At last the surface of the world lay clear to see, but sodden and
deserted, the fair fields covered with ooze, the houses rank with moss,
the temples cold and lightless.
Deucalion and Pyrrha saw the bright waste of water sink and grow dim
and the hills emerge, and the earth show green once more. But even
their thankfulness of heart could not make them merry.
"Are we to live on this great earth all alone?" they said. "Ah! if we
had but the wisdom and cunning of our fathers, we might make a new race
of men to bear us company. But now what remains to us? We have only
each other for all our kindred."
"Take heart, dear wife," said Deucalion at length, "and let us pray to
the gods in yonder temple."
They went thither hand in hand. It touched their hearts to see the
sacred steps soiled with the water-weeds,--the altar without fire; but
they entered reverently, and besought the Oracle to help them.
"Go forth," answered the spirit of the place, "with your faces veiled
and your robes ungirt; and cast behind you, as ye go, the bones of your
mother."
Deucalion and Pyrrha heard with amazement. The strange word was
terrible to them.
"We may never dare do this," whispered Pyrrha. "It would be impious to
strew our mother's bones along the way."
In sadness and wonder they went out together and took thought, a little
comforted by the firmness of the dry earth beneath their feet.
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