{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40476/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40476","id":"gutenberg_40476","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40476","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Mythology, Greek -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"CHILDREN OF THE DAWN\n\n    OLD TALES OF GREECE\n\n\n    [Illustration: Each night Hero lighted her torch; each night Leander\n                   swam across the narrow sea. _Page 117._]\n\n\n\n\n    CHILDREN OF THE DAWN OLD TALES OF GREECE\n\n    WRITTEN BY\n\n    ELSIE FINNIMORE BUCKLEY\n\n\n    INTRODUCTION BY      ILLUSTRATIONS BY\n    ARTHUR SIDGWICK      FRANK C PAP\u00c9\n\n    NEW YORK\n    FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY\n    PUBLISHERS\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION:\n\n\nThe aim of this volume is to present, in a form suitable for young\nreaders, a small selection from the almost inexhaustible\ntreasure-house of the ancient Greek tales, which abound (it is\nneedless to say) in all Greek poetry, and are constantly referred to\nby the prose-writers. These stories are found, whether narrated at\nlength, or sometimes only mentioned in a cursory and tantalising\nreference, from the earliest poets, Homer and Hesiod, through the\nlyric age, and the Attic renaissance of the fifth century, when they\nform the material of the tragic drama, down to the second century\nB.C., when Apollodorus, the Athenian grammarian, made a prose\ncollection of them, which is invaluable. They reappear at Rome in the\nAugustan age (and later), in the poems of Vergil, Ovid, and\nStatius--particularly in Ovid's \"Metamorphoses.\" Many more are\nsupplied by Greek or Roman travellers, scholars, geographers, or\nhistorians, of the first three centuries of our era, such as\nStrabo, Pausanias, Athen\u00e6us, Apuleius and \u00c6lian. The tales are\nvarious--stories of love, adventure, heroism, skill, endurance,\nachievement or defeat. The gods take active part, often in conflict\nwith each other. The heroes or victims are men and women; and behind\nall, inscrutable and inexorable, sits the dark figure of Fate. The\nGreeks had a rare genius for storytelling of all sorts. Whether the\ntales were of native growth, or imported from the East or\nelsewhere--and both sources are doubtless represented--once they had\npassed through the Greek hands, the Greek spirit, \"finely touched to\nfine issues,\" marked them for its own with the beauty, vivacity,\ndramatic interest, and imaginative outline and detail, which were\nnever absent from the best Greek work, least of all during the\ncenturies that lie between Homer and Plato.\n\nThe eleven tales here presented from this vast store are (as will be\nseen) very various both in date, character, and detail; and they seem\nwell chosen for their purpose. The writer of these English versions of\nancient stories has clearly aimed at a terse simplicity of style,\nwhile giving full details, with occasional descriptive passages where\nrequired to make the scene more vivid; and, for the same end, she has\nrightly made free use of dialogue or soliloquy wherever the story\ncould thus be more pointedly or dramatically told.\n\nThe first story, called \"The Riddle of the Sphinx,\" gives us in brief\nthe whole Theban tale, from King Laius and the magical building of the\ncity, to the incomparable scene from Sophocles' last play, describing\nthe \"Passing of OEdipus.\" It even includes the heroic action of\nAntigone, in burying with due rites her dead brother, in spite of the\ntyrant's threats, and at the cost of her own life. No tale was more\noften treated in ancient poetry than this tragedy of Thebes. Homer and\nHesiod both refer to it, \u00c6schylus wrote a whole trilogy, and\nSophocles three separate dramas, on this theme. Euripides dealt with\nit in his \"Phoeniss\u00e6,\" which survives, and in his \"OEdipus and\nAntigone,\" of which a few fragments remain. And several other poets\nwhose works are lost are known by the titles of their plays to have\ndealt with the same subject.\n\nOne other tale in this selection rests in large measure on the Attic\ndrama--namely, the story of Alcestis, the fourth in this series. As\nfar as we know, Euripides alone of the ancients treated this theme, in\nhis beautiful and interesting play \"Alcestis,\" which is here closely\nfollowed by our author. The past history of Admetus, the king, which\nEuripides briefly summarises in the prologue, is here dramatized, and\nadds much interest to the story, including as it does the Argonauts'\nvisit to Pelias, and the romantic imaginary scene of the king's first\nmeeting with Alcestis.\n\nThe two charming love-stories which come second and third in this\nseries, though unquestionably Greek in origin, reach us from Roman\nsources, and bear clear evidence in their form and spirit of belonging\nto a later age. The character of the love romance in \"Hero and\nLeander\" and the transparent allegory of \"Eros and Psyche\" (Love and\nthe Soul), leave little doubt on this point. The former tale is\nascribed to a late Greek epic poet, Mus\u00e6us, of whom nothing else is\nknown; and the latter we owe to Apuleius, a Roman philosopher and man\nof letters in the second century A.D.\n\nThe fifth and tenth stories (in both of which Atalanta appears) rest\nin their present shape on the authority of Apollodorus; but the\nincidents of the Calydonian boar-hunt, and the race for the hand of\nthe princess, won by the suitor's clever trick of the golden apples,\nare found as local traditions connected with two different parts of\nGreece, Arcadia and Boeotia, and may be in their earliest form of\ngreat antiquity.\n\nThe two fanciful stories of Echo and Narcissus, and Alpheus and\nArethusa, which form the sixth and ninth in this series, are among the\nprettiest of Nature myths, and are characteristic Greek inventions.\nThe chase of Arethusa under the sea by the river-god Alpheus was to a\nGreek the most natural of fancies, for to him all water was protected\nby, or identified with, some god, nymph, or spirit; and the fancy was\nespecially easy to a dweller in the limestone district of Arcadia,\nwhere streams may run underground for long distances, and reappear as\nfull-grown rivers from a cavern at the foot of the hills. The tale of\nEcho in its present form comes only from Latin poetry (Ovid); but the\nfancy that Echo was a spirit or nymph, which is the heart of the\nstory, may well be of unknown antiquity, especially among the most\nimaginative of races, living in a land of rocky hills, the native home\nof echoes.\n\nOf the remaining stories (Pygmalion, Orpheus, and OEnone), the\nbriefest comment will suffice. The beautiful and pathetic tale of\nOrpheus and Eurydice, which is best known to us from the incomparable\nversion of it at the close of Vergil's fourth \"Georgic,\" we know on\ngood evidence to have been extant at least as early as \u00c6schylus (fifth\ncentury B.C.), and possibly much earlier. The touching story of\nOEnone is post-Homeric, and is known to us only from Ovid and\nApollodorus. It is familiar to all Englishmen from the two beautiful\npoems of Tennyson, which are respectively among the earliest and\nlatest of his works. The strange yet striking tale of Pygmalion also\ncomes to us from Apollodorus; and though it may be much older, it is\nperhaps not likely to belong to an earlier time than the fourth\ncentury B.C., a date which seems to be suggested both by the character\nof the story, and the development of the art of sculpture implied in\nit.\n\nIt only remains to commend these beautiful old stories, in their\nEnglish dress, to the favour of those for whom they are intended.\n\n    A. SIDGWICK.\n\n    OXFORD,\n    _September 9, 1908_.\n\n\n\n\n    CONTENTS\n\n\n    THE RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX\n    EROS AND PSYCHE\n    HERO AND LEANDER\n    THE SACRIFICE OF ALCESTIS\n    HUNTING THE CALYDONIAN BOAR\n    THE CURSE OF ECHO\n    THE SCULPTOR AND THE IMAGE\n    THE DIVINE MUSICIAN\n    THE FLIGHT OF ARETHUSA\n    THE WINNING OF ATALANTA\n    PARIS AND OENONE\n\n\n\n\n    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n    FRONTISPIECE--Each night Hero lighted her torch; each night\n                  Leander swam across the narrow sea\n    TITLE-PAGE\n    Heading to Introduction\n    Heading to Contents\n    Heading to List of Illustrations\n    She put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to\n        side like an angry lion waiting for his prey\n    With firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and\n        Theseus followed after\n    On the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and fairest of\n        the Immortals\n    Faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round and round\n    She unloosed the rope, and pushed out into the stream\n    \"Help, help! I drown in this foul stream!\"\n    She lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled\n        beneath her, so that she leant back against the pillar for\n        support\n    From the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman, playing\n        on his lyre\n    Admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine.... Without a thought\n        he passed the altar by\n    And the children crept silently to her\n    She answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and\n        raised him from his knees\n    As he spoke, he took her by the hand, and set her in a place of\n        honour between his father and himself\n    As the brute bore down, Meleager buried the spear deep in his\n        shoulder\n    For the last time he leaned forward\n    On the breath of the night wind Aphrodite came in, and she\n        kissed the statue on the lips\n    From the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the\n        grass\n    \"Orpheus,\" she cried in her despair, \"thy hand!\"\n    On and on she fled, with the swiftness and strength of despair\n    \"Oh, my father!\" she cried\n    Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic\n    Out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a\n        maiden clad all in misty white\n    Menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the Ach\u00e6an host\n    Cast herself upon the body of Paris, and put her arms about his\n        neck\n    Initials, Tail-pieces, etc.\n\n\n\n\nChildren of the Dawn\n\n\n\n\nThe Riddle of the Sphinx\n\n\nFar away towards the east and the regions of the rising sun lies the\nfair land of Hellas, a land famous from of old for mighty deeds of\nmighty men, and famous to this day among the nations of the earth; for\nthough the mighty men, her heroes, have long since passed away, their\nnames live on for ever in the pages of her grand old poets, who sing\nof their deeds in strains which still kindle the hearts of men, and\nstir them up to be heroes too, and fight life's battle bravely.\n\nLong ago, in the city of Thebes, there ruled a king named Laius and\nhis queen Iocasta. They were children of the gods, and Thebes itself,\nmen said, had been built by hands more than mortal; for Apollo had led\nCadmus the Phoenician, the son of Zeus, to the sacred spot where he\nwas to raise the citadel of Thebes, and Pallas Athene had helped him\nto slay the monstrous dragon that guarded the sacred spring of Ares.\nThe teeth of the dragon, Cadmus took and planted in the plain of\nThebes, and from this seed there sprang up a great host of armed men,\nwho would have slain him; but he took a stone and cast it in their\nmidst, whereupon the serpent-men turned their arms one against\nanother, fighting up and down the plain till only five were left. With\nthe help of these five, Cadmus built the citadel of Thebes, and round\nit made a wall so wide that a dozen men and more might walk upon it,\nand so huge were the stones and so strong was the masonry that parts\nof it are standing to this day. As for the city itself, the tale goes\nthat Amphion, the mightiest of all musicians, came with his lyre, and\nso sweetly did he play that the hearts of the very stones were stirred\nwithin them, so that of their own free-will they fell into their\nplaces, and the town of Thebes rose up beneath the shadow of the\ncitadel.\n\nFor many a long day did Laius and Iocasta rule over the people of\nThebes, and all that time they had no children; for a dreadful curse\nlay on the head of Laius that, if ever he had a son, by that son's\nhand he should die. At last a boy was born to them, and Laius,\nremembering the curse, swore that the child should never grow to\nmanhood, and he bade Iocasta slay him forthwith. But she, being his\nmother, was filled with a great love and pity for the helpless child.\nWhen it nestled in her arms and clung to her breast she could not find\nit in her heart to slay it, and she wept over it many a bitter salt\ntear, and pressed it closer to her bosom. As the tiny fingers closed\nround hers, and the soft head pressed against her, she murmured,\n\n\"Surely, so little a thing can do no harm? Sweet babe, they say that I\nmust kill thee, but they know not a mother's love. Rather than that, I\nwill put thee away out of my sight, and never see thee more, though\nthe gods know I had sooner die than lose thee, my little one, my own\nsweet babe.\"\n\nSo she called a trusty house-slave, who knew the king's decree, and\nplacing the child in his arms, she said,\n\n\"Go, take it away, and hide it in the hills. Perchance the gods will\nhave pity on it, and put it in the heart of some shepherd, who feeds\nhis flocks on distant pastures, to take the child home to his cot and\nrear it. Farewell, my pretty babe. The green grass must be thy cradle,\nand the mountain breezes must lull thee to sleep. May the gods in\ntheir mercy bless thy childhood's hours, and make thy name famous\namong men; for thou art a king's son, and a child of the Immortals,\nand the Immortals forget not those that are born of their blood.\"\n\nSo the man took the child from Iocasta; but, because he feared the\nking's decree, he pierced its ankles and bound them together, for he\nthought,\n\n\"Surely, even if some shepherd wandering on the mountain-side should\nlight upon the child, he will never rear one so maimed; and if the\nking should ask, I will say that he is dead.\"\n\nBut because the child wept for the pain in its ankles, he took it home\nfirst to his wife to be fed and comforted, and when she gave it back\ninto his arms, it smiled up into his face. Then all the hardness died\nout of his heart, for the gods had shed about it a grace to kindle\nlove in the coldest breast.\n\nNow Cith\u00e6ron lies midway between Thebes and Corinth, and in\nwinter-time the snow lies deep upon the summit, and the wild winds\nshriek through the rocks and clefts, and the pine trees pitch and bend\nbeneath the fury of the blast, so that men called it the home of the\nFuries, the Awful Goddesses, who track out sin and murder. And there,\ntoo, in the streams and caverns, dwell the naiads and the nymphs, wild\nspirits of the rocks and waters; and if any mortal trespass on their\nhaunts, they drive him to madness in their echoing grottoes and gloomy\ncaves. Yet, for all that, though men called it dark Cith\u00e6ron, the\ngrass about its feet grew fine and green, so that the shepherds came\nfrom all the neighbouring towns to pasture their flocks on its\nwell-watered slopes. Here it was that Laius's herdsman fell in with a\nherdsman of Polybus, king of Corinth, and, seeing that he was a kindly\nman, and likely to have compassion on the child, he gave it him to\nrear.\n\nNow, it had not pleased the gods to grant any children to Polybus,\nking of Corinth, and Merope, his wife, though they wreathed their\naltars with garlands and burnt sweet savour of incense; and at last\nall hope died out of their hearts, and they said,\n\n\"The gods are angry, and will destroy our race, and the kingdom shall\npass into the hands of a stranger.\"\n\nBut one day it chanced that the queen saw in the arms of one of her\nwomen a child she had not seen before, and she questioned her, and\nasked if it were hers. And the woman confessed that her husband, the\nking's herdsman, had found it on dim Cith\u00e6ron, and had taken pity on\nit, and brought it home. Then the queen looked at the child, and\nseeing that it was passing fair, she said,\n\n\"Surely this is no common babe, but a child of the Immortals. His hair\nis golden as the summer corn, and his eyes like the stars in heaven.\nWhat if the gods have sent him to comfort our old age, and rule the\nkingdom when we are dead? I will rear him in the palace as my own son,\nand he shall be a prince in the land of Corinth.\"\n\nSo the child lived in the palace, and became a son to Polybus and\nMerope, and heir to the kingdom. For want of a name they called him\nOEdipus, because his ankles, when they found him, were all swollen\nby the pin that the herdsman had put through them. As he grew up, he\nfound favour in all men's eyes, for he was tall and comely and cunning\nwithal.\n\n\"The gods are gracious,\" men said, \"to grant the king such a son, and\nthe people of Corinth so mighty a prince, to rule over them in days to\ncome.\"\n\nFor as yet they knew not that he was a foundling, and no true heir to\nthe throne.\n\nNow, while the child was still young, he played about the courts of\nthe palace, and in running and leaping and in feats of strength and\nhardihood of heart there was none to beat him among his playmates, or\neven to stand up against him, save one. But so well matched were these\ntwo, that the other children would gather round them in a ring to\nwatch them box and wrestle, and the victor they would carry on their\nshoulders round the echoing galleries with shouting and clapping of\nhands; and sometimes it was OEdipus, and sometimes the other lad.\nBut at length there came a time when again and again OEdipus was\nproved the stronger, and again and again the other slunk home beaten,\nlike a cur that has been whipped: and he brooded over his defeat, and\nnourished hatred in his heart against OEdipus, and vowed that one\nday he would have his revenge by fair means or by foul.\n\nBut when Merope the queen saw OEdipus growing tall and fair, and\nsurpassing all his comrades in strength, she took him up one day on to\nthe citadel, and showed him all the lovely land of Hellas lying at his\nfeet. Below them spread the shining city, with its colonnades and\nfountains and stately temples of the gods, like some jewel in the\ngolden sands, and far away to the westward stretched the blue\nCorinthian Gulf, till the mountains of \u00c6tolia seemed to join hands\nwith their sisters in Peloponnese. And she showed him the hills of\nArcadia, the land of song and shepherds, where Pan plays his pipe\nbeneath the oak-trees, and nymphs and satyrs dance all the day long.\nAway to the bleak north-west stood out the snowy peaks of Mount\nParnassus and Helicon, the home of the Muses, who fill men's minds\nwith wisdom and their hearts with the love of all things beautiful.\nHere the first narcissus blooms, and the olive and the myrtle and rosy\nalmond-blossom gently kiss the laughing rivulets and the shining,\ndancing cascades. For Helicon was a fair and gentle youth whom his\ncruel brother Cith\u00e6ron slew in his mad jealousy. Whereupon the gods\nchanged them both into mountains, and Helicon is mild and fair to this\nday, and the home of all good things; but Cith\u00e6ron is bleak and\nbarren, because his hard heart had no pity, and the Furies haunt it\nunceasingly. Then Merope turned him to the eastward and the land of\nthe Dawning Day, and showed him the purple peaks of \u00c6gina and the\ngleaming Attic shore. And she said to him,\n\n\"OEdipus, my son, seest thou how Corinth lies midway 'twixt north\nand south and east and west, a link to join the lands together and a\nbarrier to separate the seas?\"\n\nAnd OEdipus answered,\n\n\"Of a truth, mother, he who rules in Corinth hath need of a lion's\nheart, for he must stand ever sword in hand and guard the passage from\nnorth to south.\"\n\n\"Courage is a mighty thing, my son, but wisdom is mightier. The sword\nlayeth low, but wisdom buildeth up. Seest thou the harbours on either\nside, facing east and west, and the masts of the ships, like a forest\nin winter, and the traffic of sailors and merchants on the shore? From\nall lands they come and bring their wares and merchandise, and men of\nevery nation meet together. Think not, my son, that a lion's heart and\na fool's head therewith can ever be a match for the wisdom of Egypt or\nthe cunning of Phoenicia.\"\n\nThen OEdipus understood, and said,\n\n\"Till now I have wrestled and boxed and run races with my fellows on\nthe sands the livelong day, and none can beat me. Henceforth I will\nsit in the market-place and discourse with foreigners and learned men,\nso that, when I come to rule in my father's place, I may be the wisest\nin all the land.\"\n\nAnd Merope was pleased at his answer, but in her heart she was sad\nthat his simple childish days were past; and she prayed that if the\ngods granted him wisdom they would keep his heart pure and free from\nall uncleanness.\n\nSo OEdipus sat in the market-place and talked with merchants and\ntravellers, and he went down to the ships in the harbour and learned\nmany strange things of strange lands--the wisdom of the Egyptians,\nwho were the wisest of all men in the south, and the cunning of the\nPhoenicians, who were the greatest merchants and sailors in all the\nworld. But in the evening, when the sun was low in the west, and the\nhills all turned to amethyst and sapphire, and the snow-mountains\nblushed ruby red beneath his parting kiss, then along the smooth, gold\nsands of the Isthmus, by the side of the sounding sea, he would box\nand wrestle and run, till all the ways were darkened and the stars\nstood out in the sky. For he was a true son of Hellas, and knew that\nnine times out of every ten a slack body and a slack mind go together.