Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Adapted from Ignatius Donnelly’s map of Atlantis, page 47 of the “Atlantis,” by permission of Harper & Brothers. Cleit, Chimo, and Luith are names fictitious.

POSEIDON’S PARADISE
The Romance of Atlantis

BY

ELIZABETH G. BIRKMAIER

SAN FRANCISCO

The Clemens Publishing Co.

415 Montgomery Street

1892.

Copyright, 1892,

By ELIZABETH G. BIRKMAIER.

All Rights Reserved.

CONTENTS.

“Time dissipates to shining ether the solid angularity of facts. No anchor, no cable, no fences avail to keep a fact a fact. Babylon, and Troy, and Tyre, and even early Rome are passing into fiction. The Garden of Eden, the sun standing still in Gibeon, is poetry thenceforward to all nations.”—Emerson.

POSEIDON’S PARADISE.

CHAPTER I.
A DECLARATION OF WAR.

It was thousands of years before the Christian era—how many thousands no chronicler has stated. And the island lay, as through the ages past, fair and imperial in the Atlantic. Though now was it becoming wanton, even to its undoing. Else would not this be written.

Midsummer was upon this Atlantis, upon the islands attendant that served as stepping-stones to the continents beyond. Under the soft sensuousness, the morn was taking richer glow, the streams brightening to gold, the gardens and vineyards glorifying in green; whilst hill and mountain grew alluring in shadow and color, the palaces lustrous in their tri-tinted stones, and the temples’ syenite a gleaming red that rivaled the flashing orichalcum studding domes and pinnacles. The great island was a gorgeous mosaic: and its setting, sapphire, that royal stone emblematic of calm and truth; for the laving waters were as serene as blue, in such being all suggestive of that repose which comes of perception of the true. The whole was a glory.

About Cleit, that royal city gracing the stream Luith, in the southeastern part of the island, there was an unusual stir. This day was to be observed one of the most ancient, and therefore simplest, of the customs of Atlantis. The king and royal rulers were to give audience to the principal captains of the nation, and receive the certificates of their prowess for the year. And now, from Cleit’s harbor, which was a few miles southward of the city, at the mouth of Luith, were speeding the galleys of Cleit’s captains; whilst from points north, east, south, and west, the many other captains were hastening, that all might meet in the grounds of the royal palace before noon of this auspicious day.

Upon the great marble landing place, these captains came together, about them thronging the people in gayest holiday attire. Most evident was it that the latter still took pleasure in this old-fashioned observance, that they wished not to fall behind in its celebration, notwithstanding the times were changing so wofully. Many had been the prognostications of the few conservatives remaining that erelong this simple, this most ancient custom, would come to naught. Indeed, most of these had averred privately that the meeting of the year before would prove the last.

Yet here were again convening these mighty captains—size being a consideration of their office. Here, again, were they towering above the average Atlantean, tall as he was. Fine was it to note their flashing eyes, their grand bearing, as they imparted such information as they were free to give to the curious, fast-questioning ones; but finer to witness the expanding eyes of the latter as their ears took in the wonder, the verity of it all!

But the great silver gong was sounding. It was noon. Then men, women, and children burst into acclamations. Already were the captains forming into line, with the captain general at the head. Again sounded the gong. Therewith, the line filed along the marble pathway to the palace, followed by the cheering throng.

But gradually the throng quieted. Ever was the palace neared reverently. There was a hush, when, from out the thick foliage, it arose upon them lustrous in its stones of red, white, and black, its facings of alabaster, its columns of marble and orichalcum, its red pinnacles;—a palace well befitting this land of glamour.

Like all the other palaces of the island, this was simple of construction. The main plan consisted of rectangles set about a great court, these rectangles being two-storied. In the lower story, light was admitted through large apertures protected by curtains and shutters of hard wood set in at will. Additional light was also admitted from the upper story, which was supported by columns and open at the sides, curtains excluding the sunshine at pleasure. Some of these columns extended from the lower floor to the roof; others rested on the walls of the lower story, where the thickness would permit; and each was many volumes in its inscriptions and sculptures.

The captains mounted the grand portico with its columns of marble and orichalcum, each innumerable volumes; passed through the narrowing portal, guarded by its colossal winged bulls, to the great hall; and thence to the state chamber—on the right, still followed by the throng.

Great and glittering was this oblong state chamber. Its high, arched ceiling of ivory and bronze was rich in gilding. The walls were paneled in ivory overlaid with silver, many of the panels being inscribed with the laws of Poseidon and Atlas. The pavement was of blue and white marbles. To this fell from the apertures hangings of finest yellow linen. The seats were of carved ebony; and at the farther end were the golden throne, and the ivory chairs of the rulers, priests, and nobles.

With arms folded on their breasts and heads bent low, the captains advanced until they stood a goodly row before their king. He, of name Atlano, sat high on a dais raised above another dais; and about him were ranged the royal rulers. On the lower dais sat the priests and nobles, the priests being to the right.

When the apartment could hold no more, the gong sounded. Thereupon the chamberlain, who stood out upon the lower dais, made the sign; and low bent these that had just entered before their king, until the chamberlain said, “Ye will arise.”

The king then waved his scepter. As one, the priests and nobles stood to intone a welcome to the captains. Afterward, arose the royal rulers to smile and bow in greeting.

