Потерянный континент: история Атлантиды
8. The Preacher From The Mountains
Ishouldgooutanunknownmanfromthelittlecellofatemple,Ishoulddomywork,andthen,whetherItookfreedomwithme,orwhetherIcamedownatlastmyselfonapileofslain,thesepeoplewouldguesswithoutbeingtoldthename,thatherewasDeucalion.Gods!whatafightwewouldhavemade!
Butthedoordidnotopenwidetogivemespaceformyfirstrush.Itcreakedgratinglyoutwardsonitspivots,andaslimhandandawhitearmslippedinside,beckoningmetoquietude.Herewassomewoman.Thedoorcreakedwider,andshecameinside.
“Nais,”Isaid.
“Silence,ortheywillhearyou,andremember.Atpresentthosewhobroughtyouherearekilled,andunlessbychancesomeoneblundersintothisrobbedshrine,youwillnotbefound.”
“Then,ifthatisso,letmegooutandwalkamongstthesepeopleasoneofthemselves.”
Sheshookherhead.
“But,Nais,Iamnotknownhere.Iammerelyamaninveryplainandmud-stainedrobe.Ishouldbeinnowaysremarkable.”
Asmiletwitchedherface.“Mylord,”shesaid,“wearsnobeard;andhisistheonlycleanchininthecamp.”
Ijoinedinherlaugh.“Apestonmywantoffoppishnessthen.ButIamforgettingsomewhat.Itcomestomymindthatwestillhaveunfinishedthatsmalldiscussionofoursconcerningthelengthofmypoorlife.Haveyoudecidedtocutitofffromriskoffurthermischief,ordoyouproposetogivemefurtherspan?”
Sheturnedtomewithalookofsharpdistress.“Mylord,”shesaid,“Iwouldhaveyouforgetthatsillytalkofmine.ThislasttwohoursIthoughtyouweredeadinrealtruth