\n\nSo he grew up in his beauty, a very god for wisdom and might, and\nthere was no question he could not answer nor riddle he could not\nsolve, so that all the land looked up to him, and the king and queen\nloved him as their own son.\n\nNow one day there was a great banquet in the palace, to which all the\nnoblest of the land were bidden, and the minstrels played and the\ntumblers danced and the wine flowed freely round the board, so that\nmen's hearts were opened, and they talked of great deeds and heroes,\nand boasted what they themselves could do. And OEdipus boasted as\nloud as any, and challenged one and all to meet him in fair fight. But\nthe youth who had grown up with him in rivalry, and nourished jealousy\nand hatred in his heart, taunted him to his face, and said,\n\n\"Base born that thou art, and son of slave, thinkest thou that free\nmen will fight with thee? Lions fight not with curs, and though thou\nclothe thyself with purple and gold, all men know that thou art no\ntrue son to him thou callest thy sire.\"\n\nAnd this he said being flushed with wine, and because myriad-mouthed\nRumour had spread abroad the tale that OEdipus was a foundling,\nthough he himself knew nought thereof.\n\nThen OEdipus flushed red with rage, and swift as a gale that sweeps\ndown from the mountains he fell upon the other, and seizing him by the\nthroat, he shook him till he had not breath to beg for mercy.\n\n\"What sayest thou now, thou whelp? Begone with thy lying taunt, now\nthat thou hast licked the dust for thy falsehood.\"\n\nAnd he flung him out from the hall. But Merope leant pale and sad\nagainst a pillar, and veiled her face in her mantle to hide her tears.\nAnd when they were alone, OEdipus took her hand and stroked it, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Grieve not for my fiery spirit, mother, but call me thine own son,\nand say that I was right to silence the liar who would cast dishonour\nupon my father's name and upon thee.\"\n\nBut she looked at him sadly and longingly through her tears, and spoke\nin riddling words,\n\n\"The gods, my child, sent thee to thy father and to me in answer to\nour prayers. A gift of God thou art, and a gift of God thou shalt be,\nliving and dead, to them that love thee. The flesh groweth old and\nwithereth away as a leaf, but the spirit liveth on for ever, and those\nare the truest of kin who are kin in the spirit of goodness and of\nlove.\"\n\nBut OEdipus was troubled, for she would say no more, but only held\nhis hand, and when he drew it away it was wet with her tears. Then he\nthought in his heart,\n\n\"Verily, my mother would not weep for nought. What if, after all,\nthere be something in the tale? I will go to the central shrine of\nHellas and ask the god of Truth, golden-haired Apollo. If he say it is\na lie, verily I will thrust it back down that coward's throat, and the\nwhole land shall ring with his infamy. And if it be true--the gods\nwill guide me how to act.\"\n\nSo he set forth alone upon his pilgrimage. And he took the road that\nruns by the side of the sea and up past Mount Gerania, with its\npine-clad slopes, where Megarus, the son of Zeus, took refuge, when\nthe floods covered all the land and only the mountain-tops stood out\nlike islands in the sea. For he followed the cry of the cranes as they\nsought refuge from the waters, and was saved, and founded the city of\nMegara, which is called by his name to this day. Right past\n\u00c6gosthena--the home of the black-footed goats--went OEdipus to\nCreusis, along the narrow rocky path between the mountains and the\nsea, where a man must needs be sure of foot and steady of head, if he\nis to stand against the storms that sweep down from bleak Cith\u00e6ron.\nFor the winds rush shrieking down the hills like Furies in their\nwrath, and they sweep all that stands in their way over the beetling\ncliffs into the yawning, seething gulf below, and those that fall into\nher ravening jaws she devours like some wild beast, and they are seen\nno more. Then he went through fertile Thisbe past the little port of\nTipha, the home of Tiphys, helmsman of the famous Argonauts, who\nsailed to nameless lands and unknown seas in their search for the\nGolden Fleece. And many a roaring torrent did he cross, as it rushed\nfoaming down from the steep white cliffs of Helicon, and over\npathless mountains, past rocky Anticyra and the hills of hellebore,\nand through the barren plain of Cirrha, till he came to rock-built\nCrisa and the fair Crisean plain, the land of cornfields and vineyards\nand the grey-green olive-groves, where in spring-time the pomegranate\nand oleander flowers shine out red as beacon-fires by night.\n\nThere he had well-nigh reached his journey's end, and his heart beat\nfast as he mingled with the band of pilgrims, each bound on his\ndifferent quest to the god of Light and Truth, golden-haired Apollo,\nthe mightiest of the sons of Zeus and the slayer of Pytho, the famous\ndragon. At Delphi is his shrine and dwelling-place, and there within\nhis temple stands the sacred stone which fell from heaven and marks\nthe centre of the earth. A great gulf yawns beneath, a mighty fissure\ngoing deep down into the bowels of the earth to the regions of the\ndead and the land of endless night; and deadly fumes rise up and\nnoxious mists and vapours, so that the Pythian priestess, who sits\nabove on her brazen tripod, is driven to frenzy by their power. Then\nit is that she hears the voice of Apollo, and her eyes are opened to\nsee what no mortal can see, and her ears to hear the secrets of the\ngods and Fate. Those things which Apollo bids her she chants to the\npilgrims in mystic verse, which only the wise can interpret aright. So\nfrom north and south and east and west men flocked to hear her\nprophecies, and the fame of Apollo's shrine went out through every\nland--from Ocean's stream and the Pillars of Heracles to the far\nIonian shore and Euphrates, the mighty river of the East.\n\nOEdipus drew near to the sacred place and made due sacrifice, and\nwashed in the great stone basin, and put away all uncleanness from his\nheart, and went through the portals of rock to the awful shrine\nwithin, where the undying fire burns night and day and the sacred\nlaurel stands. And he put his question to the god and waited for an\nanswer. Through the dim darkness of the shrine he saw the priestess on\nher tripod, veiled in a mist of incense and vapour, and as the power\nof the god came upon her she beheld the things of the future and the\nhidden secrets of Fate. And she raised her hand towards OEdipus, and\nwith pale lips spoke the words of doom,\n\n\"OEdipus, ill-fated, thine own sire shalt thou slay.\"\n\nAs she spoke the words his head swam round like a whirlpool, and his\nheart seemed turned to stone; then, with a loud and bitter cry, he\nrushed from the temple, through the thronging crowd of pilgrims down\ninto the Sacred Way, and the people moved out of his path like\nshadows. Blindly he sped along the stony road, down through the pass\nto a place where three roads meet, and he shuddered as he crossed\nthem; for Fear laid her cold hand upon his heart and filled it with a\nwild, unreasoning dread, and branded the image of that awful spot upon\nhis brain so that he could never forget it. On every side the\nmountains frowned down upon him, and seemed to echo to and fro the\ndoom which the priestess had spoken. Straight forward he went like\nsome hunted thing, turning neither to right nor left, till he came to\na narrow path, where he met an old man in a chariot drawn by mules,\nwith his trusty servants round him.\n\n\"Ho! there, thou madman!\" they shouted; \"stand by and let the chariot\npass.\"\n\n\"Madmen yourselves,\" he cried, for his sore heart could not brook the\ntaunt. \"I am a king's son, and will stand aside for no man.\"\n\nSo he tried to push past them by force, though he was one against\nmany. And the old man stretched out his hand as though to stop him,\nbut as well might a child hope to stand up against a wild bull. For he\nthrust him aside and felled him from his seat, and turned upon his\nfollowers, and, striking out to right and left, he stunned one and\nslew another, and forced his way through in blind fury. But the old\nman lay stiff and still upon the road. The fall from the chariot had\nquenched the feeble spark of life within him, and his spirit fled away\nto the house of Hades and the kingdom of the Dead. One trusty servant\nlay slain by his side, and the other senseless and stunned, and when\nhe awoke, to find his master and his comrades slain, OEdipus was far\nupon his way.\n\nOn and on he went, over hill and dale and mountain-stream, till at\nlength his strength gave way, and he sank down exhausted. And black\ndespair laid hold of his heart, and he said within himself,\n\n\"Better to die here on the bare hill-side and be food for the kites\nand crows than return to my father's house to bring death to him and\nsorrow to my mother's heart.\"\n\nBut sweet sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke hope and the love of\nlife put other thoughts in his breast. And he remembered the words\nwhich Merope the queen had spoken to him one day when he was boasting\nof his strength and skill.\n\n\"Strength and skill, my son, are the gifts of the gods, as the rain\nwhich falleth from heaven and giveth life and increase to the fruits\nof the earth. But man's pride is an angry flood that bringeth\ndestruction on field and city. Remember that great gifts may work\ngreat good or great evil, and he who has them must answer to the gods\nbelow if he use them well or ill.\"\n\nAnd he thought within himself,\n\n\"'Twere ill to die if, even in the uttermost parts of the earth, men\nneed a strong man's arm and a wise man's cunning. Never more will I\nreturn to far-famed Corinth and my home by the sounding sea, but to\nfar-distant lands will I go and bring blessing to those who are not of\nmy kin, since to mine own folk I must be a curse if ever I return.\"\n\nSo he went along the road from Delphi till he came to seven-gated\nThebes. There he found all the people in deep distress and mourning,\nfor their king Laius was dead, slain by robbers on the high road, and\nthey had buried him far from his native land at a place where three\nroads meet. And, worse still, their city was beset by a terrible\nmonster, the Sphinx, part eagle and part lion, with the face of a\nwoman, who every day devoured a man because they could not answer the\nriddle she set them. All this OEdipus heard as he stood in the\nmarket-place and talked with the people.\n\n\"What is this famous riddle that none can solve?\" he asked.\n\n\"Alas! young man, that none can say. For he that would solve the\nriddle must go up alone to the rock where she sits. Then and there she\nchants the riddle, and if he answer it not forthwith she tears him\nlimb from limb. And if none go up to try the riddle, then she swoops\ndown upon the city and carries off her victims, and spares not woman\nor child. Our wisest and bravest have gone up and our eyes have seen\nthem no more. Now there is no man left who dare face the terrible\nbeast.\"\n\nThen OEdipus said,\n\n\"I will go up and face this monster. It must be a hard riddle indeed\nif I cannot answer it.\"\n\n\"Oh, overbold and rash,\" they cried, \"thinkest thou to succeed where\nso many have failed?\"\n\n\"Better to try, and fail, than never to try at all.\"\n\n\"Yet, where failure is death, surely a man should think twice?\"\n\n\"A man can die but once, and how better than in trying to save his\nfellows?\"\n\nAs they looked at his strong young limbs and his fair young face they\npitied him.\n\n\"Stranger,\" they said, \"who art thou to throw away thy life thus\nheedlessly? Are there none at home to mourn thee and no kingdom thou\nshouldst rule? For, of a truth, thou art a king's son and no common\nman.\"\n\n\"Nay, were I to return, my home would be plunged in mourning and woe,\nand the people would drive me from my father's house.\"\n\nThey marvelled at his answer, but dared question him no further; and,\nseeing that nothing would turn him from his purpose, they showed him\nthe path to the Sphinx's rock, and all the people went out with him to\nthe gate with prayers and blessings. At the gate they left him, for he\nwho goes up to face the Sphinx must go alone, and none can stand by\nand help him. So he went through the Crenean gate and across the\nstream of Dirce into the wide plain, and the mountain of the Sphinx\nstood out dark and clear on the other side. Then he prayed to Pallas\nAthene, the grey-eyed goddess of Wisdom, and she took all fear from\nhis heart. So he went up boldly to the rock, where the monster sat\nwaiting to spring upon her prey; yet for all his courage his heart\nbeat fast as he looked on her. For at first she appeared like a mighty\nbird, with great wings of bronze and gold, and the glancing sunbeams\nplayed about them, casting a halo of light around, and in the midst of\nthe halo her face shone out pale and beautiful as a star at dawn. But\nwhen she saw him coming near, a greedy fire lit up her eyes, and she\nput out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an\nangry lion waiting for his prey. Nevertheless, OEdipus spoke to her\nfair and softly,\n\n\"Oh, lady, I am come to hear thy famous riddle and answer it or die.\"\n\n\"Foolhardy manling, a dainty morsel the gods have sent this day, with\nthy fair young face and fresh young limbs.\"\n\nAnd she licked her cruel lips.\n\nThen OEdipus felt his blood boil within him, and he wished to slay\nher then and there; for she who had been the fairest of women was now\nthe foulest of beasts, and he saw that by her cruelty and lust she had\nkilled the woman's soul within her, and the soul of a beast had taken\nits place.\n\n\"Come, tell me thy famous riddle, foul Fury that thou art, that I may\nanswer it and rid the land of this curse.\"\n\n\"At dawn it creeps on four legs; at noon it strides on two; at sunset\nand evening it totters on three. What is this thing, never the same,\nyet not many, but one?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"She put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from\nside to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey.\"]\n\nSo she chanted slowly, and her eyes gleamed cruel and cold.\n\nThen thought OEdipus within himself,\n\n\"Now or never must my learning and wit stand me in good stead, or in\nvain have I talked with the wisest of men and learnt the secrets of\nPhoenicia and Egypt.\"\n\nAnd the gods who had given him understanding sent light into his\nheart, and boldly he answered,\n\n\"What can this creature be but man, O Sphinx? For, a helpless babe at\nthe dawn of life, he crawls on his hands and feet; at noontide he\nwalks erect in the strength of his manhood; and at evening he supports\nhis tottering limbs with a staff, the prop and stay of old age. Have I\nnot answered aright and guessed thy famous riddle?\"\n\nThen with a loud cry of despair, and answering him never a word, the\ngreat beast sprang up from her seat on the rock and hurled herself\nover the precipice into the yawning gulf beneath. Far away across the\nplain the people heard her cry, and they saw the flash of the sun on\nher brazen wings like a gleam of lightning in the summer sky.\nThereupon they sent up a great shout of joy to heaven, and poured out\nfrom every gate into the open plain, and some raised OEdipus upon\ntheir shoulders, and with shouts and songs of triumph bore him to the\ncity. Then and there they made him king with one accord, for the old\nking had left no son behind him, and who more fitted to rule over them\nthan the slayer of the Sphinx and the saviour of their city?\n\nSo OEdipus became king of Thebes, and wisely and well did he rule,\nand for many a long year the land prospered both in peace and war. But\nthe day came when a terrible pestilence broke out, and the people died\nby hundreds, so that at last OEdipus sent messengers to Delphi to\nask why the gods were angry and had sent a plague upon the land. And\nthis was the answer they brought back,\n\n\"There is an unclean thing in Thebes. Never has the murderer of Laius\nbeen found, and he dwells a pollution in the land. Though the\nvengeance of the gods is slow, yet it cometh without fail, and the\nshedding of blood shall not pass unpunished.\"\n\nThen OEdipus made proclamation through the land that if any man knew\nwho the murderer was, they should give him up to his doom and appease\nthe anger of Heaven. And he laid a terrible curse on any who dared to\ngive so much as a crust of bread or a draught of water to him who had\nbrought such suffering on the land. So throughout the country far and\nwide a search was made to track out the stain of blood and cleanse the\ncity from pollution, but day after day the quest was fruitless, and\nthe pestilence raged unceasingly, and darkness fell upon the soul of\nthe people, as their prayers remained unanswered and their\nburnt-offerings smoked in vain upon the altars of the gods. Then at\nlast OEdipus sent for the blind seer Teiresias, who had lived\nthrough six generations of mortal men, and was the wisest of all\nprophets on earth. He knew the language of the birds, and, though his\neyes were closed in darkness, his ears were opened to hear the secrets\nof the universe, and he knew the hidden things of the past and of the\nfuture. But at first when he came before the king he would tell him\nnothing, but begged him to question no further.\n\n\"For the things of the future will come of themselves,\" he cried,\n\"though I shroud them in silence, and evil will it be for thee, O\nking, and evil for thine house if I speak out the knowledge that is\nhidden in my heart.\"\n\nAt last OEdipus grew angry at his silence, and taunted him,\n\n\"Verily, me thinks thou thyself didst aid in the plotting of this\ndeed, seeing that thou carest nought for the people bowed down beneath\nthe pestilence and the dark days that are fallen on the land, so be it\nthou canst shield the murderer and escape thyself from the curse of\nthe gods.\"\n\nThen Teiresias was stung past bearing, and would hold his tongue no\nlonger. \"By thine own doom shalt thou be judged, O king,\" he said.\n\"Thou thyself art the murderer, thyself the pollution that staineth\nthe land with the blood of innocent men.\"\n\nThen OEdipus laughed aloud,\n\n\"Verily, old man, thou pratest. What rival hath urged thee to this\nlie, hoping to drive me from the throne of Thebes? Of a truth, not\nthine eyes only, but thy heart, is shrouded in a mist of darkness.\"\n\n\"Woe to thee, OEdipus, woe to thee! Thou hast sight, yet seest not\nwho thou art, nor knowest the deed of thine hand. Soon shalt thou\nwander sightless and blind, a stranger in a strange land, feeling the\nground with a staff, and men shall shrink back from thee in horror\nwhen they hear thy name and the deed that thou hast done.\"\n\nAnd the people were hushed by the words of the old man, and knew not\nwhat to think. But the wife of OEdipus, who stood by his side, said,\n\n\"Hearken not to him, my lord. For verily no mortal can search the\nsecrets of Fate, as I can prove full well by the words of this same\nman that he spoke in prophecy. For he it was who said that Laius, the\nking who is dead, should be slain by the hand of his own son. However,\nthat poor innocent never grew to manhood, but was exposed on the\ntrackless mountain-side to die of cold and hunger; and Laius, men say,\nwas slain by robber bands at a place where three roads meet. So\nhearken not to seer-craft, ye people, nor trust in the words of one\nwho is proved a false prophet.\"\n\nBut her words brought no comfort to OEdipus, and a dreadful fear\ncame into his heart, like a cold, creeping snake, as he listened. For\nhe thought of his journey from Delphi, and of how in his frenzy he had\nstruck down an old man and his followers at a place where three roads\nmeet. When he questioned her further, the time and the place and the\ncompany all tallied, save only that rumour had it that Laius had been\nslain by robber bands, whilst he had been single-handed against many.\n\n\"Was there none left,\" he asked, \"who saw the deed and lived to tell\nthe tale?\"\n\n\"Yea, one faithful follower returned to bear the news, but so soon as\nthe Sphinx was slain and the people had made thee king he went into\ndistant pastures with his flocks, for he could not brook to see a\nstranger in his master's place, albeit he had saved the land from\nwoe.\"\n\n\"Go, summon him,\" said OEdipus. \"If the murderers were many, as\nrumour saith, with his aid we may track them out; but if he was one\nman single-handed--yea, though that man were myself--of a truth he\nshall be an outcast from the land, that the plague may be stayed from\nthe people. Verily, my queen, my heart misgives me when I remember my\nwrath and the deed that I wrought at the cross-roads.\"\n\nIn vain she tried to comfort him, for a nameless fear had laid hold of\nhis heart.\n\nNow, while they were waiting for the herdsman to come, a messenger\narrived in haste from Corinth to say that Polybus was dead, and that\nOEdipus was chosen king of the land, for his fame had gone out far\nand wide as the slayer of the Sphinx and the wisest of the kings of\nHellas. When OEdipus heard the news, he bowed his head in sorrow to\nhear of the death of the father he had loved, and turning to the\nmessenger, he said,\n\n\"For many a long year my heart hath yearned toward him who is dead,\nand verily my soul is grieved that I shall see him no more in the\npleasant light of the sun. But for the oracle's sake I stayed in\nexile, that my hand might not be red with a father's blood. And now I\nthank the gods that he has passed away in a green old age, in the\nfulness of years and of honour.