The white raiment and silver circlets of the priests were in strong contrast to the gorgeous robing and jeweled headgear of the rulers and nobles. But the king was dazzling in his royal purple robe, his scintillating crown, and the wondrous mantle sacred to himself. This last was ingeniously fashioned of finest, rarest feathers, varying in color from cream to orange, and was of such length as to sweep the floor behind. Though well he bore this aggregation of rich hues. For Atlano was handsome in the best Atlantean type, though his expression was harsh, cruel. But he was softening somewhat at sight of these brave captains standing in such humility before him. And, smiling, he addressed them.

“Captains, thy king giveth greeting.”

They responded, “O most gracious of kings, Atlano, long may thy great self thus beam upon thy captains!”

Atlano inclined his head. The rulers, priests, and nobles intoned:

“Long, O most gracious king, Atlano, may thy captains thus come before thee!”

“Long live the king!” returned the captains.

Then followed an invocation to the gods by the aged high priest Olto, his son, the chief priest Oltis, assisting. Thereafter, the rulers, priests, and nobles sat down, and the king addressed the chamberlain.

“Shafo, if it seemeth good, the captains may now tell us of their work.”

The chamberlain pointed with his wand: “Captain General, thou wilt begin.”

The captain general stepped out from his fellows, and, in measured tones, replied as if to the king:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, this I state to thy great self: I, captain of the war vessel Atlas, since leaving the harbor of Cleit, eleven moons since, have sailed around the country of the Afrites, and up its eastern coast. At many places, we fell upon the black people, and took of their gold and ivory; and then sent them into the inner parts to get incense trees, nutwoods, ebony, apes with dog heads,[^[1]] monkeys with long tails, and greyhounds. It is two weeks since we came into harbor, and yielded our cargo. This showeth its worth, and stateth the sums we of the vessel merit.”

Bowing low, the captain general handed a roll of papyrus to an attendant, who laid it upon a table below the dais.

The chamberlain then pointed his wand toward the captain first in line. He stepped forward, and spoke in uncertain tones that slowly strengthened:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, this I state to thy great self: I, captain of the trading vessel Mestor, came into Chimo thirty days since from our people of Chimu,[^[2]] whither I sailed twelve moons ago, bearing a cargo of dried fruits, grains, and rare woods. There I found our people building a temple to the great Amen, that in shape is like unto a pyramid, and in size is half a mile around. Already are the temples, palaces, and tombs of Chimu looking as ours. And great is the decking in gold and silver, for the mines are not far. Of gold, silver, and gems I bring to Chimo large stores. This showeth the worth of the cargo, and the sums which we of the vessel merit.”

The captain handed his roll to the captain general, who, in turn, handed it to the attendant. When this captain had resumed his place, the next captain, at beck of the chamberlain, stepped out to continue:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, this I state to thy great self: I, captain of the war vessel Azaes, left Autochthin seven moons since to bear to the fair green island[^[3]] in the north a band of our people, and with them left the means of living for the time of twelve moons. On my way from there I ran in the passage to the Middle Sea[^[4]] to look about a little, but at once sped back upon seeing some large vessels, strange and threatening. It is twenty days since I came into Autochthin. I bring to thee, O most gracious King, this written word of the planting of our people in the island, of their further needs, and of the sums that we of the vessel merit.”

And the captain handed in his roll.

At mention of these unknown vessels, the king’s scarcely-concealed indifference vanished. He looked surprised, then alarmed. With increasing emotion, he glanced from rulers to nobles to find their wearied expressions had, at least, become interested.

But on went the harangues. One captain had sailed beyond the western seas, and northward up a mighty river to the colony Missos.[^[5]] Another had sailed around the country of the Afrites, and eastward to that sultry land that supplied them with gems. Another had been to the land of the Eskaldi.[^[6]] Thus ran the reports until it was the turn of the last captain but one. He stepped out with an air important; and, in more important tone, began:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, to thy great self I would state that I am captain of the vessel Paero. It is eleven moons since I left for Khemi,[^[7]] with a cargo of rare woods, grains, and wool. I bring from Khemi green stone, red granite of Syene, and the byssus of the Middle Sea. Yesterday came I back to Cleit; and therefore have I not my roll. But within a day will it be ready.”

But this captain, instead of returning to his place, stood waiting.

“What wilt thou, Sir Captain?” asked the chamberlain.

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, to thy great self I would state more.”

Most eager became the expressions of king and nobles. The captain paused until the chamberlain signed for him to continue.

“Most gracious king, a people across the Middle Sea, to the north of Khemi, causeth fear in the lands about it because of its quick rise to power. It is not long since this people passed over from the far east, and now it ruleth the sea. It is magic.”

The king’s red skin deepened to purple. In a voice grown hoarse, he exclaimed:

“The name of this people!”

And the chamberlain iterated, “The name of this people!”

“O most gracious king, Atlano, their land is Pelasgia. They are called Pelasgians. Their king is Pelasgus.”

“They have a king, then?”

This the chamberlain also iterated, as he did the ensuing questions.

“O most gracious king, Atlano, they have a king.”

“Know they how to war?”

“O most gracious King, they are fond of peace; and think but of trade and tilling the ground.”

“More! More!”

“O most gracious King, I know no more.”

“Let him to his place. Cause some other captain to tell me more!”

