sanctuary, from the
priests so motionless before. But it was not because of Atlano’s words.
No, the earth was threatening again. Again was smiting upon their ears
the terrific rumbling of the day before. Again was the earth lurching as
does a ship when at mercy of wind and wave.
Vibration after vibration increased in such force and velocity that it
seemed the hanging lamps must come crashing down, the walls fall in upon
them. Terrible was it to witness the statues of Amen and Poseidon sway
as though they would kiss the floor—and this continuously. More terrible
to hear Oltis’ hand fall with a loud thud upon the table, and yet
perceive that he remained rigid and staring. Most terrible to see Atlano
wrench forth his hand, turn from the silent one, and fly to the passage,
calling after him: “Come—come—ere it be too late!”
Never had he been so well obeyed. After him sprang the priests, Urgis
leading. Scarce had the last escaped than the ceiling yielded its lamps,
which fell with terrific noise, one almost grazing the hapless Oltis,
who still sat as iron, listening to the swift running in passages and
apartments, the shrieks that filled the air.
Through the tottering temple sped all to the great court—king, priests,
handmaids, attendants—when there, pausing to watch the temple as it
swayed in the semi-darkness. And, oh the fierce rocking of the earth
beneath! Where could they run? Not toward the ocean, for that was white
in its threatening. Naught was left but to fall on their knees, and
utter prayers that for once were heartfelt.
The while, they watched the temple which was swaying less and less.
Would it stop, though? Incredulity answered. But, when no longer in
doubt, they fell to embracing each other; and laughed and wept
spasmodically.
Then occurred another shock, a light one, that sent them into despair.
These light ones continued at short intervals, so that they could but
await the final one, which would bring down the temple.
People were thronging in to inquire as to the safety of the temple,
remaining long enough to give their experiences, and receive those of
the attendants. Meanwhile, the king stood in his chariot near the
portico surrounded by his guards; whilst scattered about him were
priests and shrinking handmaids, the latter under strict surveillance.
Long had Atlano been looking on every side in the gloom for the ‘Silent
Priest,’ but without perceiving him. Finally, he beckoned to Kluto. And
asked, “Hast thou seen the ‘Silent Priest’ since we fled?”
“O King, I have not seen him since we sped from the inner holy place.
Then—he was lost in looking upon Oltis—with no mind for the terrors
about him.”
“Poor Oltis! I wonder whether he hath moved,” was said ironically. Then,
with concern, he added, “Could it be that the silent one was
harmed—killed by the falling lamps?”
“It might be, oh King. He seemed fixed, and with no thought of flying.”
“I will go back, and find what hath happened to him.”
“Gracious king, dare it not. Wait until the shocks cease I beseech thee.
Or I will go for thee.”
“Nay—I would go. I can go in and out between them.”
“There would be no time to get out should the heavy shock that we look
for come whilst thou wert within.—Here is it now!”
But this proved light also. However, Atlano said, as if to himself: “I
will wait a little.—But—it doth trouble me.”
Thus, he fidgeted, and looked most anxious. And at last whispered to
Urgis, who stood at his right, “Well would it be if the silent one were
lying stark—stiffer than Oltis!”
“Gracious king, have a care.”—Urgis looked in fear about him.
“I am having a care—a care for myself—for all of us. While he liveth, I
cannot breathe. Of that, am I sure. Ah—to see him on the altar!”
Then, because of Urgis’ terrified look, he laughed recklessly. And
subjoined:
“I wonder how are the queen and her children. At eve, when I asked after
the sleeping one, I was told that herself and Electra were fastened
within the inner room of the queen, where they were resting. Even the
queen denied me, being therein also. In meek manner did I come away. But
this day—that now is beginning—will they learn the power of the king!”
Again he laughed recklessly. Though Urgis and the others hearing this
laugh could but shudder.