\"\n\nBut the messenger wondered at his words.\n\n\"Knewest thou not, then, that Polybus was no father to thee in the\nflesh, but that for thy beauty and thy strength he chose thee out of\nall the land to be a son to him and heir to the kingdom of Corinth?\"\n\n\"What sayest thou, bearer of ill news that thou art?\" cried OEdipus.\n\"To prove that same tale of thine a slanderous lie I went to Delphi,\nand there the priestess prophesied that I should slay mine own sire.\nWherefore I went not back to my native land, but have lived in exile\nall my days.\"\n\n\"Then in darkness of soul hast thou lived, O king. For with mine own\nhands I received thee as a babe from a shepherd on dim Cith\u00e6ron, from\none of the herdsmen of Laius, who was king before thee in this land.\"\n\n\"Woe is me, then! The curse of the gods is over me yet. I know not my\nsire, and unwittingly I may slay him and rue the evil day. And a cloud\nof darkness hangeth over me for the slaying of King Laius. But lo!\nthey bring the herdsman who saw the deed done, and pray Heaven he may\nclear me from all guilt. Bring him forward that I may question him.\"\n\nThen they brought the man forward before the king, though he shrank\nback and tried to hide himself. When the messenger from Corinth saw\nhim he started back in surprise, for it was the very man from whose\nhands he had taken OEdipus on the mountain-side. And he said to the\nking,\n\n\"Behold the man who will tell thee the secret of thy birth. From his\nhands did I take thee as a babe on dim Cith\u00e6ron.\"\n\nThen OEdipus questioned the man, and at first he denied it from\nfear, but at last he was fain to confess.\n\n\"And who gave me to thee to slay on the barren mountain-side?\"\n\n\"I pray thee, my king, ask no more. Some things there are that are\nbetter unsaid.\"\n\n\"Nay, tell me, and fear not. I care not if I am a child of shame and\nslavery stains my birth. A son of Fortune the gods have made me, and\nhave given me good days with the evil. Speak out, I pray thee. Though\nI be the son of a slave, I can bear it.\"\n\n\"No son of a slave art thou, but seed of a royal house. Ask me no\nmore, my king.\"\n\n\"Speak, speak, man. Thou drivest me to anger, and I will make thee\ntell, though it be by force.\"\n\n\"Ah! lay not cruel hands upon me. For thine own sake I would hide it.\nFrom the queen thy mother I had thee, and thy father was--Laius the\nking. At the cross-roads from Delphi didst thou meet him in his\nchariot, and slew him unwittingly in thy wrath. Ah, woe is me! For the\ngods have chosen me out to be an unwilling witness to the truth of\ntheir oracles.\"\n\nThen a great hush fell upon all the people like the lull before a\nstorm. For the words of the herdsman were so strange and terrible that\nat first they could scarce take in their meaning. But when they\nunderstood that OEdipus was Laius's own son, and that he had\nfulfilled the dreadful prophecy and slain his sire, a great tumult\narose, some saying one thing and some another; but the voice of\nOEdipus was heard above the uproar,\n\n\"Ah, woe is me, woe is me! The curse of the gods is upon me, and none\ncan escape their wrath. Blindly have I done this evil, and when I was\nstriving to escape Fate caught me in her hidden meshes. Oh, foolish\nhearts of men, to think that ye can flee from the doom of the gods;\nfor lo! ye strive in the dark, and your very struggles bind you but\ncloser in the snare of your fate. Cast me from the land, ye people; do\nwith me what ye will. For the gods have made me a curse and a\npollution, and by my death alone will the land have rest from the\npestilence.\"\n\nAnd the people would have taken him at his word; for fickle is the\nheart of the multitude, and swayed this way and that by every breath\nof calamity. They were sore stricken, too, by the pestilence, and in\ntheir wrath against the cause of it they forgot the slaying of the\nSphinx and the long days of peace and prosperity. But the blind seer\nTeiresias rose up in their midst, and at his voice the people were\nsilent.\n\n\"Citizens of Cadmus, foolish and blind of heart! Will ye slay the\nsaviour of your city? Have ye forgotten the man-devouring Sphinx and\nthe days of darkness? Verily prosperity blunteth the edge of\ngratitude. And thou, OEdipus, curse not the gods for thine evil\nfate. He that putteth his finger in the fire is burnt, whether he do\nit knowingly or not. As to thy sire, him indeed didst thou slay in\nignorance; but the shedding of man's blood be upon thine own head, for\nthat was the fruit of thy wrathful spirit, which, through lack of\ncurbing, broke forth like an angry beast. Hadst thou never slain a\nman, never wouldst thou have slain thy sire. But now thou art a\npollution to the land of thy birth, and by long exile and wandering\nmust thou expiate thy sin and die a stranger in a strange land. Yet\nmethinks that in the dark mirror of prophecy I see thy form, as it\nwere, a guardian to the land of thy last resting-place, and in a grove\nof sacred trees thy spirit's lasting habitation, when thy feet have\naccomplished the ways of expiation and the days of thy wandering are\ndone.\"\n\nSo the people were silenced. But OEdipus would not be comforted,\nand in his shame and misery he put out his own eyes because they had\nlooked on unspeakable things. Then he clothed himself in rags and took\na pilgrim's staff, to go forth alone upon his wanderings. And the\npeople were glad at his going, because the plague had hardened their\nhearts, and they cared nothing for his grey hairs and sightless eyes,\nnor remembered all he had done for them, but thought only how the\nplague might be stayed. Even Eteocles and Polyneices, his own sons,\nshowed no pity, but would have let him go forth alone, that they might\nlive on the fatness of the land. For their hardness of heart they were\npunished long after, when they quarrelled as to which should be king,\nand brought down the flood of war upon Thebes, and fell each by the\nother's hand in deadly strife. Of all his children, Antigone alone\nrefused to let him go forth a solitary wanderer, and would listen to\nnone of his entreaties when he spoke of the hardness of the way that\nwould lie before them.\n\n\"Nay, father,\" she cried; \"thinkest thou that I could suffer thee to\nwander sightless and blind in thine old age with none to stay thy\nfeeble steps or lend thee the light of their eyes?\"\n\n\"The road before us is hard and long, my child, and no man can say\nwhen my soul shall find rest. The ways of the world are cruel, and men\nlove not the cursed of the gods. As for thee, Heaven bless thee for\nthy love; but thou art too frail and tender a thing to eat of the\nbread and drink of the waters of sorrow.\"\n\n\"Ah, father, thinkest thou that aught could be more bitter than to sit\nin the seat of kings whilst thou wanderest a beggar on the face of\nthe earth? Nay, suffer me to go with thee, and stay thy steps in the\ndays of thy trial.\"\n\nNothing he could say would dissuade her. So they two set out alone\nupon their wanderings, the old man bowed down beneath the weight of\nsorrow, and the young girl in the freshness of youth and beauty, with\na great love in her heart--a bright, burning love which was the light\nby which she lived, and a light which never led her astray. For love\nguided her into desolate places and through many a pathless\nwilderness, and at length brought her in the flower of her maidenhood\nto the very gates of death; yet when the cloud of earthly sorrow hung\ndarkest over her head, love it was that lifted the veil of doubt, and\ncast about her name a halo of glory that will never fade. And all the\nstory of her love and how she buried her brother Polyneices, though\nshe knew it was death to cast so much as a handful of dust upon his\nbody, you may read in one of the noblest plays that has ever been\nwritten.\n\nSo she and OEdipus set out upon their wanderings. At first OEdipus\nwas filled with shame and bitterness, and cursed the day of his birth\nand his evil fate; but as time went on he remembered the words of\nTeiresias--how at his death he should be a blessing to the land of his\nlast resting-place; and the hope sprang up in his heart that the gods\nhad not forsaken him, but would wipe out the stain of his sin, and\nmake his name once more glorious among men. Daily this hope grew\nstronger and brighter, and he felt that the days of wandering and\nexpiation were drawing to a close, and a mysterious power guided his\nsteps he knew not whither, except that it was towards the goal of his\nrelease. So they wandered on across the Theban plain and over dim\nCith\u00e6ron, till they came to the torch-lit strand of Eleusis and\nDemeter's sacred shrine, and the broad plain of Rarus, where\nTriptolemus first taught men to drive a furrow and sow the golden\ngrain. And they went along the Sacred Way which leads to Athens, with\nthe circling mountains on their left, and to the right the blue\nSaronic Gulf and the peaks of sea-girt Salamis. And many a hero's\ngrave did they pass and many a sacred shrine, for all along that road\nmen of old raised monuments to the undying glory of the dead and the\nheritage of honour which they left to unborn generations. And always\nAntigone tended the old man's feeble steps, and lent him the light of\nher young eyes, till at length they came to white Colonus and the\ngrove of the Eumenides. There she set him on a rock to rest his weary\nlimbs. And the soft spring breezes played about them, and the clear\nwaters of Cephisus flowed sparkling at their feet to the fertile plain\nbelow. In the dark coverts and green glades the nightingale trilled\nher sweet song, and the grass was bright with many a golden crocus and\nwhite narcissus bloom. As he sat there a great calm filled the old\nman's heart, for he felt that the days of his wandering were done. But\nwhile they were resting a man from the village happened to pass, and\nwhen he saw them he shouted out,\n\n\"Ho! there, impious wanderers, know ye not that ye sit on sacred land\nand trespass on hallowed ground?\"\n\nThen OEdipus knew more surely than ever that the day of his release\nhad come.\n\n\"Oh, stranger!\" he cried, \"welcome is that which thou sayest. For\nhere shall the words of the prophet be fulfilled, when he said that in\na grove of sacred trees my spirit should find rest.\"\n\nBut the man was not satisfied, and he called to a band of his\ncountrymen who were in the fields close by. And they came up and spoke\nroughly to OEdipus, and asked his name and business. When he told\nthem they were filled with horror, for all men had heard of the\nslaying of Laius, and they would have turned him out by force. But\nOEdipus raised himself from the rock on which he was seated, and in\nspite of his beggar's rags and sightless eyes, there was a majesty\nabout his face and form that marked him as no common man.\n\n\"Men of Colonus,\" he said, \"ye judge by the evil I have done, and not\nby the good. Have ye forgotten the days when the name of OEdipus was\nhonoured throughout the land? Of a truth the days of darkness came,\nand the stain of my sin found me out. But now is my wrathful spirit\ncurbed, and the gods will make me once more a blessing to men. Go,\ntell your king Theseus, who rules in Athena's sacred citadel, that\nOEdipus is here, and bid him come with all speed if he would win a\nguardian for this land, an everlasting safeguard for his city in days\nof storm and stress.\"\n\nSo they sent off a messenger in hot haste, for there was a mysterious\npower about the aged wanderer that none could withstand. And soon\nTheseus arrived, himself a mighty hero, who had made Athens a great\ncity and rid the country of many a foul pestilence. And he greeted\nOEdipus courteously and kindly, as befitted a great prince, and\noffered him hospitality. But OEdipus said,\n\n\"The hospitality I crave, O king, is for no brief sojourn in this\nland. Nay, 'tis an everlasting home I ask. For the hand of Heaven is\nupon me, and full well I know that this day my soul shall leave this\nfrail and broken body. And to thee alone is it given to know where my\nbones shall rest--to thee and thy seed after thee. As long as my bones\nshall remain in the land, so long shall my spirit watch over it, and\nmen shall call upon my name to turn the tide of battle and stay the\nflood of pestilence and war. Wilt thou come with me, O king, whither\nthe gods shall lead, and learn the secret of my grave?\"\n\nThen Theseus bowed his head, and answered,\n\n\"Show thou the way, and I will come.\"\n\nSo OEdipus turned and led the way into the grove, and Theseus and\nAntigone followed after. For a mysterious power seemed to guide him,\nand he walked as one who could see, and his steps were strong and firm\nas those of a man in his prime. Straight into the grove did he go till\nthey came to the heart of the wood, where there was a sacred well\nbeneath a hollow pear-tree. Close by was a great chasm going deep down\ninto the bowels of the earth, and men called it the Gate of Hades, the\nKingdom of the Dead. Here, too, the Awful Goddesses were worshipped\nunder a new and gentler name. For after they had driven the murderer\nOrestes up and down the land for his sin, he came at length to Athens\nto stand his trial before gods and men. And mercy tempered justice and\nreleased him from blood-guiltiness, and the Furies laid aside their\nwrath and haunted him no more. So the people of Athens built them\nshrines and sanctuaries, and worshipped them as Eumenides, the Kindly\nMaidens. And now once more a wanderer was to find rest there from his\nsin.\n\nWhen they reached the well, OEdipus sat down upon a rock and called\nhis daughter to his side, and said,\n\n\"Antigone, my child, thy hand hath ministered to me in exile, and\nsmoothed the path for the wanderer's feet. Go now, fetch water, and\npour libation and drink-offering to the gods below. It is the last\nthing thou canst do for me on earth.\"\n\nSo Antigone fetched water from the well, and dressed and tended him,\nand poured libation to the gods. And when she had finished, OEdipus\ndrew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and said,\n\n\"Grieve not for me, my child. Well I know that thy heart will ache,\nfor love hath made light the burden of toil. But for me life's day is\ndone, and I go to my rest. Do thou seek thy brethren, and be to them\nas thou hast been to me. My child, my child, hard is the way that lies\nbefore thee, and my soul yearneth over thee for the evil day that\nshall come. But look thou to thine own pure heart, on which the gods\nhave set the seal of truth that changeth not with passing years, and\nheed not the counsels of men.\"\n\nAnd he held her closely to him, and she clung weeping about his neck.\nAs they sat a hush fell upon the grove, and the nightingales ceased\ntheir song, and from the depths of the grove a voice was heard like\nthe voice of distant thunder.\n\n\"OEdipus, OEdipus, why dost thou tarry?\"\n\nWhen they heard it they were afraid. But OEdipus rose up and gently\nput his daughter from him, saying,\n\n[Illustration: \"With firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more,\nand Theseus followed after.\"]\n\n\"Lo! the voice of Zeus, who calleth me. Fare thee well, my child; thou\ncanst go no further with me. For Theseus only is it meet to see the\nmanner of my death, and he and I must go forward alone into the wood.\"\n\nWith firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and Theseus\nfollowed after. And what happened there none can tell, for Theseus\nkept the secret to his dying day. But men say that when he came out of\nthe wood his face was as the face of one who had seen things passing\nmortal speech. As for OEdipus, the great twin Brethren Sleep and\nDeath carried his bones to Athens, where the people built him a\nshrine, and for many a long year they honoured him as a hero in the\nland of Attica. For though the sin that he sinned in his wrath and\nignorance was great and terrible, yet his life had brought joy to many\nmen and prosperity to more lands than one. For with wisdom and love he\nguided his days, and with sorrow and tears he wiped out the stain of\nhis sin, so that, in spite of all he suffered, men love to tell of the\nglory and wisdom of OEdipus, and of how he solved the riddle of the\nSphinx.\n\n\n\n\nEros and Psyche\n\n\nI\n\nIn the blue waters of the \u00c6gean Sea, midway between Greece and Egypt,\nlies the fertile land of Crete. Here, long, long ago, when the gods\nstill walked on earth in human form and the sons of men were as\nchildren playing in a fair garden, there ruled a king who was the\nfather of three lovely daughters. They lived in a palace in the rich\nOmphalian plain, beneath the shade of snow-capped Ida, surrounded by\nsmiling gardens and fruitful vineyards, with a glimpse, away to the\nsouthward, of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. So great was the beauty\nof these three maidens that their fame went abroad throughout all the\nland, and wealthy wooers flocked from far and wide to win their hands\nin marriage. The two elder sisters soon became the brides of two great\nprinces, and were well content to pass their days in the sunshine of\ntheir husbands' love and admiration, and to deck themselves with gold\nand jewels, and listen to the praise of their beauty upon the lips of\nmen. For the gods had given them grace of form and feature, but their\nsouls within were vain and foolish, so that in after-years, when they\nfound their sister more blessed than they, their vanity and envy\nbrought them to an evil end.\n\nThe youngest sister, whose name was Psyche, continued to live on at\nhome long after the other two were married. In face and form she was\nas fair as they, whilst her soul within was so pure and beautiful that\nit shed a heavenly radiance about her, so that when men looked into\nher face all thoughts of love and wooing died out of their hearts, and\nthey worshipped her as one of the Immortals. Wherever she passed\nvoices were hushed and heads were bowed in prayer, till at length it\nwas rumoured that Aphrodite herself, the Queen of Love, had come to\nlive with men. The temples stood deserted and the altars bare of\nsacrifice, and from far and wide men flocked to Psyche with gifts and\ngarlands and songs of praise.\n\nThen foam-born Aphrodite, Queen of Love, was filled with jealousy and\nwrath that a mortal should usurp her place and name, and she cast\nabout in her mind for some means of revenge.\n\n\"Verily, I must make this Cretan maiden rue the day when first men\nlaid my offerings at her feet. I will smite her with so dire a malady\nthat her very beauty shall be turned to scorn, and the heights to\nwhich her impious pride hath raised her shall be as nought to the\ndepths of her shame and misery.\"\n\nThereupon she sent for her son, the great god Eros, who lords it over\ngods and men. The poison of his fiery darts none can withstand, and\nwith him it rests to burn men's hearts with the fever of unsatisfied\ndesire, or so to temper the venom of his shafts that it runs like\nheavenly nectar through the veins. Yet the joy that he gives withal is\nakin to madness, and the torture of his wrath a frenzy unquenchable.\n\n\"Best-beloved son,\" she said, \"if thou carest aught for thy mother's\nname and fame, thou wilt hasten now to do my bidding. In midmost Crete\nthere dwells a maid--Psyche by name--whose impious pride hath cast\ndishonour on my godhead. The offerings that are mine by right are cast\nbefore her feet. My temples stand devoid of worshippers, who flock to\npay her court; and all this not in Crete alone, but from the farthest\nshores of Hellas men cross the sea in white-winged ships to gaze upon\nher face. Go now, I pray thee, and smite her with a poisoned arrow\nfrom thy bow. Make her to love some loathly monster, deformed in soul\nand body, and with a passion so shameless and all-consuming that men\nshall spurn her, even as now they haste to pay their vows. As thou\nlovest me, go with all speed and do my bidding.\"\n\nSo Eros sped away to fulfil Aphrodite's command, and plant in the\nheart of Psyche the image of a dark and dreadful monster, and make her\nlove it. As she slept he came and stood beside her, armed with his bow\nand poisoned arrows. But when he looked upon her his arm fell lifeless\nby his side, and the arrows slipped out of his hand, for never had he\nlooked on one so fair; and her beauty smote his heart as surely as\never one of his own shafts had pierced a mortal's breast. From that\nmoment he loved her with all his soul, and swore that no harm should\never come to her through him, but that he himself and no other,\nwhether man or monster, should be her bridegroom. And he picked up the\narrow and put it back into the sheath.\n\n\"If she can trust me,\" he said, \"she shall never feel a wound from one\nof these. I will carry her away, and she shall be mine; but till the\ngods are reconciled that I should wed a mortal, and my mother's anger\nis appeased, I must visit her only in the night-time, and she must not\nknow who I am nor see my face. When the gods have proved her and found\nher worthy of me, then will I reveal myself to her, and through my\nlove she shall be immortal, and dwell with me for ever in the shining\ncourts of heaven.\"\n\nAnd he bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. She smiled in her\nsleep and held out her arms towards him, and he knew that his kiss had\nkindled in her heart the light of love.