The captain who had put back from the Middle Sea stepped out, getting the start of the only captain yet to be heard from. But the latter was willing to bide his time. At beck of the chamberlain, the former declared:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, then was it the vessels of this people that so troubled us. Nothing like them have I seen for size and strength.”

The king turned to left, to right, demanding fiercely, “Hear ye this? Hear ye this?”

Senil, the most venerable of the rulers, arose.

“Senil, what wilt thou?”

“King Atlano, we hear; and it seemeth evil.”

“What is the thing we shall do?”

“O most gracious King, that will we do which seemeth good to thee.”

The king’s face testified to his emotions. His anger had given way to wild triumph. He ejaculated:

“Senil, Rulers, Nobles, we will bring them to naught! It shall not be said that any power holdeth the sea with Atlantis!”

He turned to regard the captain, who had not as yet resumed his place; and muttered:

“If this be true—if this be true.”

There was then heard a meaning cough from the last captain, who had been so forgotten. The king noted this, and said:

“Shafo, there is one captain who hath not been heard.”

At the sign, this captain stepped forth with an air even more important than had been that of the captain of the Paero, and the captain who had withdrawn from the Middle Sea bowed back to his place. Of due weight were this captain’s tones.

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, to thy great self I would state that I, the captain of the trading vessel Osir, came back but yesterday to Elasippa from our land of Shaphana,[^[8]] after bringing there grain, cotton, and linen, and taking in corn, wine, and oil. There I heard much of this new power, for, of late, its vessels come within the harbor of Shaphana. Thus far this Pelasgia thinketh not of war, but of trade. Her vessels are marvels of strength and speed.”

“Hear ye this?” interrupted Atlano, turning to rulers and nobles, “Her vessels are marvels of strength and speed!” Then, of the captain, he demanded:

“Thou sayest not that thou didst see aught of these?”

The chamberlain iterated this.

“O most gracious of kings, I have to say that I saw them. Two were speeding into harbor as we left it. Nowhere have I seen vessels that come nigh them!”

The king arose and stared at this captain, until he perforce stammered:

“O most gracious king, I have not my roll; but in two days will it be ready.”

But not of him, nor of his certificate, was the king thinking. His thought was for this new, menacing power. After some minutes’ absorption, his tones rang fierce:

“Is there more?”

The chamberlain iterated, “Is there more?”

“O most gracious of kings, there is no more.”

The captain was waved back to his place. The king, standing most erect, addressed all.

“Rulers, Priests, Nobles, Captains, Leaders, People, let us look to this. Let it be the one mind to fall upon and crush this Pelasgia! What will ye?”

Senil arose.

“Senil, what wilt thou?”

“King Atlano, we will as thou.”

The other rulers arose.

“Rulers, what will ye?”

“King Atlano, we will as thou.”

Phiro, a noble young and ardent, here arose.

“Phiro, what sayest thou?”

“Gracious King, if it pleaseth thee, let those who are for war bend the knee.”

“It is well. Rulers, Priests, Nobles, Captains, Leaders, People,—ye that are for war bend the knee, and let us beseech the gods.”

Great was the stir in the vast assemblage. Then every soul bent the knee, even to the king, while the feeble tones of the high priest began to be heard, asking for blessing on this so suddenly conceived undertaking. When he had finished, the king arose, the others still remaining on their knees, until he said:

“Ye may arise.”

When all were standing, and the hush was deepening, the king exulted:

“It is one voice. Here let us make the vow to sweep from the earth this new power—these marvels of vessels. Swear!”

Every right arm was pointed heavenward, every voice said solemnly, “We swear!”

“So be it. Now will we to work. The Leaders!”

There was a mighty stir. This indeed meant war.

The chamberlain beckoned; and the leaders, who were next in rank to the captains, stepped from their places against the walls on right and left. Tall and stalwart were they, and attired much like the captains. They wore not the ordinary loose-flowing robes, but close-fitting tunics, short, loose lower garments similar to the trousers of to-day, and high boots of soft skins. On their heads were helmet-shaped caps of red linen; and about their waists were broad bronze belts, inscribed with their office and number.

These leaders formed a considerable body in the kingdom, each province having its quota. Their office was this: When war was declared, each was to furnish one-sixth of the portion of a war chariot with its two horses and riders; also, a light chariot with a fighting man on foot and charioteer; also, two heavy-armed men, two archers, two slingers, three stone shooters, three javelin men, and four sailors.[^[9]]

Of course these leaders present belonged to Cleit; but it was understood that whatever the king commanded them, the nine rulers would command their own.

To these leaders the king spoke impressively.

“Leaders, ye know your duty. This day begin measures for most bitter war.”

On their knees sank the leaders, and there remained until ordered by the chamberlain to arise. Then their spokesman answered:

“O most gracious of kings, Atlano, thy leaders, as thou hast said, know well their duty. They will to it this day.”

Then, with faces to the king, they moved to their places.

The king addressed the rulers.

“Ye, kin rulers, will speed on the morrow to your cities, and then give orders to your leaders. Ere the coming moon is old, gather your vessels within this harbor. Then on to lay Pelasgia low!”

The assemblage, as one, echoed:

“Yea—on—to lay Pelasgia low!”

The exultant king continued:

“This further will I say: Daily, at the noon hour, let every noble come to this state chamber, that plans may be made, and given out. Let every captain make well ready his vessel for the men, food, and weapons of war. Let the people be of one mind through it all.”

A murmur of acclamation arose and swelled, the smiling king permitting it, until it became a mighty shout. This the people without heard, and answered—forgetting reverence—until the hangings of the palace moved. And still the king stood smiling.

When there was quiet, he said, with warmth: “Thus endeth this gathering of the captains. Brave captains, well have ye done. Thy king knoweth pride beyond measure. The gods be with you.”

The captains, after bowing to the floor, stood proudly erect. The high priest gave the blessing. Afterward, when the king, with his rulers, nobles, and priests, had sat down, the chamberlain waved his wand. Slowly the assemblage went out, with faces ever to the king. Deeply they saluted him at the threshold, before disappearing. Of these the captains were the last to withdraw, as they had been the first to enter. Exultant, with the king, all passed out to the perfect day, to spread wide this unlooked-for result of the convention.

Yet still continued the day in its soft, serene loveliness.

The king, rulers, and nobles remained to confer. But this conference was interrupted somewhat when the waiting islanders without received word of this declaration of war. Again, forgetting reverence, they became jubilant. So much did these Atlanteans love conquest. Those within the state chamber were but stimulated, doing quick, vigorous work.

One most important measure of this conference was the unanimous agreement that the queen should reign during the king’s absence. The nine rulers (descendants of the nine younger brothers of Atlas, eldest son of Poseidon) were to remain at home in order to sustain her, and be subject in a body to her call. Further, though this was spoken only inwardly, they could the better watch each other. As each made solemn vow to be loyal to country and queen, Atlano, of his mocking spirit, laughed within.

For, how could they do otherwise? Would not he bear with him, his ablest nobles, his chiefs, his captains, his warmen, his sailors? And would they not return laden with spoils, strengthened, rioting of victory? What could stand against them? Well might these rulers vow to be loyal!

CHAPTER II.
QUEEN ATLANA.

From the state chamber the king sped buoyantly through the great hall, with its lines of bowing officers and attendants, each as smiling as himself over this war prospect; and thence, to the right, along the corridor, to the queen’s bower room.

Most eloquently did this large apartment testify to the industry of the queen and her ladies, as theirs were the embroidery upon the hangings of byssus and the coverings of the couches, the plaiting of the great mats upon the inlaid floor, the festooning of the flowers from the satinwood walls. The room was a veritable bower in its brightness, fragrance, and floral adornments; and, as the climax to its charms, three of its sides opened upon the fairy-like, private garden, which spread to the eastward.

The queen’s ladies were throwing over a couch the covering they had just finished as the king entered. After low salutations, they withdrew. The queen, meanwhile, had arisen for greeting; and, sad as it may seem, was wondering at her husband’s cheerfulness of mien.

Queen Atlana was tall, gracious, lovely. She was Atlano’s cousin, being the daughter of his father’s brother by a princess of Khemi. Owing to her Semitic blood, hers was not the complexion of the true Atlanteans. In her, the mixture of the red and yellow had produced a richness of skin whose tints were of the olive and the peach. Her eyes were brown, large, soft, and lustrous; her hair, black and waving, and worn in high braids about her head. Her features were straight, the forehead receding but little, and the mouth beautiful and tender.

Her robe was of fine white linen, embroidered in buff; and hung from her shoulders in folds to the floor, being confined at the waist by a golden girdle. Her perfect arms were bare and without ornament. With a grace bewitching, she moved toward the king, her face flushing sweetly, and said low in love:

“With joy I greet thee, Atlano.”

He took her extended hand and led her to her couch, responding, as he sat down beside her, “With the like feeling do I greet thee, Atlana.”

Her eyes lighted gladly. Such crumbs had begun to fall rarely from the king’s table, and, therefore, had now the fullness of the banqueting board. Smiling, she said:

“Thou art happy, Atlano. Comest thou from the meeting of the captains?”

“The captains left an hour hence. Since then we have had thought for matters of weight.”

There was a strange exultation about him. She looked at him in inquiry.

“Thou askest not of the meeting.”

“It was in my thought. Tell me of it.”

“There were the like olden speeches of cargoes taken out and cargoes brought back, of the planting of our people in new lands, and their doings; of spoils taken. Pfui! how sick am I of it! How great is my wish to put some other in my place to hearken to it all!”

“But the people would not have it. It hath ever been the custom of the kings.”

“A custom of the fools! How weary I grow of it! This day I was almost in sleep. But one thing I heard that roused me!”

“What heardst thou?”

He was rubbing his hands gloatingly, his long, thin, cruel hands.

“What thinkest thou, Atlana?”

“I think not. Tell me.”

He waited, delighting to prolong her impatience; and then drawled:

“We have heard—that—will force—us—to—”

“To what?”

“To war.”

She looked so incredulous that he laughed. “I say the truth, Atlana. We are to war.”

“To war!”

Her face had blanched, yet she could not believe.

“Yea, Atlana, to war. A new power showeth itself to the north of Khemi. It aimeth to hold the Middle Sea. We go to crush it!”

She grew faint at his relentless tone. However, she managed to plead:

“It cannot harm us. Spare it.”

“Spare it! Much would it spare us should it grow stronger. Even now is it mighty enough to thrust us to one side. Do us harm! That is my fear.”