\n\nAphrodite, meanwhile, with her mind at rest, took her way along the\nshell-strewn curve of a sandy bay, and laughing ripples made music at\nher feet. The Sun was slowly sinking to his bed in Ocean's stream, and\nNight rode in her crescent car across the calm green vault of heaven.\nFrom Aphrodite's feet a broad gold path of light led straight to the\nsunset realms of Helios, the sun-god, and as she waited on the shore,\na band of dolphins ploughed the sea towards her. In their wake came\nTritons blowing on soft-voiced conches, and some drew a pearly shell\nbehind and pushed it to the shore and bade her enter.\n\n\"Great Helios bids thee to his midnight revelry, O Queen of Love,\"\nthey cried, \"and we are come to guide thee along the golden pathway\nto the glowing palaces of Sunset Land.\"\n\nAs the goddess stepped into the shell, they blew a loud salute upon\ntheir conches, and spread a silken sail above her head, and with music\nand laughter they crossed the shining sea to the golden halls of\nHelios.\n\n\nII\n\nPsyche, meanwhile, all unconscious of the wrath she had kindled in the\nbreast of Aphrodite, was pining away at home in loneliness of heart.\nLittle did she care for the worship that men paid her or for the\nofferings that they laid at her feet. It was for the love of a husband\nthat she longed, and her soul was starving in the midst of rich gifts\nand the rapt, adoring gaze of worshippers. Her melancholy fastened on\nthe king her father, and on all the palace, and soothsayers and augurs\ncrowded round the doors with omens, charms, and riddling words, and\nprophesied all manner of evil.\n\nAt last the king could bear it no longer, and he set forth on\npilgrimage to Apollo's shrine at Delphi, and made question of the\noracle.\n\n\"Have the gods ordained that Psyche, my daughter, should die unwed,\nthough the fairest maid on earth, or doth some bridegroom await her\nwho tarrieth long? O god of Light, reveal his name, and save my child\nfrom death.\"\n\nThen the tripod shook, and from the midst of the incense and vapour\nthe priestess made reply,\n\n\"Think not of marriage-songs, O king, or bridal torches. On a lonely\nrock on snow-clad Ida must thou leave thy child, the bride of no\nmortal man. But a savage monster shall come, the terror of gods and\nmen, and shall bear her away to his own land, and thine eyes shall see\nher no more. Wherefore make ready the funeral feast. Bring forth your\nsable robes of mourning, and bid the minstrels raise a dirge for the\ndead. For so the gods have willed it.\"\n\nSo the king went sadly home, and his heart was heavy within him. And\nall the people mourned with him; for they loved the fair princess,\nwith her beautiful sad face and her kind and noble heart. All manner\nof tales went abroad of the monster she must wed, some saying one\nthing and some another. But most men thought it must be Talus, the\ngreat giant who guarded Crete. Three times every day did he walk round\nthe island, and woe to any stranger who fell in his path or tried to\nland when he was by. For from top to toe he was made of burning\nmetal--gold and silver and bronze and iron--while through his body ran\none single vein that was filled with fire and fastened in his head\nwith a nail. If any man tried to thwart him, he would gather him up in\nhis great bronze arms and hold him to his breast, red-hot with the\nfire in his vein, and when he was well cooked through he would devour\nhim. Many a long year after, when Jason sailed by with the heroes of\nthe Golden Fleece, Talus rushed down, and would have stopped them from\nwatering their ship, and have turned them adrift on the salt seas to\nbe tortured to death with thirst. But Medea, Jason's dark witch-wife,\nbeguiled him with fair promises, and made him cool his burning body in\nthe sea before she would come near. Then when she had him under her\nspells she softly drew the nail from his head, and the fire flowed\nforth from his vein, and all his strength departed, and he died with a\ncurse on his lips for Medea and her wiles. But she only laughed aloud,\nand bade Jason water the ship and thank the immortal gods that he had\na witch-woman to wife. That, however, was long after, and Talus was\nnow in the prime of life, and the terror of all the country-side.\n\nMeanwhile, the land was plunged in mourning, and in the palace all was\nbustle and confusion in preparation for the funeral rites. All day\nlong the old king sat in his chamber, and looked out towards the\nlonely heights of Ida, where his daughter was to be left.\n\n\"Better that she should die in her maidenhood,\" he cried, \"than wed\nthis terrible monster.\"\n\nPsyche alone in all the palace was calm, and tried to comfort her\nfather.\n\n\"Sire,\" she said, as she put her arms about his neck, \"to look on thy\ntears is to me more bitter than my fate. Weep not for me, for\nsomething within me bids me take comfort, and I hear a sweet voice\nsay, 'Rejoice, beloved, and come with me.' Dark was that day, my\nfather, when first men laid their offerings at my feet, and my heart\ndwelt apart in its loneliness. And now, if but for one day I may look\nupon the face of my bridegroom, I would gladly die. For, methinks, it\nis no monster I must wed.\"\n\nBut the king thought only of the words of the oracle, and would not be\ncomforted.\n\nAt length the bridal day dawned, and the sad procession wound slowly\nfrom the palace towards Ida. Choruses of singers led the way with\nsolemn dirges for the dead, and the king, uncrowned, followed with his\nnobles clad in armour and holding blazing torches in their hands. Next\ncame Psyche, all in white, with a bridal veil and garlands, and\nsurrounded by white-robed maidens; and last of all the people of the\ncity followed with loud wailing and lamentation. Up the steep mountain\nroad they went, and the path grew rougher and narrower step by step.\nOn either side the dark rocks frowned down upon them, and echoed to\nand fro the wailings of the people as they passed, and above them the\nsnow-capped peak of Ida stood out against the summer sky, like a\nlonely sentinel keeping watch over the plain below. Slowly the shadows\nof the rocks lengthened across the barren slopes, and the funeral\ntorches shone pale in the glowing sunset light. At last they reached\nthe appointed place beneath the unmelting snow, and on the barren rock\nthey set the maiden, and bade her a sorrowful good-bye. Ever and anon\nthey turned back to look on her as they wound down the mountain-track,\nand always she waved to them a fond farewell. At length the shadows\nfell on all the mountain-side, and only the snow-clad peak flashed\nlike a ruby in the last rays of the sun, and as they looked backward\nfor the last time they saw Psyche transformed in the golden light. Her\nwhite dress shone like a rainbow, and her golden hair fell about her\nshoulders like a stream of fire, and as she raised her arm to wave to\nthem she looked like no mortal maid, but a goddess in all her beauty,\nso that the people hushed their voices and bowed their heads before\nher. Soon the light faded, and they could see her no more. Sadly they\nwent their way, and all down the mountain-track and across the plain\nbelow the torches shone out like pale twinkling stars in the darkness.\n\nPsyche, meanwhile, left alone, pondered sadly on her fate, and\nwondered what the night would bring. And as she sat and pondered, a\nsoft breeze played about her, filling her veil and robe, and gently\nshe felt herself lifted from the rock and borne through the air, till\nshe was laid down upon a grassy bank sweet with the scent of thyme and\nviolets. Here a deep sleep fell upon her, and she knew no more.\n\n\nIII\n\nDay was dawning when Psyche awoke, and high up in the bright air the\nlarks were singing their morning hymn to the sun, and calling on bird\nand beast and flower to awake and rejoice in the glad daylight. At\nfirst she could remember nothing of what had happened, and wondered\nwhere she was; then slowly all the sad ceremony of the day before came\nback to her--the funeral procession up Mount Ida, the lonely rock on\nwhich she had been left, and the soft west wind that had borne her\naway. So she rose up from the green bank on which she had slept all\nnight, and looked round about her to see what manner of land she was\nin.\n\nShe found herself standing on a hillock in the midst of a fertile\nplain. Steep cliffs rose up on every side as though to guard the\npeaceful valley, and keep out any evil thing that would enter in. To\nthe eastward only was there a break in the mountain-chain, and the\ndale widened out towards the sea. As Psyche gazed, the golden disc of\nthe sun rose slowly from the water, and his bright rays lit up the\ngrey morning sky and scattered the silvery mist that hung about the\ntree-tops. On either side of her was a wood, with a green glade\nbetween sloping up towards a marble temple, which flashed like a jewel\nin the rays of the rising sun. And Psyche was filled with wonder at\nthe sight, for it seemed too fair to be the work of human hands.\n\n\"Surely,\" she thought, \"it must be the handiwork of the lame fire-god\nHeph\u00e6stos, for he buildeth for the immortal gods, who sit on high\nOlympus, and none can vie with him in craft and skill.\"\n\nThen she looked about her to see if anyone were near. But all around\nwas quiet and still, with no signs of human habitation. Wondering the\nmore, she drew near to the temple, and went up the marble stairs that\nled to the entrance. When she reached the top her shadow fell upon the\ngolden gate, and, as she stood doubting what to do, they slowly turned\non their hinges, and opened to her of their own accord, and she walked\nthrough them into the temple. She found herself in a marble court\nsurrounded by pillars and porticoes which re-echoed the soft music of\na fountain in the midst. Through the open doors of the further\ncolonnade she caught a glimpse of cool dark rooms, with carvings of\ncedar-wood and silver and silken hangings. And now the air was filled\nwith music and sweet voices calling her by name.\n\n\"Psyche, lady Psyche, all is thine. Enter in.\"\n\nSo she took courage and entered. All day long she wandered about the\nenchanted palace discovering fresh wonders at every step. Even before\nshe knew it the mysterious voices seemed to guess every wish of her\nheart. When she would rest they led her to a soft couch. When she was\nhungry they placed a table before her spread with every dainty. They\nled her to the bath, and clothed her in the softest silks, and all the\nwhile the air was filled with songs and music.\n\nAll this time she had not said a word, for she feared she might drive\naway the kindly voices that ministered to her. But at last she could\nkeep silence no longer.\n\n\"Am I a goddess,\" she asked, \"or is this to be dead? Do those who pass\nthe gates of Death feel no change, nor suffer for what they have done,\nbut have only to wish for a thing to gain their heart's desire?\"\n\nThe voices gave her never a word in answer, but led her to the chamber\nwhere her couch was spread with embroidered coverlets. The walls all\nround were covered with curious paintings, telling of the deeds of\ngods and heroes--how golden Aphrodite loved Ares, the god of War, and\nApollo the nymph Daphne, whom he changed into a laurel-tree that never\nfades. There was Ariadne, too, upon her island, whom the young god\nDionysus found and comforted in her sore distress; and Adonis, the\nbeautiful shepherd, the fairest of mortal men.\n\nPsyche, tired out by all the wonders she had seen during the day, sank\ndown upon her couch, and was soon asleep. But sleep had not long\nsealed her lids before she was awakened by a stir in the room. The\ncurtain over her head rustled as though someone were standing beside\nher. She lay still, almost fainting with terror, scarcely daring to\nbreathe, when she heard a voice softly call her by name.\n\n\"Psyche, my own, my beloved, at last I have got thee, my dear one.\"\n\nAnd two strong arms were round her and a kiss upon her lips. Then she\nknew that at last the bridegroom she had waited for so long had come\nto claim her, and in her happiness she cared not to know who he was,\nbut was content to feel his arms about her and hear her name upon his\nlips. And so she fell asleep again. When she awoke in the morning her\nfirst thought was to look on the face of the husband who had come in\nthe dark night, but nowhere could she find him. All the day she passed\nin company of the mysterious voices who had ministered to her before;\nbut though their kindness and courtesy was never failing, she wandered\ndisconsolately about the empty halls, longing for the night-time, and\nwondering whether her lover would come again. As soon as it was dark\nshe went again to her chamber, and there once more he came to her and\nswore that she was his for evermore, and that nothing should part\nthem. But always he left her before it was light and came to her again\nwhen night had fallen, so that she never saw his face nor knew what he\nwas like. Yet so well did she love and trust him that she never cared\nto ask him his secret. So the days and nights sped swiftly by, for in\nthe daylight Psyche found plenty to amuse her in the enchanted palace\nand garden, and she did not think of loneliness when every night she\ncould hold sweet converse with her beloved.\n\nBut one evening when he came to her he was troubled, and said,\n\n\"Psyche, my dear one, great danger threatens us, and I must needs ask\nthee somewhat that shall grieve thy tender heart.\"\n\n\"Mine own lord,\" she said, \"what can there be that I would not gladly\ndo for thee?\"\n\n\"Well do I know, beloved, that thou wouldst give thy life for me. But\nthat which I ask will grieve thee sore, for thou must refuse the boon\nthy sisters shall ask thee.\"\n\n\"My sisters! They know not where I am. How, then, can they ask me a\nboon?\"\n\n\"Even now they stand upon the lonely rock where thou wast left for me,\nto see if they can find thee or learn aught of thy fate. And they will\ncall thee by name through the echoing rocks, but thou must answer them\nnever a word.\"\n\n\"What, my lord! wouldst thou have my sisters go home disconsolate,\nthinking that I am dead? Nay, surely, thou wouldst not be so hard of\nheart? But let me bid the soft west wind, that wafted me hither, bring\nthem too, that they may look upon my happiness and take back the\ntidings to mine aged sire.\"\n\n\"Psyche, thou knowest not what thou askest. Foolish of heart are thy\nsisters, and they love the trappings and outward show of woe, and with\ntheir mourning they wring their father's aching heart till he can bear\nit no more. So he hath sent them forth to see whether they can hear\naught of thy fate. And, full of their own hearts' shallow grief, they\nseek thee on the mountain-side, thinking to find thy bones bleaching\nin the rays of the sun. Were they to see thy happiness, their hearts\nwould be filled with envy and malice. They would speak evil of me, and\ntaunt thee on thine unknown lord, and bid thee look upon my face and\nsee lest I be some foul monster. And Psyche, mine own wife, the night\nthat thou seest my face shall be the night that shall part us for\nevermore, and thy first look shall be thy last. Therefore answer them\nnot, I pray thee, but stay with me and be my bride.\"\n\nAnd Psyche was troubled at these words, for she thought her husband\nwronged her sisters. Nevertheless, unwilling to displease him, she\nsaid,\n\n\"I will do thy will, my lord, even as thou sayest.\"\n\nYet all the day long she thought on her sisters wandering on the bleak\nmountain-side, and how they would call for her by name, and at length\ngo sadly home to her father's house and bring no comfort. The more she\nthought on it the sadder she became, and when her husband came to her,\nher face was wet with tears. In vain he tried to comfort her. She only\nsobbed the more.\n\n\"All my joy is turned to bitterness,\" she said, \"when I think on the\ngrief that bows down my father's heart. If but for one day I could\nbring my sisters here and show them my happiness, they would bear the\nnews to him, and in my joy he would be happy too. Let them but come\nand look at this fair home of mine, and surely it will not harm me or\nthee, my dear lord?\"\n\n\"I have not the heart to refuse thee, Psyche,\" he said, \"though it\ngoeth against me to grant this. I fear that evil will come. If they\nask thee of me, answer them not.\"\n\nPsyche was overjoyed at his consent, and thanked him, and put her arms\nabout his neck and said,\n\n\"My dearest lord, all thou sayest I will do. For wert thou Eros, the\ngod of Love himself, I could not love thee more.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nThe next day, when Psyche was left alone, she went out into the valley\nto see whether she could hear her sisters calling her. And sure\nenough, she had not gone far, when high up above her head, from the\ntop of the cliff, she heard her name, \"Psyche, O Psyche! where art\nthou?\" At this she was overjoyed,\n\n\"O gentle Zephyr!\" she called, \"O fair west wind! waft, oh, waft my\nsisters to me!\"\n\nScarcely had she said the words than she saw her sisters gently borne\ndown from the cliff above and set upon the ground beside her. She fell\nupon their necks and kissed them.\n\n\"Ah, my dear sisters,\" she cried, \"how happy am I to see you! Welcome\nto my new home. See, I am not tortured, as you thought. Nay, my life\nis bliss, as you shall see for yourselves. Come, enter in with me.\"\n\nAnd she took them by the hand and led them through the golden gates.\nThe ministering voices played soft music in the air, and a rich feast\nwas spread before them. All through the palace Psyche led them, and\nshowed them all her treasures, and brought out her choicest jewels,\nand bade them choose out and keep as many as they wished.\n\nAll this time, though there was no corner of the palace that she kept\nhidden from them, she spoke no word of her mysterious husband. At\nlength they could contain their curiosity no longer, and one made bold\nto ask her,\n\n\"Psyche, thou livest not here alone, of a surety. Yet where is thy\nlord? All thy treasures hast thou shown us, but him, the giver of\nall, we have not seen. Who is he, then? Surely he, whom the winds and\nbodiless voices obey, must be a god, and no mortal man. Tell us of\nhim, we pray thee.\"\n\nAnd Psyche remembered her husband's warning.\n\n\"My lord,\" she said, \"is a huntsman bold, and over hill and dale he\nrides this day after the swift-footed stag. As fair as the dawn is he,\nand the first down of youth is on his cheek. All through the hours of\nsunlight he goeth forth to the chase, and at eventime he returneth to\nme.\"\n\nIt was now close on night, and the shadows fell long across the cool\ngreen lawns of the garden. Psyche bethought her that it was high time\nfor her sisters to go, before they could ply her with questions. So,\nkissing them farewell, and sending many a loving message to the king\nher father, she called on Zephyr to waft them away to the top of the\ncliff.\n\nHitherto the surprise and wonder at all they had seen and heard had\nfilled the minds of the two sisters. But when they found themselves\nonce more alone upon the barren mountain-slopes, they had leisure to\nthink and compare their lot with that of their sister. Before they had\nseen her golden halls they had been quite content with their own\npalaces. But these now seemed humble beside the splendours they had\njust left. Their shallow hearts were quite filled up with the image of\nthemselves, and they had no room left for their sister. But now her\ngood fortune forced the remembrance of her upon them, and they were\nfilled with an envy and jealousy of her which conquered even their\nlove for themselves. They could not be content to return once more to\ntheir homes, and receive the homage of their husbands and their\nhouseholds. Their one thought was how they might spoil her happiness.\nFor the hatred that is born of self-love is an all-consuming passion\nthat burns up every kind and noble thought, as a forest fire burns up\nthe tall trees that stand in the path of its fury.\n\n\"How cruel and unjust,\" cried one, \"that she, the youngest, should be\nblest so far above us both. My lord is a very beggar to him who giveth\nPsyche her golden halls to dwell in.\"\n\n\"Yea, and mine is an old man by the side of this beardless youth.\nSister, thy grief and mine are one. Side by side let us work, and\nverily her cunning shall be great if she can avail against us and keep\nher ill-gotten wealth.\"\n\n\"Thou sayest well. 'Twas from pride that she welcomed us to her halls\nto flaunt her riches before us. Sister, I am with thee. Quickly let us\nplan some plot to unrobe this upstart maiden of her vaunted godhead.\"\n\nWhereupon they agreed together to bring their father no word of\nPsyche's happiness. They tore their robes and loosed their hair, as\nthough all this while they had been wandering over the rough mountain\nrocks.\n\n\"Ah, sire,\" they cried, \"how can we tell thee the evil tidings?\nNowhere can we find our sister, or any trace of her. Verily, the\noracle lieth not, and she is the bride of some fell monster.\"\n\nTheir cruel words smote their father to the heart, and quenched the\nfeeble spark of hope that still burned in his breast. And when all\nhope leaves the heart of man, life leaves him, too. So the old king\ndied, and his blood was on the hands of his own children, and one day\nthey paid the penalty with their lives.\n\nMeanwhile, Psyche lived on in the happy valley in blissful content.\nHer husband would often warn her that her sisters were plotting her\nruin, but she would listen to nothing against them. At last one night\nhe said,\n\n\"Psyche, to-morrow thy sisters will seek thee once again. This time\nthey will not wait for Zephyr to bear them down, but, trusting\nthemselves to the barren air, they will hurl themselves from the\ncliff, and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Leave them to their\nfate. 'Twill be due penalty for their crime, and 'tis the only way\nthat we can be saved, beloved.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried Psyche, \"thy cruelty would kill my love for thee,\nwere it not immortal. But, in very truth, all my joy would be slain\ndid I know that my sisters were killed when I could have saved them.\nOh, dearest husband, by the love that makes us one, I beseech thee,\nsend Zephyr once more to bear my sisters hither.\"\n\nAnd she sobbed so pitifully and prayed so earnestly that once again he\nhad not the heart to refuse.\n\nSo about noontide the next day Psyche heard loud knocking and cries at\nthe door, and she hastened to open it herself to her sisters. Again\nshe kissed them, and bade them welcome, and they deceived her with\nflattery and honeyed words, and when she was off her guard one said,\n\n\"Come, tell us, Psyche, thy husband's name. Among the immortal gods,\nwhere doth he take his place, and why is he not here to greet us?\"\n\n\"My husband,\" she replied, \"is a rich merchant. Many a long year hath\nit taken to build up all the fortune you behold, for already the hair\nabout his temples is touched with snow. And this day hath he gone a\nlong journey to a distant town in search of rich merchandise, and he\nreturneth not till the setting of the sun.\"\n\nThen quickly she called on Zephyr to bear them away before they could\nply her with questions.\n\nWhen her husband came that night he was more troubled than before, and\nbegged her to see them no more, but let them be dashed to death on the\nrocks if they troubled her again. Her pure heart, however, would\nbelieve no evil of them; and in this one thing she disobeyed her lord.\n\n\nV\n\nMeanwhile, the second visit of the sisters to Psyche in her beautiful\nhome had but served to add fuel to the fire of their envy. When they\nremembered her confusion and the different tales she had told them\nabout her unknown lord, jealousy whispered in their ears that all her\nhappiness depended on the keeping of her secret, and that secret they\nstraightway determined to know.\n\n\"'Tis a strange lord, methinks,\" said one, \"who in the waxing and\nwaning of a single moon doth change from a beardless boy to a grave\nand reverend merchant whose hair is touched with snow.\"\n\n\"True, sister. And therein lieth the secret of her happiness. Her\nlying tale but proves that she hath never seen her lord. And verily,\nhe who would hide his face from the queen of his heart must be some\nchild of the Immortals, whose love for an earth-born maid must be hid\nfrom gods and men.\"\n\n\"Yea, and they who are loved of the Immortals are themselves immortal,\ntoo, and their seed after them. Truly, sister, that Psyche should be a\ngoddess is more than I can bear.\"\n\n\"I feel with thee! It is not meet that the youngest should have all.\nLet us invent some lying tale which shall make her look upon her lord,\nand break the spell which binds him to her.\"\n\n\"What sayest thou to the words of the oracle that doomed her to wed a\nmonster? Let us go to her and say that now we know this to be true,\nand beg her to flee from a fate so vile.\"\n\nSo once more they trusted themselves to Zephyr, for Psyche had\nprevailed upon her lord to promise that, so long as her sisters should\ndo her no harm, Zephyr should always be waiting to carry them to and\nfro from her.\n\nEarly the next day she was aroused from sleep by the sound of weeping\nand lamentation at her door, and she hastened to meet her sisters,\nfearing some ill news. And they fell upon her neck, crying,\n\n\"Alas, alas, for thine evil fate!\"\n\n\"Mine evil fate, sisters? What mean ye? All is well with me.\"\n\n\"Ah, so thou thinkest in thine heart's innocence. Even so falleth the\ndove a victim to the hawk that wheeleth above.\"\n\n\"What talk is this of doves and hawks? Come, my sisters, weep no more,\nfor in this pleasant vale even the winds of heaven breathe gently on\nme, so good and great is my lord who commandeth them.\"\n\n\"Thy lord! Hast ever seen his face, child, that thou callest him good\nand great?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" she answered, blushing to think that they had guessed her\nsecret, \"'tis true I have not seen his face, but what need to look\nupon him when all around me breathes of his love for me?\"\n\n\"Hast never heard tell of foul monsters that wed with the daughters of\nmen, and come to them only in the night season, when the darkness can\nhide their deformity? They cast a spell about their victims, and by\ntheir wiles and enchantments they make all things about them seem\nfair. But one day, when they have had their fill, and tire of the maid\nthey have won, lo! at a word the pleasant palaces and gardens vanish\ninto air, and she is left all ashamed and deserted, and scorned by\ngods and men. Ah, sister, be warned by those who wish thee well, and\nflee from thy vile lot ere all is lost. Even yesterday, when we left\nthee, we saw a monstrous shape that glided after us through the wood,\nand we fled in terror, knowing it was thy lord, who would not have us\nnear thee. Come with us now, and be saved.\"\n\nWhen Psyche heard their words she was very troubled. Truly, 'twas\nstrange that her lord should be loath for her to see her sisters,\nunless, indeed, it was even as they said, and she was the prey of some\nterrible beast. Yet his kind and loving words and his tender thought\nfor her welfare and all the beauty that surrounded her gave the lie to\nsuch a thought.\n\n\"My dear sisters,\" she cried, \"I thank you for your loving fears for\nme, but it cannot be as you say. Though I have never looked upon my\nlord, these fair halls and gardens do but mirror forth the beauty of\nhis soul, and I know that he is true.\"\n\n\"Then why doth he hide his face? At least, if thou wilt not flee with\nus now, do but put him to the test when he comes this night. A glimpse\nat his form will tell thee that our tale is true; and if by some\nstrange chance it be not so, what harm can one glance do?\"\n\nThus they tempted her, and made her doubt her lord, though sore\nagainst her will. So it often happens that the pure of heart are\ntortured by the doubts which the wicked plant in their breasts. As\nlittle does a young bird in the greenwood suspect the hunter's snare\nas did Psyche in her loving innocence suspect the malicious envy of\nher sisters.\n\nBut they were filled with joy at the success of their plot, and when\nZephyr had borne them to the top of the cliff they could contain their\ngladness no longer, but fell upon each other's necks and kissed and\ndanced for glee.\n\nBut Psyche at their bidding made ready to look upon her lord that\nnight. Under a chair she placed a lighted lamp in readiness, and\nshrouded it about, that the light might not shine into the room and\nbetray her purpose. Trembling she went to bed that night, for she\nhated the deed she must do. At the usual hour her lord came and spoke\nlovingly to her, and kissed her, but her words died away upon her\nlips, and she shuddered at his embrace. In time he fell asleep, and\nhis breathing was gentle and even as that of a child sweetly dreaming\nin its innocence of heart. Then she rose up silently in the dead of\nnight, and walking softly to the chair, she took the lamp from\nbeneath and turned on tiptoe to the bed. High above her head she held\nthe light, that the rays might fall more gently on him as he slept,\nand with bated breath she drew near and looked on him. As she looked,\nthe blood rushed headlong through her veins, and her heart beat fast\nwithin her, and her limbs seemed turned to water as she bent forward\nto look more closely. For on the bed, wrapped in deep slumber, lay no\nterrible monster, as she feared, but the youngest and fairest of the\nImmortals--Eros, the great god of Love. The gleam of his golden locks\nwas as sunshine on the summer sea, and his limbs like the eddying\nfoam. From his shoulders sprang two mighty wings bright as the\nrainbow, and by his side lay his quiver and darts. As he moved\nrestlessly in the light of the lamp she heard her name upon his lips.\nWith a low cry she fell on her knees beside him, and as she did so her\narm grazed the point of an arrow placed heedlessly in the sheath. The\npoison ran like liquid fire through her veins, and set her heart\naflame, and with blazing cheeks she bent over and kissed him on the\nlips. As she did so the lamp trembled in her hand, and a drop of the\nburning oil fell upon his shoulder, and he started up and found her\nbending over him.\n\n\"Ah, wretched, wretched Psyche!\" he cried; \"what hast thou done?\nCouldst thou not trust me, who gave thee all the happiness thou hast\never known?\"\n\n\"My lord, my lord, forgive me! I would but prove to my sisters by mine\nown eyes' witness that thou wert not the monster that they dreaded.\"\n\n\"Thrice foolish maid! Knowest thou not that doubt driveth away love?\nDid I not tell thee that thy first look would be thy last? From a\nterrible fate I saved thee when Aphrodite bade me strike thee with my\nshaft and make thee love some terrible beast. When I went forth to do\nher bidding thy grace and beauty conquered me, and I took thee away to\nbe my bride; and in time, hadst thou proved worthy, my mother and all\nthe great gods that rule above would have forgiven me, and shed on\nthee the gift of immortality, to live with me for ever in the courts\nof heaven. But now all is lost, and I must leave thee.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"On the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and\nfairest of the Immortals.\"]\n\n\"Ah, my lord, great is my sin, but I love thee, and my soul is thine.\nOver the whole wide world would I wander, or be slave to the meanest\nof men, so be it I could find thee again. Ah, dearest lord! tell me\nnot that all hope is gone.\"\n\nOne moment he was silent, as though doubting her. Then he answered,\n\n\"One way there lieth before thee, if thy courage prove greater than\nthy faith--one only way, by which thou canst reach me--the long rough\npath of trial and sorrow. Heaven and earth shall turn against thee;\nfor men win not immortality for a sigh. Yet will I help thee all I\nmay. In thine own strength alone thou wouldst faint and die by the\nway, but for every step thou takest I will give thee strength for two.\nAnd now farewell! I can tell thee no more, neither linger beside thee.\nFare thee well, fare thee well.\"\n\nAs he vanished from her eyes Psyche fell senseless on the floor, and\nfor many a long hour she lay there, hearing and seeing nothing, as\nthough life itself had fled.\n\n\nVI\n\nMeanwhile the two sisters were waiting in a frenzy of impatience to\nknow whether success had crowned their evil plot. If the doubt they\nhad planted in Psyche's breast had borne fruit, and she had dared to\ndisobey her lord, they knew full well that all her happiness would\nhave vanished like a dream. Yet, fearing the anger of him whom the\nwinds of heaven obeyed, they dared not trust themselves to Zephyr, who\nhad carried them down before. So they wandered restlessly from room to\nroom, and peered from the windows, hoping that Psyche in her misery\nwould come to them and beg for succour in her evil plight. There was\nnothing they would have loved better than to spurn her from their\ndoors and taunt her on the retribution which had fallen on her vanity.\nBut all day long they waited, and yet she came not, so that at length\nthey parted and went each one to her couch.\n\nBut the night was hot and sultry, and the eldest sister lay on her bed\nand tossed restlessly from side to side, and could not sleep. At\nlength she went to the casement and drew aside the curtain and looked\nout on the starry night, and when she had cooled her burning brow she\nwent back to her couch. Just as she was about to fall asleep she felt\na shadow pass between her and the light from the window, and she\nopened her eyes, and her heart beat fast; for straight in the path of\nthe moonbeams stood Eros, the great god of Love, and his wings stood\nout black against the starlit sky as he leant on his golden bow.\nThough his face was dark in the shadow, his eyes seemed to pierce\nthrough to her heart as she lay still and trembling with fear. But he\nspoke softly to her with false, honeyed words.\n\n\"Lady, thy sister Psyche, whom I chose out from the daughters of men,\nhath proved false and untrue, and lo! now I turn my love to thee. Come\nthou in her stead and be mistress in my palace halls, and I will give\nthee immortality. Lo! even now Zephyr awaits thee on the mountain-top\nto bear thee away to my home.\"\n\nSo saying, he faded from her sight. Her wicked heart was filled with\njoy when she heard of Psyche's fall, and she rose up in the dead of\nnight and put on her gayest robe and brightest gems. Without so much\nas a look on the prince her husband she went out to the mountain-top.\nThere she stood alone, and called softly to Zephyr,\n\n\"O Zephyr, O Zephyr, O fair west wind, waft me, oh waft me away to my\nlove!\"\n\nWithout waiting she threw herself boldly down. But the air gave way\nbeneath her, and with a terrible cry she fell faster and faster, down,\ndown, to the gulf below, and was dashed to pieces on the rocks; and\nfrom the four quarters of heaven the vultures gathered and fed upon\nher flesh.\n\nAs for the second sister, to her, too, the god appeared and spoke\nfalse honeyed words, and she too went forth alone; and in the morning\nher bones lay gleaming white beside her sister's on the rocks below.\n\n\nVII\n\nWhen Psyche awoke from her swoon, she looked around her in\nbewilderment, for the scene which met her eyes was the same, and yet\nso different. The forest-trees waved their arms gently in the breeze,\nand whispered to each other in the glad morning light, and in the\nhedges the birds sang sweet songs of joy; for the skies were blue, and\nthe grass was green, and summer was over the land. But Psyche sat up\nwith a dull grief in her heart, feeling over her the dim shadow of a\nhalf-forgotten woe that meets those who awake from sleep. At first she\nwondered where she was, for her clothes were wet with dew, and looking\nround the still familiar scene, she saw the green glade in the forest,\nbut no shining palace at the top. Then like a flash she remembered the\nnight, and how by her doubt she had forfeited all her happiness, and\nshe lay on the ground and sobbed and prayed that she might die. But\nsoon tired out with weeping, she grew calmer, and remembered the words\nof her lord--how she could find him again only after long wandering\nand trial. Though her knees gave way beneath her, and her heart sank\nat the thought of setting out alone into the cruel world, she\ndetermined to begin her search forthwith. Through the dark forest she\nwent, and the sun hid his face behind the pine-tops, and great oaks\nthrew shadows across her path, in weird fantastic forms, like wild\narms thrust out to seize her as she passed. With hurrying steps and\nbeating heart she went on her way till she came out on the bleak\nmountain-side, where the stones cut her tender feet and the brambles\ntore her without mercy. But on and on she struggled along the stony\nroad, till the path grew soft beneath her, and sloped gently downwards\nto the plain. Here through green fields and smiling pastures a river\nwound slowly towards the sea, and beyond the further bank she saw the\nsmoke from the homesteads rise blue against the evening sky. She\nquickened her steps, for already the shadows from the trees fell long\nacross the fields, and the grass turned to gold in the light of the\ndying day. And still between her and shelter for the night lay many a\nbroad meadow and the silver stream to cross. As she drew nearer she\nlooked this way and that for a ford, but seeing none, she gathered\ntogether her courage, and breathing a prayer to the gods, stepped into\nthe water. But she was weak and faint with fasting, and at every step\nthe water grew deeper and colder, and her strength more feeble, till\nat length she was borne off her feet, and swept away by the hurrying\ntide. In her agony she cried out,\n\n\"O god of Love, have mercy and save me ere I die, that I may come to\nthee!\"\n\nJust as she was about to sink, she felt a strong arm seize her and\ndraw her up on the opposite shore. For a while she lay faint and\ngasping for breath; but as her strength returned, she heard close\nbeside her soft notes of music, and she opened her eyes to see whence\nthe sweet sounds came. She found herself lying beneath a willow-tree,\nagainst which leant a strange musician. For his head and shoulders and\narms were those of a man, but his legs and feet were thin and hoofed,\nand he had horns and a tail like a goat. His ears were pointed, his\nnose was wide and flat, and his hair fell unkempt and wild about his\nface. Round his body he wore a leopard's skin, and he made sweet music\non a pipe of reeds. At first she was terrified at the sight of this\nstrange creature, but when he saw her look up at him, he stopped\nplaying, and smiled at her; and when he smiled he puckered his face in\na thousand wrinkles, and his eyes twinkled merrily through his wild\nelf-locks, so that none could look on him and be sad. In spite of all\nher woes Psyche fairly laughed aloud as he began to caper round her on\nhis spindle legs, playing a wild dance-tune the while. Faster and\nfaster he went, and up and down, and round and round, till, with a\nlast shrill note on his pipe and a mad caper in the air, he flung\nhimself on the grass beside her.\n\n\"Have I warmed the blood back to thy heart, fair maid?\" he asked, \"or\nshall I dance again the mad dance that drives away cold and despair?\"\n\n\"Nay, merry monster, even now my sides ache with laughter. But tell\nme, who art thou, that savest damsels in distress, and drivest away\ntheir sorrow with thy wild piping and dance?\"\n\n\"I am the god of the forest and woodland and broad wide pasture lands.\nTo me the shepherd prays to give increase to his flocks, and the\nhuntsman for a good day's sport. In the evening, when the moon shines\nhigh o'erhead, and the sky is bright with stars, I take my pipe and\nplay my lays in the dim dark forest glades. To the sound of my music\nthe brook murmurs sweetly, the leaves whisper softly o'erhead, the\nnymphs and naiads forget their shyness, and the hamadryad slips out\nfrom her tree. Then the eyes of the simple are opened, and on the\ncool, green grass by the side of the silver stream the goatherd,\nthe neatherd and the young shepherd-lad dance hand-in-hand with the\nnymphs, and the poet, looking forth from his window, cries, 'How sweet\nare the pipes of Pan!'\n\n[Illustration: Faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round\nand round.]\n\n\"But when the dark storm-cloud rides over the sky, and the streams\nrush swollen with rain, with fleet foot I hurry through woodland and\ndell, and over the bleak mountain-tops; the crash of my hoofs on the\nrocks sounds like thunder in the ears of men, and the shriek of my\npipe like the squall of the wild storm-wind. And I rush through the\nmidst of the battle when the trumpets are calling to arms; but above\nthe blare of the bugle men hear the shrill cry of my pipes. Then the\narcher throws down his bow, and the arm of the spearman falls limp,\nand their hearts grow faint with panic at the sound of the pipes of\nPan. Nay, turn not from me in terror, lady,\" he added, as Psyche made\nas though she would flee, \"for I wish thee no ill. 'Tis gods mightier\nthan I who have made me goat-footed, with the horns and the tail of a\nbeast. But my heart is kindly withal, or I would not have saved thee\nfrom the stream.\"\n\nOnce more he smiled his genial smile, and puckered his face like the\nripples on a lake when a breeze passes over,\n\n\"Come, tell me who art thou, and how can I help thee?\"\n\nThen Psyche told her tale, and when she had finished Pan was silent\nfor a time, as though lost in thought. At length he looked up, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Thou seekest the great god Eros? I would that I could help thee,\nlady; but love once fled is hard to find again. Easier is it to win\nthe dead to life than to bring back love that doubt hath put to\nflight. I cannot help thee, for I know not how thou canst find him,\nor where thou must seek. But, if thou wilt journey further, and cross\nmany a long mile of pasture and woodland, thou wilt come to the rich\ncorn-lands and the shrine of Demeter, the great Earth Mother. She\nknows the secret of the growing corn, and how the rich fruits ripen in\ntheir season, and she will have pity on a maid like thee, because of\nher child Persephone, whom Hades snatched away from her flowery\nmeadows and dragged below to be Queen of the Dead. Three months she\nlives with him, the bride of Death, in the dark world of shades, and\nall the earth mourns for her. The trees shed their leaves like tears\non her grave, and through their bare branches the wind sings a dirge.\nBut in the spring-time she returns to her mother, and the earth at her\ncoming puts on her gayest robe, and the birds sing their brightest to\nwelcome her back. At her kiss the almond-tree blushes into bloom, and\nthe brook babbles merrily over the stones, and the primrose and violet\nand dancing daffodil spring up wherever her feet have touched. Go,\nthen, to Demeter's shrine; for if thy love is to be sought on earth,\nshe will tell thee where to go; but if to find him thou must cross the\ndark river of death, her child Persephone will receive thee.