“Atlano, I beseech that thou wilt seek no quarrel with this people.”

“There is no need to seek. I will make one. I will show them that Atlantis still hath being—that she is not dead of her power, her wealth, her spoils, her glory. Spoils! Here will be another—a grand one! Here will another land mourn its being—those marvels of vessels sink beneath the waters, or, better, swell the numbers of our own. Here will Atlantis show another line to that dreaming Khemi that doth not rouse even when the smallest haven goeth beyond her in treading the sea. What are her piles of stone to one strong, free breath of the sea? And what a glory to hold every breath as we have until now! Base Khemi—to be thus given over to her sands, her works of stone!”

“Atlano, call to mind that I am fond of Khemi. It is the land of my mother.”

“One would know it when thou wouldst bid me spare this Pelasgia.”

“Thou art wrong to trouble this people.”

“Such is what I might look for from thee. Ever art thou against me!”

“When have I ever been against thee?”

He tried hard to recall an instance, but could not. Less angry, he insisted:

“As a wife, thou hast the right to think with me—hast the right to bid me good speed when I go to crush this people.”

“Thou! Thou wilt not go?”

“I go to crush them. The gods have my vow. Here have I rusted too long. I am as king of Khemi!”

“Thou wilt be killed! Atlano, thou wilt be killed!”

“Then wilt thou be queen,” he returned derisively. “Thou art next in line with all thy Khemian blood, and these Atlanteans love thee. Ill would they take it should Oltis come after me—for his father counteth not. That smooth Oltis—well doth he wish it! But I shall not be killed, if but to bring to naught the hopes of that cunning priest. He thinketh I see not through him.” Loud rang his mocking laugh.

The queen arose, and, standing before him, besought:

“Atlano, for the sake of our land and people, war not. Think of our Atlanteans who will not come back—of their darkened homes. Call to mind how, in the time of thy father, we lost our people in warring against Fun-hi. And what evil came of it, for it brought on the death of thy father!”

“Yea, but it made the way for me.”

“Atlano!”

“Say on, ‘Atlano!’ Well should I sicken of my name!” (He had arisen to face her vindictively.) “I say to thee, Atlana, we are to war, war. And now I have done with it—and thee.” (He turned to go.)

“So be it—war! But I warn thee, it is one thing to war, another to win.”

“Put not upon it an evil eye, Atlana. If thou dost croak, I fear.” (He was again facing her.)

“I croak not, but I warn thee. The cause is not just.”

“Thou art in evil temper this day. It is best that I go to the temple and talk with Oltis. Ah, thou dost shake!”

“Why art thou ever with Oltis if thou trustest him not?”

“I like to draw him on, to make him believe I think with him, to make him take my way in the end. I like to see him, the proud one, bend—bend—because I am the king. He is a toad.”

“But thou goest to this toad from me.”

“Yea, but wert thou more as he I would stay with thee.”

“Think. Thou didst call him a toad.”

“I mean, wert thou not so bent of mind. Oltis never sayeth nay to me. It would be better, Atlana, couldst thou ever think with me.”

“It is but this time, Atlano. Come, sit with me again. I will be more calm.”

“Nay, I go.”

“Go not to Oltis.”

“I like the mirth of it.”

“I fear him. He will do thee evil.”

There was another mocking laugh. “If thou didst but know, I think evil toward him. I like him not. And now my good wishes I leave thee.”

“Go not.”

Seeing there were tears in her eyes, he stooped to kiss her carelessly; then, drew from her restraining hand and went out.

Atlana was left to weep inconsolably. Well she loved her husband; and hard to bear was his growing indifference. Now had come this new terror, this suddenly sprung up cloud of war, and the injustice of such a contest could presage only defeat. For the remainder of the day she continued alone, given over to despondency, and dreading lest any eye should witness her plight.

Before night, many were the aching hearts on the island beside the queen’s. The wives of high and low degree had alike fallen to sorrowing. Mourning was rife among the females of the land, and grew in intensity from the hard-heartedness of the males, who had no patience with such puerile manifestations, and, therefore, laughed at them, derided. When some wives took courage to hint of the possibility of defeat, they were so withered by scorn as to run for hiding places; and it was days before quite a goodly number rallied sufficiently to show themselves. The women of Atlantis could imagine and suffer thereby as ably as their sisters of to-day.

As the preparations grew brisker, more despairing became these Atlantean women. As for the queen, she only brightened when in presence of the king. Then she was strong. Thus he knew not of the agony she was enduring—could not have appreciated it had she disclosed it. Once he even complimented her upon her sensible way of accepting the matter, she smiling back in a weary manner that was lost upon him, so centered was he in self. But, day by day, she grew more fond, if possible, so that his eyes opened somewhat; and, at last, he exclaimed:

“Atlana, where didst thou get such heart? Well would it be if thou hadst children.”

“Children! Torment me not!”

The cry was tragic. The king, though amazed, scoffed:

“Thou sayest well. They are but a torment.”

“I meant not that they are a torment. It is torment that I have them not!”

Wildly she spoke, unsealing her lips upon this subject, and to the astounding of the king, as she continued:

“Why speakest thou of children, and at this time? It is hard to bear. To have no child to look upon, to nurse, to clasp! Here is the heart of a mother, but where is the child to cling to it, to bless it? I am alone—alone!”