\"\n\nHe then pointed out to her the path to the village, where she could\nget shelter for the night, and Psyche, thanking him, went on her way,\ngladdened at heart by the genial smile of the wild woodland god.\n\nThat night she slept in a shepherd's cottage, and in the morning the\nchildren went out with her to point out the road she must go. The\nshepherd's wife, standing at the door, waved to her with her eyes full\nof tears. She had maidens of her own, and she pitied the delicate\nwanderer, for Psyche's beautiful face had shed a light in the rude\nshepherd's hut which the inmates would never forget.\n\n\nVIII\n\nSo Psyche went on her journey, often weak and fainting for food, and\nrough men laughed at her torn clothes and bleeding feet. But she did\nnot heed their jeers and insults, and often those who had laughed the\nloudest when she was a little way off, were the first to hush their\nrude companions when they saw her near. For her face was fairer than\nthe dawn and purer than the evening star, so that the wicked man\nturned away from his sin when he saw it, and the heart of the watcher\nwas comforted as he sat by the sick man's bed.\n\nAt length, as Pan had told her, she came to the rich corn-lands where\nDemeter has her shrine. Already the valleys were standing thick with\ncorn, for it was close on harvest-time, and on the hill-sides the\npurple grapes hung in heavy clusters beneath the tall elm-branches. As\nshe drew near the temple, a band of harvesters came out. They had just\nplaced the first-fruits of the corn in the shrine, and now they were\ntrooping to the fields, a merry throng of young men and maidens.\nPsyche stood back shyly as they passed, but they heeded her not, or at\nmost cast a curious glance at her ragged clothes and bruised feet.\nWhen they had passed her, and she had heard their merry laughter and\nchatter die away down the lane, she ventured to enter the temple.\nWithin all was dark and peaceful. Before the altar lay sheaves of\ncorn and rich purple clusters of grapes, whilst the floor was strewn\nwith the seeds and bruised fruits which the harvesters had let fall\nwhen they carried in their offerings. Hidden in a dark corner Psyche\nfound the temple-sweeper's broom, and, taking it, she swept up the\nfloor of the temple. Then, turning to the altar steps, she stretched\nforth her hands and prayed,\n\n\"O Demeter, great Earth Mother, giver of the golden harvest--O thou\nwho swellest the green corn in the ear, and fillest the purple vine\nwith gladdening juice, have mercy on one who has sinned. For the sake\nof thy child, Persephone, the Maiden, have pity on me, and tell me\nwhere in the wide world I can find Eros, my lord, or whether to the\ndark land I must go to search for him.\"\n\nSo she prayed, and waited for an answer; but all was still and dark in\nthe temple, and at length she turned sorrowfully away, and leant her\nhead against a pillar and wept. And, because she had walked many a\nlong mile that day, and had not eaten since dawn, she sank down\nexhausted on the ground, and gradually her sobs grew fewer and\nfainter, and she fell asleep.\n\nAs she slept she dreamt the temple was dark no more, but into every\ncorner shone a soft clear light, and looking round to see whence it\ncame, she saw, on the altar steps, the form of a woman, but taller and\ngrander than any woman of earth. Her robe of brown gold fell in\nstately folds to her feet, and on her head was a wreath of scarlet\npoppies. Her hair lay in thick plaits on her bosom, like ripe corn in\nthe harvest, and she leant on a large two-handed scythe. With great\nmild eyes she looked at Psyche as one who has known grief and the\nloss of loved ones, and can read the sorrows of men's hearts.\n\n\"Psyche,\" she said, \"I have heard thy prayer, and I know thy grief,\nfor I, too, have wandered over the earth to find the child of my love.\nAnd thou must likewise wander and bear to the full the burden of thy\nsin; for so the gods have willed it. This much can I tell thee, and no\nmore. Thou must go yet further from the land of thy birth, and cross\nmany a rough mountain and foaming torrent, and never let thy heart\ngrow faint till thou come to a temple of Hera, the wife of Zeus the\nAll-seeing. And if she find thee worthy, she will tell thee how thou\nmust seek thy love.\"\n\nSo saying, she faded from her sight, and Psyche awoke and found the\ntemple cold and dark. But in her heart she cherished the image of the\ngreat Earth Mother, with her large eyes full of pity, and set out\ncomforted on her journey.\n\nToo long would it be to tell of all her wanderings and all the\nhardships of the road, but many a moon had waxed and waned before she\nstood on the brow of a hill looking down on Hera's shining temple.\nDown the hill she went, and up the marble steps, and men stood aside\nas she passed, for her face was fairer than before, and she no longer\nshrank back like a hunted thing, but walked with the swinging gait of\nthose whose feet the kind earth has hardened, and the breezes of\nheaven have fanned the fire in their eyes. In her heart she knew that\nshe had conquered and borne the terrors of the path with no coward's\nfears, and she prayed that Hera might find her worthy of doing great\ndeeds to win back her lord. Then she stood before the altar, and made\nher prayer,\n\n\"O Hera, golden-throned, who sittest on the right hand of Zeus--O thou\nwho, when the marriage-torch is lit, doth lead the bride and\nbridegroom to their home, and pourest blessings on their wedded love,\nhave mercy on me, and show me where I may find my lord. Far have I\nwandered, and drunk deep of sorrow's cup, but my heart is strong for\nany task that shall win back my love to me.\"\n\nThus she prayed, and bowed her head before the great white statue of\nthe goddess. Even as she spoke, the statue seemed to change and rise\nfrom the ivory throne in the shape of a woman tall and exceeding fair.\nHer robes were like the clouds at sunset, and her veil like the\nmountain mist; on her head she wore a crown of gold, and the lightning\nplayed about her feet as she gazed at Psyche with eyes that pierced\nthrough to her soul.\n\n\"Psyche,\" she said, \"I have heard thy prayer, and I know that thou art\ntrue. For I am the wife of Zeus, who seeth all things, and he hideth\nnaught from me. Well I know that thou hast wandered far, and suffered\nat the hands of men. But greater trials await thee yet, before thou\ncanst find thy lord. Thou must be slave to foam-born Aphrodite, the\npitiless goddess of Love. And she will try thee sorely, and put thee\nto many a hard test ere she will forgive thee and think thee worthy of\nher son Eros, or of the godhead men gave thee long ago. But if thou\novercomest her wrath, thou hast overcome death itself, and naught can\npart thee from thy lord again. Go, then, to where she holds her court\nin a pleasant valley by the sea, and forget not that the gods bless\ntenfold those who waste not the power that is given them, how feeble\nsoe'er it be.\"\n\nSo saying, she faded slowly away till Psyche found herself standing\nonce more before the pale white statue. Then she turned and went\nthrough the silent temple, and out into the sunlight, and asked for\nthe road which would lead her to the sea and Aphrodite's pleasant\nvale.\n\n\nIX\n\nFor many a long day she journeyed, till at length she saw the blue sea\nfar away and a pleasant valley sloping to the shore. Here the waves\nbroke in laughing ripples on the beach, and the leaves danced gaily on\nthe trees in the soft west wind; for Aphrodite, born of the foam, the\nfairest of all the goddesses, held her court there, surrounded by her\nnymphs and maidens. As she sat on her golden throne they danced around\nher with their white arms gleaming, and crowned her with roses,\nsinging the while the song of her beauty.\n\n\"O foam-born Aphrodite, Queen of Love, fairest of Time's deathless\ndaughters. Thee the golden-snooded Hours kiss as they pass and the\ncircling Seasons crown with grace. Before thee all was fire and chaos,\nbut at thy coming like sped to like. The earth decked herself with\nflowers, and the nightingale sang to her mate on the bough, and in the\npale moonbeams youth and maiden sped hand in hand through the glade.\nThy smile is like sunshine on ripples, but the flash of thine eyes\nlike the death-bearing gleam of the lightning; for not always art thou\nkind. The heart of the scorner thou breakest, and art jealous for thy\nrites. Wherefore north and south and east and west men worship thee,\nboth now and evermore, O goddess of ten thousand names!\"\n\nAs Psyche drew near the nymphs espied her. With loud cries they rushed\nforward, and flinging chains of roses about her, dragged her forward\nbefore the throne.\n\n\"A prisoner, a prisoner!\" they cried--\"a mortal, O queen, who has\ndared to enter thy sacred vale! What fate shall be hers?\"\n\nAnd Psyche knelt trembling before the throne. She dared not look up,\nfor she felt the eyes of the goddess upon her, and the blaze of her\nanger burned through to her heart.\n\n\"Psyche, what doest thou here? Knowest thou not that long ago I loved\nthee not, because thy beauty taught men to forget my dues, and mine\nown son didst thou lead to disobey my word? By thy folly hast thou\nlost him; and glad am I that he is rid of thy toils. Think not that\nthy tears will move me. Those who enter my sacred vale become the\nlowest of my slaves, and woe to them if they fail to do the task I set\nthem. Verily, thine shall be no light one, or I am not the Queen of\nLove and Beauty.\"\n\n\"O lady,\" answered Psyche, \"'twas to be thy slave and to do thy will\nthat I came to thy sacred vale, if haply I might turn thy wrath to\nlove and prove myself not all unworthy of thy son. Great was my sin, O\ngoddess, when I doubted him; but many are the tears I have shed, and\nweary the way I have wandered in search of him--yea, even to the dark\nunderworld would I go, if so be it I could find him there. As for the\nworship that men paid me, Zeus, who searcheth all hearts, knoweth\nthat I lifted not mine in pride above thee. Nay, doth not every gift\nof beauty come from thee, O mighty one? If my face hath any fairness,\n'tis that it shadoweth forth thine image. Weak are the hearts of men,\nlady, and hard is it for them to look on the sun in his might. Be not\nangry, then, if through the mortal image that perisheth, they stretch\nforth blind hands towards the beauty that fadeth not away. And now on\nmy knees I beg thee, O queen, to set me thy hardest tasks, that I may\nprove my love or die for mine unworthiness.\"\n\nAs Psyche was speaking the face of the goddess softened, and she\nanswered her more gently.\n\n\"Thy words please me, maiden, for the gods love those who shrink not\nback from trial. Three tasks will I set thee, and if in these thou\nfail not, one harder than all the others will I give thee, whereby\nthou shalt win thy love and immortality. Go, maidens, and lead her to\nmy garner, that she may sort the golden grain ere the sun's first rays\ngild the pine-tops.\"\n\n\nX\n\nAt the command of the goddess the nymphs gathered round Psyche, and,\nbinding her hands with chains of roses, led her away to the garner.\nHere they set her free, and with peals of merry laughter bade her\nfarewell.\n\n\"Pray to the hundred-handed one, maiden, to help thee,\" cried one;\n\"thy two hands will not go far.\"\n\n\"Nay, an hundred hundred hands could not sort the grain by sunrise,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"Better to work with two hands,\" said Psyche, \"than idly to pray for\nten thousand.\"\n\nBut for all her brave answer her heart sank as she looked at the task\nbefore her; for she stood in the largest garner it had ever been her\nlot to see--wide and lofty as her father's palace-halls, and all the\nfloor was strewn with seeds and grain of every kind--wheat, oats and\nbarley, millet, beans and maize, which she must sort each after its\nkind into a separate heap before the sun should rise. However, she set\ndiligently to work, and minute after minute, hour after hour passed\nswiftly by, and the heaps kept growing by her side; yet for all her\ntoil 'twas but a tiny corner of the garner she had cleared. Feverishly\nshe worked on, not daring to look at what remained to do. Her back\nached, her arms grew stiff, and her eyes felt heavy as lead, but she\nworked as one in a dream, and her head kept falling on her breast for\nweariness, till at length she could hold out no longer, but fell fast\nasleep upon the cold stone floor.\n\nWhile she slept a marvellous thing happened. From every hole and crack\nthere appeared an army of ants--black ants, white ants, red\nants--swarming and tumbling over each other in their haste. Over the\nwhole floor of the garner they spread, and each one carried a grain of\nseed, which it placed upon its own heap and ran quickly back for\nanother. Such myriads were there, and so quickly did they work, that\nby the time the first ray of the sun peeped in at the windows the\nfloor was clear, save for the heaps of sorted grain standing piled up\nin the midst. The bright light pouring in at the window fell upon\nPsyche as she slept, and with a start she awoke and began feverishly\nto feel about for the grain. When her eyes became accustomed to the\nlight, how great was her joy and thankfulness to see the neat heaps\nbefore her! And as she looked round, wondering who could have been so\nkind a friend, she saw the last stragglers of the ants hurrying away\nto every crack and cranny.\n\n\"O kind little people,\" she cried, \"how can I thank you?\"\n\nShe had no time to say more, for the door was thrown open, and in a\ngolden flood of sunlight the nymphs came dancing in. Seeing the floor\ncleared and the bright heaps lying on the floor, they stopped short in\namazement.\n\n\"Verily thou hast wrought to some purpose, maiden,\" said one.\n\n\"Nay, she could never have done it of herself,\" said another.\n\n\"True, O bright-haired ones!\" answered Psyche. \"I toiled and toiled,\nand my labour did but mock me, and at length my strength gave way and\nI fell asleep upon the floor. But the little folk had pity on me, and\ncame out in myriads and sorted out the grain till all was finished.\nAnd lo! the task is accomplished.\"\n\n\"We will see what our queen shall say to this,\" they answered.\n\nAnd binding her once more in their rosy chains, they led her to\nAphrodite.\n\n\"Hast thou swept my garner, Psyche, and sorted the grain each after\nits kind?\" she asked.\n\n\"Thy garner is swept and thy grain is sorted, lady,\" she replied, \"and\ntherein I wrought the little my feeble strength could bear. When I\nfailed the little folk came forth and did the task.\"\n\nTrembling, she waited for the answer, for she feared that in the very\nfirst trial she had failed. But Aphrodite answered,\n\n\"Why dost thou tremble, Psyche? The task is accomplished, and that is\nall I ask; for well do I know the little folk help only those who help\nthemselves. Two more tasks must thou do before I put thee to the final\nproof. Seest thou yon shining river? On the other bank graze my flocks\nand herds. Precious are they beyond all telling, for their skins are\nof pure gold. Go, now, and fetch me one golden lock by sunset.\"\n\nSo saying, she signed to the nymphs to release Psyche, who went at\nonce towards the stream, light-hearted; for this task, she thought,\nwould be no hard one after the last.\n\nAs she approached the river she saw the cattle feeding on the further\nbank--sheep and oxen, cows and goats--their golden skins gleaming in\nthe sunlight. Looking about for some means of crossing, she espied a\nsmall boat moored among the reeds. Entering it, she unloosed the rope\nand pushed out into the stream. As she did so, one of the bulls on the\nfurther shore looked up from his grazing and saw her. With a snort of\nrage he galloped down the field, followed by the rest of the herd.\nRight down to the water's edge they came, lashing their tails and\ngoading with their horns, and an ill landing would it have been for\nPsyche had she reached the shore. Hastily she pushed back among the\nreeds, and pondered what she must do; but the more she thought the\ndarker grew her lot. To get one single hair from the golden herd she\nmust cross the stream, and, if she crossed, the wild bulls would goad\nher to death. At length in despair she determined to meet her doom, if\nonly to show that her love was stronger than death. As she bent over\nthe boat to loose the rope, a light breeze set the reeds a-whispering,\nand one seemed to speak to her.\n\n[Illustration: She unloosed the rope and pushed out into the stream.]\n\n\"Fair lady, leave us not, for those who reach the further shore return\nnot to us again.\"\n\n\"Farewell, then, for ever, gentle reed, for I have a task to do,\nthough I die in the vain attempt.\"\n\n\"Ah, lady, stay here and play with us. Too young and fair art thou to\ndie.\"\n\n\"No coward is young or fair, kind reed. And before sunset I must win a\nlock from a golden fleece yonder, or I shall never find my love\nagain.\"\n\nAnd she let loose the rope.\n\n\"Stay, stay, gentle maiden. There I can help thee, for all my life\nhave I watched the golden herds, and I know their ways. All day long\nthey feed in the pleasant pasture, and woe to those who would cross\nover when the sun is high in heaven. But towards evening, when he is\nsinking in the far west, the herdsman of Aphrodite cometh and driveth\nthem home to their stalls for the night. Then mayest thou cross with\nsafety and win a lock from the golden herd.\"\n\nBut Psyche laughed aloud at his words.\n\n\"Thou biddest me steal the apples when the tree is bare. Thy heart is\nkind, O reed, but thy tongue lacketh wisdom. Fare thee well.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, lady. Seest thou not the tall ram yonder by the\nthorn-bush? Sweet grows the grass beneath its shade, yet to reach it\nhe must leave a golden tribute on the thorns. Even now there is a lock\nof his fleece caught in the branches. Stay with us till the herds are\ngone, lady, and then canst thou win the lock of gold.\"\n\n\"O kindest of reeds, forgive my blindness. 'Tis more than my life thou\nhast saved, for, with the task undone, I should lose my love for\never.\"\n\nSo all day long she stayed and talked with the reeds; and they told\nher that often folk came down to the stream and pushed out for the\nother bank. But when the cattle rushed raging to the water's edge they\nturned back afraid, and dared not venture forth again, but went home\ndisconsolate. And so they heard not the whispering of the reeds nor\nlearnt the secret of winning the golden lock.\n\nNow the shadows were falling fast, and away in the distance Psyche\nheard the horn of the herdsman and his voice calling the cattle home.\nAt the sound they lifted their heads, and made for the gate on the far\nside of the field. As soon as they were safely through, Psyche pushed\nout the boat and rowed to the other bank. Swiftly she made for the\nthorn-bush and picked the golden lock from the bough, and as the boat\nglided back to the reeds, the sun sank low behind the hills. Close at\nhand she heard the laughter of the nymphs as they came to see whether\nthe task were done. With a smile she drew the lock of gold from her\nbosom, and, marvelling, they led her back to Aphrodite.\n\n\"Thou hast a brave heart, Psyche,\" said the goddess, as she looked at\nthe golden lock at her feet.\n\n\"The bravest heart could not have won this lock, lady, without knowing\nthe secret which the reeds whispered to me.\"\n\n\"Well do I know that, Psyche. But 'tis only the pure in heart that can\nunderstand the voice of the wind in the reeds; and thus doubly have I\ntried thee. Take now this crystal bowl for thy third task. Beyond this\npleasant vale thou wilt come to a dark and barren plain. On the far\nside a mighty mountain rears his peak to heaven, and from the summit a\nspring gushes forth and falls headlong over the precipice down into\nthe gulf below. Go now and get me a draught of that stream, but see\nthat thou break not the goblet on the way, for its worth is beyond all\ntelling.\"\n\nIn truth, as she held it out, the crystal gleamed brighter than the\nrainbow. Psyche took the goblet, and the first rays of the sun found\nher already on the plain. Far away on the other side the mountain-peak\nrose barren and black against the sky, and she hurried on as fast as\nher feet would go, lest night should fall ere she had filled the\ngoblet. On and on she went, and at length she drew near to the\nmountain and looked about for a path leading up to the summit. But\nnaught could she see save rocks and boulders and masses of crumbling\nstones, and there was nothing for it but to set to work to climb the\nrough mountain-side. Clasping the goblet tightly in one hand, she\nclung to the rocks as best she might with the other, fearing at every\nstep that she would slip and break her precious burden. How she ever\nreached the top she never knew, but at length she stood, bruised and\ntorn, upon the summit. What was her dismay when she saw that the\nmountain-peak was divided by a mighty cleft, and across the abyss she\nsaw the stream of water gushing out from the steep rock a hundred feet\nand more below the summit! Even had she toiled down again and up on\nthe other side the rock fell away so smooth and sheer that a\nmountain-goat would have no ledge on which to rest his foot.