She bowed her head to hide the bursting tears. The king, touched, attempted consolation.

“Grieve not, Atlana. I care for children but to vex Oltis. As life is, they are ever a trouble.”

“I care not about Oltis. For trouble, fathers have no trouble. It is the mothers alone—who have to bear—that have the right to murmur. But I should never murmur.”

“Nay, for a queen need have no care.”

“I should have care, and hail it, were I many times a queen.”

Such strong yearning was in her face that the king exclaimed:

“Atlana, what is it? What is upon thee? Is it this matter of war?”

“Day and night I think of naught else. Hard have I tried to be brave. Atlano, go not from me. The pain I cannot bear.”

“There is no need for pain. We go to lay Pelasgia low. And I shall come again. Think, thou art the wife of a king. Trouble me no longer with bodings of evil. Would we had a child. It would take my place.”

Atlana sighed, and raised her head, determined to say no more. Relieved that her tears had ceased, Atlano said more gently:

“Let us sail down to the harbor. There have the vessels of all the ports gathered. It will cheer thee but to look upon them.”

Fine cheer, indeed, was this for such an aching heart! The queen looked at him, thinking he meant to jest. But no, his earnestness was too apparent. Already had his face brightened at the prospect. So she forced a smile, and, calling her ladies, gave the necessary orders.

Shortly, herself, the king, and a few of the nobles, with their wives, went gliding down Luith to the harbor. But great heaviness of spirit was beneath the smiles of these women; and this heaviness increased when, upon arriving at the harbor, they beheld the many war vessels in brave array, with pennants flying, and men crowding their decks. Bitter was it to listen to the exulting speeches of Atlano and his nobles; bitterer, to listen to the acclamations of those on deck and shore. The nobles’ wives looked from their queen to each other, but could derive no comfort, no hope. There was not one to lighten the gloom of the others among these suffering women.

CHAPTER III.
ATLANTIS VERSUS PELASGIA.

A few days later the Atlantean fleet sailed to the eastward to invade this upstart Pelasgia—these Pelasgians that had come from Western Asia by way of the Cyclades to make an abiding place in the Greece of to-day, as well as the islands of the Ægean Sea.

A mysterious people were the Pelasgians. Their appearance among the past known races of the earth was sudden; their extinction has been complete. Yet we know they were peaceful, and fond of agriculture; that, under the favoring skies of their adopted land, they became the greatest merchants and sailors of most ancient times, antedating the renowned Phœnicians; that from Greece they passed over to Southern Italy, there, perhaps, to inaugurate that “golden age of Saturn,” when peaceful agricultural pursuits superseded the piratical habits of the Carians and Leleges. But this is little.

However, their monuments endure. These are the vast Cyclopean remains of Greece and Asia that puzzle while they amaze. Evidently intended for fortification, they were built of huge polygonal stones, fitted together without cement and mortar, so perfectly as to survive the structures of succeeding ages and races. These are all that are left to point to a people who, though forced everywhere to yield to the conqueror, must yet have been possessed of indomitable energy and perseverance. Though ineffaceable are their invisible imprints for good.

Under Pelasgus, their leader and king, this colony won renown so quickly that it is no wonder Atlano should doubt its existence. But this knowledge proved the impetus he had been desiring. Now there was new life in the mere thought of the stifling of this menacing people.

Thus the fleet went gaily sailing along the Middle Sea, so high were the hopes, so positive the convictions of success.

The skies were favorable: and the time dragged not, because of the ravages made upon the coasts to the left. At length the islands off the southern shore of Greece were sighted; and there came into view what could only be some Pelasgian vessels. As the great fleet bore down upon them, these took to flight, and made such good speed, the while warning other vessels they met, that all were out of sight before reaching the southern point of Attica.[^[10]]

Up the western coast they speeded to their port,[^[11]] whilst the Atlanteans, mistaking their route, rounded Attica to sail up its eastern coast. Nothing here invited them except some outlying hamlets, which they pillaged and destroyed. When well along between Attica and Euboea, the fleet lay to, and many warriors disembarked.

These advanced through Bœotia, the surprised Pelasgians fleeing before them into Thessaly. But quickly did Thessaly prepare for defense, calling as leader Deucalion, who, with his family, dwelt at Larissa, on its southern shore.

This Deucalion was revered and beloved; and it was whispered that he possessed mysterious powers that could come only of the gods. So none but himself must lead these ready Thessalonians.

He, most willing, hastily gathered his neighbors. And then these Pelasgians of Thessaly met the invaders, gave them fierce battle, and forced them back, even through Bœotia, and into Attica. Meanwhile, a few of the Atlantean vessels had proceeded along the coast of Attica and Bœotia, seeking pillage; and, all too soon, came upon Larissa, whose simple homes and cultivated lands were on either side of its gentle stream and by the coast. Here, at this inviting spot, they paused to descend upon its women and children, every man having gone with Deucalion. When home after home had been pillaged and destroyed, these defenseless ones fell before the red warriors to plead, agonized, for mercy. But when unanswered, spurned, their importunities changed to despairing cries for Deucalion, which the marauders were only too quick to distinguish.

Thus the leader inquired of one of the shrieking women, in a tone she could not fail to understand, “Deucalion?”

She, foolish one, by her gestures and pointing, made them comprehend that this Deucalion had led his fellows southward to meet the invading foe.

Grim was then the laughter of the Atlanteans. To this succeeded desire to know which was Deucalion’s home. They were about to inquire, when the same woman, of her frenzy, cried:

“See—Pyrrha, Pyrrha! The wife of Deucalion!”

The Atlanteans, following her glance, again comprehended. Under some trees, at a little distance, were kneeling, entwined, a woman and two children. The leader eagerly asked:

“Is that the wife of Deucalion?”

The woman, understanding, bowed in affirmation.

“And the children of Deucalion?”

Again the woman bowed her “Yes.”

There was a swift movement of the chief and his men toward the group. Perceiving this, Pyrrha, with her children, arose, and the three stood in passive dignity. But less swift grew the approach of the marauders, as they the better beheld this Pyrrha, this fair, noble, most lovely woman, who, with the mother fear in her eyes, was holding tightly a youth well grown and a little maiden. For the moment a feeling akin to reverence came upon the fierce men, so that they halted. But the leader, overcoming this, went still nearer, and demanded:

“Give me the children!”

Of her intuition, Pyrrha understood. Tighter grew her grasp, as she besought mercy with her eyes. But the chief hardened only the more, for he was calculating upon the ransom that these children must bring. So he laid his hand upon the youth, strong in his purpose.

Then fine it was to behold the youth’s flashing eyes, his proud crest, and the brave air with which he turned to repel this mighty-looking warrior. Though Pyrrha, by tone and grasp, endeavored to restrain him, as she, in her Pelasgian, pleaded for mercy. Vain, however, were her sweet tones. The chief’s hands went about young Hellen; the cruel men pressed sore; and Pyrrha and her daughter, bereft, sank upon their knees, heart pressed to heart, to cry to heaven for help.

But again went the hands at their work. The mother was drawn back ruthlessly, and the maiden wrenched from her arms. Brave, unyielding, Pyrrha struggled to her feet, prepared to follow, to drag her children back. But the evil spirits held high their captives, and gathered about them in mass as they moved onward to the ships. Dark became everything to Pyrrha; her lovely body tottered, and she fell unconscious. Heaven at last was kind.

The other women, with their children, collected about her. But to all efforts for her revival, she responded not. So they forbore, to fall on their knees, and gaze dumbly at the vessels, which, with booty and captives, were already beginning the journey southward. When these were out of sight, they arose, their thought only for the miserable creature who had revealed Deucalion’s family to the despoilers. As one, they fell upon her with their tongues; and of her it need hardly be told that, for the balance of her life, it would have been better had she never been born.

The despoilers hastened southward to hear evil. The brave Atlanteans who had disembarked to destroy these Pelasgians, had met with defeat. Yes, Atlano had been pressed back into Attica by Deucalion, and there had been routed by a small army under Pelasgus. In consequence the ranks of the Atlanteans could only tear their way to the coast, many dying as they went of exhaustion or wounds, so that Atlano with the other survivors appeared but as a handful to those awaiting them on the ships.

When Atlano was again on his own vessel, his rage and humiliation were so intense that none dared to venture near him to tell of the presence of the two young captives. Even Maron, his chief attendant, kept aloof and eyed him in fear—the great, grim, swarthy Maron, who had never known awe until now.

But the king had not been long on board when, as he stood gazing upon the shore of this uncrushed Pelasgia, he heard a sound as of sobbing, and that not far from him. Surprised, he listened for some seconds, and then signed to Maron. The latter came forward eagerly, while the others of the vessel scarcely breathed in their interest.

“What is that noise, Maron?”

“Most gracious king, it cometh from the two children made captive on the coast above, at a place where some of our vessels landed for booty.”

“Who took them?”

“Most gracious king, it was the chief captain, Zekil.”

“Let them be brought before me.”

Maron signed to an officer, who hastened to the middle of the vessel, where there was a small apartment used for storage, to return with the two miserable ones. When these beheld the fierce, dark red face of the king, they cried out in alarm.

“Bring the rod,” ordered the king, “and let Zekil come before me.”

The two children had fallen on their knees to supplicate for deliverance. This Atlano well understood from their signs, their tones, their agony. With contempt he looked down upon them until the bronze rod was brought. At his word a blow upon the back of each brought the hapless pair to their feet. But their tears had ceased, and, with eyes shining of indignation, they held to each other. Their shoulders were smarting, but the pain was as nothing beside the indignity, for these children had known only tenderness and reverence hitherto.

Then, as the youth Hellen turned from his sister to flash at him a look as haughty, as fierce, Atlano smiled in derision, and asked:

“Maron, is this the son of a king?”

“Most gracious King, he is the son of a great chief. Zekil knoweth; and yonder he cometh.”

Soon Zekil was on board, and kneeling to the king. When bidden to arise, he stood up as if well satisfied with himself.

“Zekil, whence came these children?”

“Most gracious King, we brought them from the coast above.”

“Whose children are they?”

“Most gracious King, the people whom we fell upon were ever calling upon their father, as if he had all power. It was ‘Deucalion!’ ‘Deucalion!’ on every side.”

“Deucalion!” Atlano gasped the word. Then, of his astonishment and exultation, cried:

“Ha—Deucalion! Art thou sure?”

“Most gracious King, their father is Deucalion.”