\n\nPsyche sat down upon a rock to think what she must do, and the more\nshe thought the more she felt that her last hour had come.\n\n\"For the only way I can reach the water is to throw myself into the\nbottomless abyss, where the stream flows deep down into the bowels of\nthe earth; and I should be dashed to pieces, but perchance the King of\nthe Underworld would have mercy on me, and let my soul return but once\non earth to bear the crystal bowl to Aphrodite.\"\n\nSo saying, she stood and bade farewell to the earth and the pleasant\nsunlight and the fair flowers that she loved, and prepared to throw\nherself over the mountain-side. As she was about to spring from the\nedge, she heard the whirring of wings above her head, and a mighty\neagle flew down and settled on the rock beside her.\n\n\"Far up above thy head, in the blue sky, have I watched thee, Psyche,\nand seen thy labours on the mountain-side. Too brave and true art thou\nto go to thy death. Give me the goblet, and I will fill it. Knowest\nthou that yonder stream is a jet which springeth up from dark Cocytus,\nthe River of Wailing, which watereth the shores of the dead? No mortal\ncan touch of that water and live, or bear it away in a vessel of\nearth. But this goblet is the gift of Zeus almighty, and I am his\nmessenger--the only bird of heaven that can look on the sun in his\nmight. Give me the cup, then, and I will fill it, and bear it to the\nmountain-foot, that thou mayest carry it back in safety.\"\n\nWith tears of joy and thankfulness Psyche gave him the goblet, and as\nhe flew away across the dark chasm, swift as an arrow from the bow,\nshe turned and sped down the mountain-side, heeding not the stones and\nboulders, so glad was she at heart. At the foot she found the eagle\nawaiting her.\n\n\"O mightiest of birds, how can I thank thee?\" she cried.\n\n\"To have served thee, lady, is all the thanks I need. Farewell, and\nmay the gods prosper thee in thy last great trial.\"\n\nAnd he spread his mighty wings and flew away. Psyche watched him till\nhe grew but a tiny speck in the blue of the sky. Then she turned and\nhastened across the plain with her precious goblet of water.\n\nThe nymphs danced put to meet her as before, and led her to Aphrodite.\n\n\"I see thou art fearless and true, maiden,\" she said, when Psyche had\ntold her tale. \"Twice hast thou faced death without flinching, and now\nmust thou go down to his own land; for no woman is worthy of my son's\nlove, if she possess not beauty immortal that fadeth not with passing\nyears. And she alone, the Queen of the Dead, can give thee this gift.\nTake this casket, then, and go and kneel before her and beg her to\ngive thee therein the essence of that beauty. When thou hast it, see\nthou hasten swiftly back and open not the casket; for if its fumes\nescape and overcome thee in the world below, thou must dwell for ever\nwith the shades.\"\n\nSo Psyche took the casket, and her heart sank within her at the\nthought of that dread journey. And the nymphs waved sadly to her as\nshe went away, for never yet had they looked on one who had returned\nfrom the dark land of shadows.\n\n\nXI\n\nAway from the pleasant vale went Psyche, for she knew full well that\nnowhere in that fair place could she find a way down to the world\nbelow. As a child, when she had lived in her father's halls, her nurse\nhad told her strange tales of dark and fearsome caves which men called\nthe mouth of Hades, and how those who went down them never returned;\nor if one perchance, more favoured than the rest, came back into the\nsunlight, his face was pale and his strength departed, and he talked\nwildly of strange things that none could understand.\n\nFar over the country-side she wandered and asked for the gate of\nHades, and some pitied her weakness, and some laughed at her\nfoolishness, and all men thought her mad.\n\n\"For beggar and king, for wise and foolish, the road to Hades is one,\"\nthey said, \"and all must travel it soon or late. If thou seekest it,\nin very sooth, go throw thyself from off yon lofty tower, and thou\nwilt find it fast enough.\"\n\nSadly she went and stood on the tower, for she saw no other way. Once\nagain she bid farewell to the earth and the sunlight, and was about to\nleap from a pinnacle, when she thought she heard a voice calling her\nby name, and she hushed her breath and listened.\n\n\"Psyche, Psyche,\" she heard, \"why wilt thou pollute my stones with\nblood? I have done thee no wrong, yet thou wouldst make men hate me\nand shun the rock on which I stand. As for thee, it would avail thee\nnought, for thy soul would dwell for ever in the Kingdom of the Dead,\nand the shadow of thyself, faint and formless, would glide about my\nwalls, and with thin-voiced wailing weep for thy lost love; men,\nhearing it, would flee from me, and for lack of the builder's care, my\nstones would fall asunder, and of all my proud beauty naught would be\nleft, save a mound of moss-grown stones and thy spirit's mournful\nguardianship.\"\n\nThen Psyche knelt and kissed the stones.\n\n\"Poor tower,\" she said, \"I would not harm thee. Thou canst tell me,\nperchance, some better way, for I must bear this casket to the Queen\nof the Dead, and beg for a gift of beauty immortal, that I may return\nto the earth worthy of my lord.\"\n\n\"Hadst thou thrown thyself over the edge, thou wouldst never have come\nto the Queen of the Dead, but wailing and forlorn wouldst have\nwandered on the shores of the Land that has no name; for betwixt that\nland and Hades flows the wide Stygian stream. One boat there is that\ncan cross it, and therein sits Charon, the ferryman of souls. Greedy\nof gain is he and hard of heart, and none will he take across who bear\nnot a coin of gold in their mouths. And the pale ghosts of those who\nhave died away from their loved ones, when none were by to pay the\nlast rites of the dead and place the gold coin in their mouths--all\nthese flock wailing around him and beg him with heart-rending cries to\ntake them over the stream. But to all their entreaties he turneth a\ndeaf ear and beateth them back with his oar. E'en hadst thou prevailed\non him and come to the palace of pale Persephone, thou couldst not\nhave entered in; for at the gates sits Cerberus, the three-headed\nhound of Hell, and none may pass him without a cake of barley-bread.\nBut his soul loveth the taste of earth-grown corn, and while he\ndevours it the giver may pass by unscathed.\"\n\n\"The coin of gold and the barley-cake I can get,\" she said, \"but how I\ncan reach the Underworld alive I know not.\"\n\n\"Not far from hence thou wilt find the cave men call the Gate of\nHades. In ignorance they name it, for no man hath proved where it\nleads. All the long years I have stood upon this rock have I watched\nthe entrance to that cave, and men have come up and looked inside, and\nthe boldest have entered in; but always have they come swiftly back,\nstaggering like drunken men, with pale faces and wild eyes full of\nfear, and about them hangs the smell of the noisome vapours that rise\nup from the gates of the dead; and the old wives sitting by the\nfireside nod their grey heads together. 'Tis the tale that our mothers\ntold us long ago and their mothers before them,' they mutter. 'Tis\nsurely the Gate of Hades, and those who venture too far will never\ncome back again.' They have guessed aright, maiden, and down that dark\ncavern lies thy path.\"\n\n\"But if those who venture too far never return, how shall I bear back\nthe essence of undying beauty in the casket?\"\n\n\"Instead of one gold piece, take two, and two loaves of fresh-baked\nbarley-bread. One gold coin to the ferryman and one loaf to the hound\nmust thou give as thou goest, and keep the rest for thy return, and\nfrom greed they will let thee pass back again. Tie the casket in thy\nbosom, and put the gold coins in thy mouth, and take the barley-loaves\none in each hand. See that thou set them not down, or the pale ghosts\nwill snatch them away; for the taste of the earth-grown meal giveth a\nsemblance of warmth to their cold forms, and for a brief space they\nfeel once more the glow of life. So by many a wile will they seek to\nmake thee set down the bread; but do thou answer them never a word,\nfor he who toucheth or answereth one of these becometh even as they\nare.\"\n\nPsyche thanked him for his counsel, and went forth to beg the two gold\ncoins and barley-loaves, and for love of her fair face the people gave\nit gladly. When all was ready, she set out towards the cave. About its\nmouth the brambles grew tall and thick, and the ivy hung down in long\nfestoons, for none had ventured in for many a long year. As best she\nmight, she cut a way through the prickly hedge, and stood in the\nshadow of the cave, and the drip of the water from the roof sent a\nfaint echo through the vaults. Through the dark pools she went,\nthrough mud and through mire, and the green slime hung like a dank\npall about the walls. On and on she hastened, till her head swam round\nand her heart turned sick within her; for round her floated a mist of\npoisonous vapour, which choked her and made her gasp for breath, and\nmonstrous shapes swept past--the Furies and Harpies and hundred-headed\nbeasts which guard the gate to Hades. Their cries and shrieks filled\nthe air, and every moment she shrank back, terrified that they would\ntear her limb from limb, as they bore down on her with the whirr of\ntheir mighty wings and their wild locks flying in the wind. Across the\npath they stood and waved her back, and her heart turned cold with\nfear; but she pressed onward with hurrying steps, and lo! when she\ncame up to them the shapes clove asunder like mist before the sun, and\nshe passed through them, and found they were but smoke.\n\nAnd so she came to the nameless land that lies betwixt earth and\nHades; a barren, boundless plain it is, with never a tree or shrub to\nbreak the dulness of its sad mud flats. Up and down it wander the\nshades of those whose bodies the kind earth has never covered, and\nthey wring their hands and wail to their dear ones above, to grant\nthem burial and the rites of the dead. For Charon, the grim ferryman,\nbeats them back from his boat, because they have no coin, and they are\ndoomed to dwell for ever in the land that has no name.\n\nAs she was crossing the dismal plain, an old man came towards her\nbeating a laden ass. Old and weak was he, and could scarce stagger\nalong by the side of the beast, and as he came up to Psyche the cords\nbroke that bound the burden on the ass's back, and the faggots he\ncarried were scattered all about. And he set up a dismal wailing, and\nwrung his pale withered hands.\n\n\"Gracious damsel, have mercy on an old man, and help me load my ass\nonce more.\"\n\nBut Psyche remembered the words of the tower, and she clung the\ntighter to the loaves of bread, though she longed to help the feeble\nshade.\n\n[Illustration: \"Help, help! I drown in this foul stream!\"]\n\nOnward she went till she came to the banks of the Styx, the mighty\nriver of Hell, by which the great gods swear. Nine times it winds its\nsnaky coils about the shores of Hades, and across its leaden waters\nCharon, the boatman of the dead, ferries backward and forward for\never. When he saw Psyche, he hailed her, and asked her for the coin.\nAnswering him never a word, she held out one coin with her lips, and\nas he took it she shuddered. For his breath was as the north wind\nblowing across the snow, and his eyes were like a fish's, cold and\ndull.\n\n\"Welcome, sweet maiden. 'Tis not often we get a fare like thee, my\nboat and I;\" and he laughed a hard, thin laugh, like the cracking of\nice in a thaw, and beneath her weight the boat creaked in chorus.\n\nOut into the stream he pushed with his pole, and then set to with his\noar, and the rise and fall of the blade made never a sound in those\ndull leaden waters. As they neared the middle of the stream, Psyche\nsaw two pale arms rise up above the waves, and the head of an old man,\nwho cried out to her piteously,\n\n\"Help, help! I drown in this foul stream! Ah, for pity's sake put out\none finger to save me!\"\n\nAnd Psyche turned aside to hide her tears; for the face was the face\nof her father, and his cries pierced through to her heart. As the boat\npassed by he sank with a moan beneath the waves, and she saw him no\nmore.\n\nAt length they reached the shore of Hades, and she saw three paths\nbefore her leading upwards from the landing-stage. As she stood, not\nknowing which to take, the old man beckoned to her.\n\n\"I know not whither thou art bound, lady, for thou bearest not on\nthee the mark of the dead. The souls of the wicked I know, for about\nthem fly the Furies, the avengers of sin, and hound them down the\nleft-hand path, through Periphlegethon, the river of fire--down, down\nto the utmost depths of Tartarus. And the souls of the brave shine\nforth like stars in the darkness, and they take the right-hand path to\nthe Elysian fields of light, where the breeze blows bright and fresh\nand the golden flowers are glowing. The middle path leadeth to the\npalace of pale Persephone, but that way only the gods and the children\nof the gods may go, or those who bear with them some token from the\nImmortals.\"\n\nThen Psyche showed him Aphrodite's casket, and turned up the middle\npath. Through a dark wood she went, and came out upon a plain. Here\nshe saw three aged women weaving at a loom, and they cried out to her\nin weak, quavering voices,\n\n\"Oh, maiden, thine eyes are young and thy fingers supple. Come help us\nunravel the thread.\"\n\nBut for the third time she turned aside, and went quickly on her way,\nand when she looked back over her shoulder the loom and the hags had\nvanished away.\n\nSo at length she came to the palace of Persephone. The roof and\ncolumns were all of pure silver, which shone with a pale light through\nthe murk and gloom, like the shimmer of pale moonbeams on a cloudy\nnight. Above the heads of the pillars ran a frieze of strange device.\nIt told of Night and Chaos, and of the birth of Time, and how the sons\nof Earth rose up against the gods in deadly battle, and were hurled\ninto the depths of Tartarus by the thunderbolts of Zeus. And it\nshowed how Prometheus the Titan gave fire to mortal men, so that they\nlearnt all manner of crafts, and became the masters of all living\nthings, and like the gods for wisdom. But they ruled by the law of the\nstrongest, and said that might was right, and begat the foul forms of\nPestilence and War and red-handed Murder. The other side told of the\nthings that would come to pass when Time and Death should be no more,\nand Love should rule the universe. On that side all the forms were\nfair and all the faces beautiful, and the breeze played through\npleasant places where the flowers never fade. In the centre of the\npediment, with mighty wings overshadowing either side, stood a mighty\nfigure, Anangke, great Necessity, the mother of gods and men. From the\none side she looked dark and terrible, and the world trembled at her\nfrown, but from the other she was fairer than the day, and by\nunchanging law she drew all things after her till they should be\nperfected.\n\nOn the palace steps before the doorway sat Cerberus, the three-headed\nwatch-dog. When he saw Psyche approaching he began to growl, and his\ngrowl was like the rattle of thunder far away. As she drew nearer he\nbarked furiously and snarled at her, baring his white gleaming fangs.\nQuickly she threw him one of the barley loaves, and while he was\ndevouring it, she slipped gently past, and stood within the courtyard\nof the palace. All was silent and deserted, and her footsteps, as they\nfell on the marble pavement, sent no echo through the colonnades; for\nit seemed that even sound must die in that lifeless air. She passed\nthrough great doors of bronze into a lofty hall. In the shadowy\ndepths of it she saw a great throne raised, and on it sat the Queen of\nthe Dead. About her stood two handmaids, and their names were Memory\nand Sleep. One fanned her with great poppy-leaves, and as she did so\nthe eyes of the queen grew heavy and dim, and she sat as one in a\ntrance. But when this one grew weary of fanning, anon the other would\nhold up before her a great mirror of polished steel, and when she\nlooked into it the colour would rush into her pale cheeks, and her\neyes would glow like coals of fire, for in the flash of the steel she\nsaw earth's flowery meadows, and remembered that for three months only\ndid she live in the gloom and the shade; and she knew, moreover, that\none day the circling seasons would stay their course, and decay and\ndeath would pass away, and when that time came she would return no\nmore to the murk and gloom, but dwell for ever in the sunshine and the\nflowers. A magic mirror is that which Memory holds, and few are there\nwho can bear to look on its brightness, but those whose eyes are\nstrong gaze into its depths, and learn that knowledge and remembrance\nare one.\n\nWith timid steps did Psyche cross the hall, and knelt upon the steps\nof the throne.\n\n\"Child of Earth, what dost thou here?\" asked the queen. \"This is no\nplace for living souls.\"\n\n\"O mighty one, 'tis a boon I beg of thee,\" said Psyche, and drew from\nher bosom Aphrodite's casket. \"Give me, I pray thee, the gift of\nundying beauty in this casket, that I may return above worthy of my\nlord.\"\n\n\"'Tis a great boon thou askest. Nevertheless, for thy bravery's sake I\nwill give it thee. For many are they who set out to find it, but few\nhave the heart to come so far.\"\n\nThereupon she took the casket in her hands, and breathed into it, and\nher breath was as the smoke of incense on the altar.\n\n\"Take it and return swiftly whence thou earnest, and see thou open it\nnot till thou comest upon earth. For in the land of the dead my breath\nis death, but above it is life and beauty immortal. Fare thee well.\"\n\nWith a glad heart Psyche rose from her knees, and sped through the\nsilent palace. She threw the second loaf to Cerberus as she passed,\nand for the second coin of gold Charon took her once more across in\nhis boat. This time no sad phantoms cried to her for help, and she\nknew that it was for the sake of the earth-grown meal that they had\nstood in her path before.\n\nAt last she stood once more in the sunlight, and joy lent wings to her\nfeet as she sped across the plain and away to Aphrodite's pleasant\nvale. With the casket in her hand, she knelt before the throne, but\nAphrodite put out her hand and raised her up.\n\n\"Kneel no more to me, Psyche, for now thou art one of us. But open the\ncasket and drink into thy very soul the life and beauty that will\nnever die.\"\n\nHer smile was brighter than sunshine on the shimmering waves, and the\ntouch of her hand made Psyche's blood run like fire through her veins.\nScarce knowing what she did, she opened the casket. The fumes rose up\nin a cloud about her head, and she knew no more till she felt herself\nmoving upwards, upwards. As life came slowly back she opened her eyes,\nand looked into the face of him she had seen but once. His rainbow\nwings were spread above her, and his strong arms held her close, and\nhe looked into her eyes with the look that mingles two souls into one.\n\n\"Beloved,\" he whispered, \"Love has conquered all things. In thy\ndarkest hour of trial I watched over thee, and gave thee strength, and\nnow we two will dwell for ever in the courts of heaven, and teach the\nhearts of men to love as we love.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHero and Leander\n\n\nOne sunny day in April long ago, a maiden sat in a lonely tower\nlooking out across the Hellespont. At her feet the blue ripples lapped\nlazily on the beach and played a soothing lullaby upon the stones, and\nthe white-sailed ships floated slowly down the stream from Sestos,\ncarrying their rich freights of corn and merchandise. To the north she\ncould see the port of Sestos, with the great walls running down from\nthe city to the harbour, and the masts of the ships as they lay at\nanchor by the quay. Across the water, facing the tower, stood Abydos,\nwith its palaces and houses nestling white at the foot of the low\ngreen hills. So narrow is the sea that runs between Sestos and Abydos,\nand so swiftly does the current flow, that the ancients used to think\nit was a great river running down from Propontis and the stormy\nEuxine, and emptying their overflowing waters into the wide \u00c6gean\nmain. So they called it the broad Hellespont, for the rivers of Greece\nwere but narrow streams beside it.\n\nAs she looked across the sunlit waters the maiden sighed, and turned\nwearily to an old dame who sat spinning in a corner of the room.\n\n\"Good mother,\" she said, \"how many years didst thou say we two have\nlived in this wave-washed tower?\"\n\n\"'Tis close on twenty years, my dear, since I brought thee here, a\ntiny babe in my arms.\"\n\n\"Twenty years!\" sighed the maiden. \"Twenty centuries had passed by\nmore swiftly in the bright busy world out yonder. How long is a\nwoman's life, good nurse?\"\n\n\"With the blessing of Heaven she may live for four score years, my\nchild.\"\n\n\"Four score years--four times as long as I have lived already! I can\nwell dispense with the blessing of Heaven.\"\n\n\"Nay; hush, hush!\" cried the old woman, and stopped her spinning\nhastily. \"What ails thee, Hero? Thou wast never wont to speak such\ndreadful words.\"\n\nThe girl threw herself on her knees beside her, and laid her head upon\nher lap and sobbed. The old nurse drew her fingers tenderly over her\nlong black hair, and waited for the storm of passion to be spent.\n\n\"I am tired--tired of this lonely life,\" sobbed the maiden. \"Why am I\nshut up here, all alone?