“Knowest thou who is Deucalion? Knowest thou who he is, Zekil?”

Even Zekil was shrinking back at the fury of his tone.

“He is the one who headed the horde—that drove us back—into the way of loss, ruin. But for Deucalion, we would have swept from earth this Pelasgia!

“Yea, and as they thronged about him, and pressed against us, it was to the cry of ‘Deucalion—Deucalion!’ And we fled before this ‘Deucalion!’” He hissed the word at the terrified children.

“Now to pay him—now to pay him! And it shall be fine ransom! Ah, what ransom will I have for you, ye thrice-cursed children of Deucalion!”

He raised his hand as if to smite. Æole, comprehending, looked full in his face, calmly but beseechingly. And, as he, for the first time, obtained a clear view of the sweet, innocent, fair, lovely countenance of this child of thirteen, and received the appealing look of eyes beautiful like violets, eyes of a color unknown in Atlantis, the hand, losing force, fell to his side.

Further, as he continued to stare into these eyes, and note the gestures of the small, perfect hands, he understood that she was imploring their return to Pelasgia. But, at his frowning shake of the head, she desisted, to speak in quick, firm tone, to his comprehension:

“Then free my brother, and I will stay.”

At perceiving the king’s threatening hand, Hellen had raised his own to ward off the blow. Great was his astonishment when the king’s hand fell to his side, as he was not aware of Æole’s look or gestures. But, at her words, he started, shocked, and faced her.

“Æole, thou knowest not what thou askest. Thinkest thou I will go, and leave thee here, to the mercy of these?” And he looked with scorn at King Atlano, who was quick to interpret his words.

In spite of himself, Atlano could not but admire Hellen’s courage. He glanced from one to the other, the uncowed demeanor of both so impressing him that he said to those in attendance:

“They are a noble pair, this brother and sister. If we take naught of the spoil of Pelasgia with us to Atlantis, we are rich in them, for their value must bring us fine ransom, and before the sun of the morrow. Meanwhile, let them be held in honor. Maron, lead them whence they came.”

Then he turned to speak apart with Zekil. And Maron conducted the youth and maiden to the outside room.

Later, there was a conference of the king and his few surviving nobles and chief captains when it was decided that the Atlantean fleet would remain where it was, and, on the morrow, dictate terms for the ransom of the captives.

After Atlano had sent away his nobles and captains, he went to look upon the sufferers, and found them reclining upon some cushions, in the very stupor of grief. They heeded him not as he stood and watched them. And many forms did his thoughts take as he noted their beauty and grace. The one that would recur most often was, “I would almost keep them in spite of many ransoms.”

But, as it proved, there was no ransom on the morrow. For, that night, the vessels of the Pelasgians, hurriedly brought together from every available point, so harassed and destroyed a portion of the Atlantean fleet that the remainder was forced to speed off in the early morning, leaving to an uncertain future the wished-for ransom.

Thus the invading fleet passed away. And the bitterly weeping children stood straining their eyes at the beloved, the fast disappearing shores. At about the time that their dear Pelasgia was beyond their view, Deucalion rejoined his still unconscious wife, and learned from those about her of this terrible bereavement.

CHAPTER IV.
THE PELASGIAN CAPTIVES.

Sacred mountain, uplands, shore, and harbor became black with people, as the returning fleet drew inward. The enthusiastic welcomings were all that the proudest conqueror could wish. Yet these islanders, fearing they were but lukewarm in their manifestations to these so victorious, grew but the more enthusiastic—until it came upon them that the fleet was moving with ominous slowness, that few were the pennants, that there were no responses, and that the decks were looking wofully scant of men.

Almost as one they became mute; and each began to eye his fellows in doubt. Could it be that victory had not been with Atlantis? Fast fell their hopes, until wild became the speculations as to who were returning, who were left dead in a far-off clime.

Gradually, the cry of terror overspread harbor, shore, uplands, and mountain; and its sounds were the first to fall upon the king’s ears as the fleet drew into Luith’s outlet.

Quick were the king and his nobles in boarding the galleys awaiting them. No looks were there for the masses, looking gloomily on from shore and docks, though a few of the latter tried hard to shout welcomes that would stick in their throats. As the galleys began to move off, the gloom deepened, until amazement lightened it a little; for what meant these two fair children that Maron and an officer were bearing from the king’s vessel to a galley? Also, why was this galley keeping so near that of the king? The tongues were loosened, and conjecture ran high until the warmen and sailors began to disembark. These were at once surrounded by the impatient beholders on land; and, as Atlano and his nobles moved away, they knew the listeners were hearing of the dead, so eloquent of anguish grew the air.

Useless was it to stop their ears. What was the outer hearing to the powerful inward faculty that naught could render deaf?

Onward, up the beautiful Luith, glided the king and his nobles, their eyes ever turned from the galleys that had come to meet certain nobles nevermore to be seen in Atlantis. Of these Phiro was one—Phiro, the young, the ardent. Then they thought of the wives awaiting these, the non-returning, and grew abject in their humiliation and fear. Mute, they glided by the palaces whose marble landing places were covered with anxious observers.

When they reached the upper part of the stream and beheld banks and heights swarming with people, and many galleys coming toward them, the king drew more closely under his awnings, that he might not respond to the cheers of these loyal subjects who were content in that he was of those returning.