\"\n\n\"Thou knowest the reason full well, my child. If thou goest forth into\nthe world, a great sorrow will come upon thee, and drive thee to death\nin the flower of thy youth. Such was the oracle of the gods concerning\nthee. Thy mother--poor young thing!--scarce lived to hold thee to her\nbreast, and when she died she put thee in my arms. 'Take her away,\nnurse, far from the haunts of men, and never let her out into the\ncruel world. Go, live with her in some lonely tower by the sea, and\nmake her a priestess to pitiless, foam-born Aphrodite. Night and day,\nas soon as she can lisp a baby prayer, let her burn incense before the\naltar of the goddess, and perchance she will have mercy on her, and\nsave her from her fate. Full well I know that 'tis with her it rests\nto strike down my child or to save her, even as it was she, the\ngoddess of Love, who laid her cruel hand on me, so that now I lie\na-dying. Ah! save my child from the fate that has been mine.' I did as\nshe bade me, and surely we have not been unhappy, thou and I,\ntogether, all these years?\"\n\nAnd she stroked the girl's cheek tenderly, and sighed as she thought\nhow, for many months past, it had grown paler week by week.\n\n\"Ah, think me not ungrateful!\" cried Hero. \"Thou knowest that I love\nthee, and would never leave thee. But my heart is restless, and I long\nto set foot beyond this tower and see a great town and streets and the\nfaces of my fellow-men.\"\n\nThen she rose from her knees, and led the old nurse to the window.\n\n\"There!\" she cried, pointing towards Sestos; \"dost thou see where the\nwhite highway runs down into the city--how a crowd of pilgrims throng\ntowards the gate? See, too, the steep pathway that winds upwards from\nthe harbour--how the folk move ever one way, up, up, to the temple of\nAphrodite on the hill! How often have I watched them year by year as\nthey gather together for the great feast of Adonis! Yet I, who all my\nlife long have been Aphrodite's priestess--I have never been inside\nher temple or joined with those who throng from far and wide to pay\nher worship at this glad season. Verily, the goddess hath good cause\nto be angered with me if I neglect her dues. Good nurse, let me go\nto-morrow and join in the procession of the maidens, and let me lay my\ntribute of flowers before her altar, that she may bless me and save me\nfrom my evil fate.\"\n\nBut the old nurse was very troubled at her words.\n\n\"My child, thou hast thine own shrine within the house where thou\ncanst burn incense and offer up flowers to Aphrodite. She will answer\nthy prayers as well from here as from the crowded temple in the town.\"\n\n\"Then why do men build her great pillared temples, and throng from far\nand near to keep her feast, if the fireside shrine and the simple\nprayer would please her as well? Nay, she loveth rich gifts and music\nand singing and the heads of many bowing as one man before her image.\nAh, nurse, let me go--let me go.\"\n\n\"My child, why wouldst thou go when thou knowest that the world can\nonly bring thee sorrow? Stay here with me in peace.\"\n\n\"Nay, there is no peace here for me. Aphrodite is angry, and she will\nslay me by a slow and cruel death if I do not keep her feast this\nyear. Should I, her priestess, stay away, when even the meanest of the\nfolk gather together in her honour? All these years I have not gone,\nand now she will stay her hand no more. As for the world and its\ncruelty, fear not for that. Thou thyself shalt go with me, and stay by\nmy side till I join the procession of priestesses and maidens. Then I\nwill go up with them to the temple, and in their midst I shall be as\nfar from the world as in this tower. I long to stand within the great\nwhite temple and hear the chanting of the priests. I long to see the\ngleaming image of the goddess, and the statue of the risen Adonis, and\nthe altars sweet with incense and flowers. Ah, nurse, let me go, and\nall the rest of the year, till the glad season comes round once more,\nI will stay with thee in this tower and pine no more.\"\n\nSo piteously did she beg that the old nurse had not the heart to\nrefuse, though she feared what might come of it. But she tried to\ncomfort herself with the thought that perchance, after all, the maiden\nwas right, and that Aphrodite was killing her by a slow and cruel\ndeath, because she had never kept her solemn feast-day.\n\nThe next day broke bright and fair, and Hero, as she looked out from\nthe window, was filled with joy. In the grey dawn she had risen, and\nsat looking anxiously across the narrow sea towards Abydos and the low\nline of hills on the further shore.\n\n\"O Helios,\" she prayed, \"bright and beautiful, shine down upon the\nearth this day, and fill the hearts of all with gladness; for it is\nAphrodite's solemn feast, and the greatest day of all my life.\"\n\nAnd her prayer was not unanswered. Slowly the grey dawn turned to\nsaffron, and the golden disc of the sun rose over the silent hills and\nscattered the rosy clouds north and south before him. With a cry of\njoy Hero turned away from the window and ran to rouse the old dame in\nthe other room.\n\n\"Nurse, nurse!\" she cried, \"the sun is shining, and the world has\nawaked from sleep. It is time to pick the roses and the lilies fresh\nwith dew and weave them into garlands for the goddess. Come up, up,\nand out with me to the garden.\"\n\nWithout waiting for an answer, she tripped down the turret-stair and\nout into the garden, and the old nurse sighed and followed slowly\nbehind. In the golden morning they gathered the roses and lilies, and\nwove them into garlands and posies, and heaped up the loose flowers in\nbaskets. When all was ready they set out for the town. Though it was\nyet early, the streets were thronged with pilgrims and folk hurrying\nthis way and that to the houses of their friends and kinsmen. Yet,\ndespite the bustle and confusion, there were few who had not leisure\nto turn and watch the maiden and the old woman hastening along.\n\n\"It is Hebe come down from the courts of heaven,\" they said--\"she who\ngiveth to the deathless gods eternal youth and joy. None can look on\nher face and be sad.\"\n\nAnd, indeed, all the sunshine of the morning seemed reflected in\nHero's face, so glad at heart was she. It was small wonder that men\nturned and looked at her; for she walked as one of the Immortals, full\nof dignity and grace. No evil thing had ever touched her or left its\nmark upon her soul. But in a fair garden she had grown to womanhood,\nwhere the breeze made music in the plane-trees and the waves beat time\nupon the shore, and on the hill behind, the tall dark cypress-trees\nkept silent watch above her. No angry word had ever reached her ears,\nbut as long as she had lived the love of one faithful heart had\nshielded her. And now, though she knew it not, the call of life had\ncome to her, as it comes to every living thing, and with eager, open\narms she was answering it. In the midst of that bustling city crowd,\nshe was like a fair flower that brings into some restless sick-room\nthe scent of sunlit meadows and the murmur of dancing streams. As she\nwent she laughed and talked merrily to the old nurse beside her, and\never and anon a flower would fall to the ground from the laden basket\nshe was carrying; and one of the crowd would quickly pick it up and\nplace it in his bosom, and carry away in his heart something of the\nmusic of her laughter and the sunshine of her eyes. The old nurse when\nshe saw it was filled with fear, and hastened faster along; but Hero\nsaw none of these things, nor knew that she was different from other\nfolk.\n\nAt length they reached the temple on the hill and went into the\nchamber where Aphrodite's priestesses and maidens were to meet; and\nthey clad her in long white robes, and put a garland on her head. When\nall were ready, they went and stood before the priest of the temple,\nand he told them in what order they should walk. First came little\nchildren, who scattered rose-leaves in the path, and behind them\nfollowed maidens, playing upon pipes, and singing the hymn to Adonis\nand Aphrodite. Next came the priest himself, and on either side of him\ntwo maidens walked, and held above his head great fans of peacock's\nplumes. After him followed the long procession of priestesses and\nmaidens, incense-bearers, and the keepers of the sacred doves. Last of\nall came Hero, bearing in her hands a garland of roses and lilies to\nlay at the feet of the great white statue of the goddess. Each year\nthe fairest of the maidens was chosen for this task, and in all that\nthrong of youth and beauty there was none more fair than she. With her\neyes upon the gleaming statue that shone from the dark recess above\nthe heads of the worshipping people, she walked as one in a dream.\nAbout her the smoke of the incense rose, and to her ears the voices of\nthe singers sounded low and far away as they sang,\n\n\"All hail to thee, Aphrodite, foam-born Queen of Love! Adonis, all\nhail to thee! Thou art risen--thou art risen on this joyful day. No\nmore doth Death detain thee in his dark domain, nor Persephone\nenshroud thee in the mists of the sad Underworld. But thou art come\nback to the daylight and the flowers; and Aphrodite has dried her\ntears. For once more by thy side, O fairest of mortal men, she wanders\nthrough green glades and echoing caverns and by the shore of the\nsilver sea. The joy of her love has kindled the light of summer suns,\nand like the west wind in the roses, her breath stirs gently in the\nhearts of men, and the eyes of every living thing reflect the\nbrightness of her smile. All hail to thee. Aphrodite! Adonis and\nAphrodite, all hail!\"\n\nAs they sang, the choir of maidens parted this way and that, and Hero\nwalked up between them bearing the garland in her hands. When she had\nlaid it at the feet of the statue, the procession formed once more,\nand, with music and singing, they marched round the colonnade to the\nshrine of Adonis, and all the people followed after. Still Hero walked\nas one in a dream, and when the procession halted, she turned into a\nsmall recess and leant against a pillar to rest; for her part was\ndone, and the people pressed so close about her in the aisle that she\nwas glad to stand aside till the procession moved again. With her eyes\nclosed, she drank in the sweet scent of the incense and flowers, and\nlistened to the chanting of the choir, as they sang of the love of\nAdonis and Aphrodite. How Adonis, the beautiful shepherd, the fairest\nof mortal men, was loved by the Queen of Beauty, and all the long\nsummer days they shepherded his flocks together on the shady slopes of\nIda. But there came a time when the people of the country held a great\nhunt, and chased the wild boar through grove and dale till he was\nbrought to bay in the greenwood; and foremost of those who rushed in\nto the death was Adonis. But the boar in his agony turned round upon\nhim and pierced him in the thigh with his tusk, and wounded unto\ndeath, his followers bore him away and laid him in the shade of an\noak. With a wild cry of sorrow Aphrodite came and knelt beside him,\nand tried to call him back to life, but his head fell limp upon her\nbreast. The red drops of his blood were mingled with her tears, and\nboth turned to flowers as they fell upon the ground--his blood to the\ncrimson rose, and her tears to the pale, drooping windflower. All\nthrough the woods and the echoing hills a cry of mourning was heard,\n\"Adonis, Adonis! O weep for Adonis! Adonis is dead.\" But though his\nspirit had crossed the gloomy river and fled to the dark halls of\nHades, yet Death was not strong enough to hold him. The voice of his\nlove and of Aphrodite's pleaded together, and heaven and earth, and\nthe world of the dead, were moved by their prayer. Even the heart of\nPluto, the black-browed god of Death, was touched, and he said that\nfor only four months in the year must Adonis dwell beneath the earth,\nbut for the other eight he might live his old life with Aphrodite in\nthe sunlight. So he chose the season of the flowery spring-time to\ncome back to his love each year, and only the cold dark months of\nwinter did he spend in the land below. So did a great love prevail and\nconquer even the black lord of Death.\n\nAs Hero listened to the well-known tale, her heart was moved, and she\nfelt that if ever she loved, her love would be as the love of Adonis\nand Aphrodite--stronger than death; and she sighed as she remembered\nhow she must live lonely all her days in the tower by the sea.\n\nAs though in answer to her sigh, she felt a light touch upon her arm,\nand, raising her head, she found herself face to face with a young\nman. She was about to turn away in anger and return to her place in\nthe procession, but the look of his eyes held her spellbound, so full\nof fire and yet so sad were they. For a moment she stood gazing at\nhim, and the fire of his eyes seemed to light another in her heart and\nset her whole frame aglow. The hot blood rushed to her face, and she\nlowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled beneath her, so\nthat she leant back against the pillar for support.\n\n\"I ask your pardon, gentle lady,\" said the man; \"forgive my rudeness.\nThough thou knowest me not, I have known thee for many a long year,\nand day and night have I prayed the gods that I might meet thee face\nto face. This day Aphrodite has heard my prayer. If I have seemed\npresumptuous, forgive me. 'Twas the goddess nerved my arm to touch\nthee.\"\n\nAnd he stood with bowed head before her, awaiting her reply.\n\n[Illustration: She lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs\ntrembled beneath her so that she leant back against the pillar for\nsupport.]\n\n\"Who art thou, stranger?\" asked Hero. \"Thou mistakest me, surely, for\nsome other maid. Never till this day have I set foot beyond my tower,\nand to that lonely spot cometh no man, nor have I ever spoken with\nsuch as thee before.\"\n\n\"My name is Leander,\" said the stranger, \"and I dwell in white Abydos\nacross the water. Full well do I know thy lonely tower; for as I ply\nto and fro between Sestos and Abydos on my father's business, I pass\nclose beneath its walls, and day by day have I seen thee sitting at\nthy window looking out across the sea. Ah, lady, be not angry with me!\nThe first day I saw thee thy beauty set my heart aflame, and since\nthen I have lived for thee alone.\"\n\n\"Thy words stir me strangely, sir,\" answered Hero. \"I know not what to\nsay to thee.\"\n\n\"Thou art not angry, then?\" he cried. \"Thou wilt let me speak my love?\nAh, maiden, all these years have I loved thee with a true heart's\ndevotion! If my love could find but ever so faint an answer in thy\nheart, I would be content.\"\n\nAnd he raised his eyes full of hope and joy to her face. But she\nturned aside her head to hide the answering fire of her eyes.\n\n\"Alas, sir!\" she said, \"mine is a heart that must never beat for any\nliving man. I am doomed to dwell in yonder tower lonely all my days,\nfor if I go forth and mix with the world, I shall die by the curse of\nHeaven before my time.\"\n\n\"I have heard thy tale, lady; for even the most secret things are\nnoised abroad by rumour. Far be it from me to bring the curse upon\nthy head. If thou couldst give me thy love, there would be no need for\nthee to come forth into the world. I have thought of that. Each day we\nwould live our lives as we have done till now. But at night, when none\nwould miss me, I would come to thee. No living soul should know my\nsecret--no, nor yet the lifeless boards of my boat; for even dumb wood\ncan tell a tale if need be. Nay, these two arms shall bear me. Look\nnot fearful, lady. Full often have they borne me to and fro across\nthis narrow sea from mere love of sport. With thee as the prize they\nwould bear me twice as far.\"\n\nAs he spoke he held them out towards her, and, indeed, they were\ngoodly arms to look upon, and his face and form did them no shame\neither.\n\nThen Hero raised her eyes and looked him full in the face.\n\n\"Leander,\" she said, \"I know not what charm or magic thou hast used,\nbut I am as clay in thy hands. 'Tis not thy words have conquered me;\nin thy reasoning I could find many a flaw. Though one short hour ago I\nhad never seen thee, yet now I feel that I have known thee always, and\nthat life apart from thee were worse than death.\"\n\n\"Ah, Hero!\" he cried, and took her hand in his; \"the gods have heard\nmy prayer. Though thine eyes had never seen me, the voice of my heart\nreached thee long ago, and thy soul came out to mine. 'Twas in answer\nto my call that thou didst come to-day to the feast; for I prayed to\nAphrodite to move thy heart, or I knew not how I should ever speak to\nthee. This very night, beloved, I will come to thee, and the light\nwhich thou burnest in thy chamber shall be my guiding star.\"\n\n\"Ah, how carefully will I trim that torch to-night!\" she said, \"that\nit may burn brightly for thee. Every evening I put it there as a\nbeacon-light for the ships that pass in the night; but to-night it\nshall burn for thee--for thee alone.\"\n\nNow the service was ended before the shrine, and the train of people\nbegan to move once more. With one last look and a pressing of hands\nthey parted, and Hero returned to her place in the procession.\n\nWhen all was ended, the old nurse hastened to the robing-room. In the\ncrowd inside the temple she had lost sight of Hero, and her heart was\nfull of fears for the maiden. As she helped her to lay aside her\nfestal robes and garland, she gazed anxiously at her.\n\n\"Art thou content to come home with me, my child,\" she asked, \"or has\nthe glamour of the world ensnared thee?\"\n\n\"Ah, nurse!\" she cried joyously, \"never, never have I loved my tower\nso well. Let us hasten home, and in the quiet of the evening I will\ntell thee that of which my heart is full.\"\n\nThe old dame was glad when she found her so ready to go home, and they\nhastened silently through the crowded streets. As the sun was setting\nbehind the hills, and the shadows fell cool and long across the garden\nslopes, Hero sat at her nurse's feet, and told her of the story of\nLeander's love, and how that night would make them man and wife. When\nshe had ended her tale, the old dame took her face between her hands\nand looked her in the eyes.\n\n\"Hero,\" she said, \"this thing can never be. I have failed in my\ntrust. I have listened to thy pleading, and let thee out into the\nworld, and now through this man the curse of the gods will be\nfulfilled. Think no more of him. Let this day be to thee as though it\nhad never been, and thou mayst yet escape thy doom.\"\n\nBut Hero sprang to her feet.\n\n\"What!\" she cried; \"thou wouldst take away the only joy of my life\nnow, when I have just found it? Never! Curse or no curse, Leander\nshall be my wedded husband. Ah, nurse!\" she added, falling on her\nknees once more, \"methinks that over all the joys of life the gods\nhang a curse, and that it lies not with us poor mortals to choose\nbetween them. We must take both and live, or neither and be dead all\nour days on earth. Thou canst not hold me now; I have chosen my lot.\"\n\nNothing that the old dame could say availed to change her purpose, but\nwith her heart full of joy she put on her brightest robes and sat by\nthe lighted torch in her chamber, looking out across the sea, and\nwaiting for the night. True to his word, Leander came as soon as\ndarkness fell, and the old dame let him in by the turret door.\nCarefully she shaded her lamp with her hand so that the light fell\nfull upon his face, that she might see what manner of man he was. He\nhad dried himself as best he might with leaves and grass from the\ngarden, but his hair hung in damp clusters about his head, and his\ntunic clung wet about him. Yet, in spite of all, he was full fair to\nlook upon--a very god for strength and beauty. The old dame was\npleased when she saw him, for he had braved danger and discomfort to\nwin his bride, and he was a proper man withal, and worthy of so fair a\nmaid as Hero. So she led him upstairs and gave him change of raiment,\nand when he was ready she took him to Hero's chamber. There before the\nshrine of Aphrodite they plighted their troth, with but one faithful\nsoul to witness their vows, and the music of the wind and the waves\nfor their marriage hymn. To the two lovers the night fled by on wings\nof lightning, and all too soon they had to say farewell; for ere day\ndawned Leander must have reached the further shore. But parting was\nsweet sorrow for those who so soon would meet again.\n\nSo for many a day their lives ran smoothly on. Each night Hero lighted\nher torch; each night Leander was guided by its light, and, true to\nhis word, swam across the narrow sea that divided him from his wife.\nThe colour came back to Hero's cheeks and the brightness to her eyes,\nand she pined no more to leave the tower and go out into the world.\nWhen the old dame saw how happy she was, she was glad that things had\nfallen out so, and prayed that for many a long year the gods would be\npleased to bless their wedded love.\n\nMeantime Leander thought that no one knew of the nightly voyage save\nHero and the old dame her nurse, yet, for all his secrecy, there was\none who each night watched for him with a longing as great as Hero's\nown. In the depths of the blue \u00c6gean the daughters of Nereus\ndwell--the fair nymphs of the ocean. All the day long they play\nbeneath the waters, and dance hand in hand along the yellow sands and\nthe shell-strewn hollows of the sea. But at night, when the eyes of\nmen are darkened, they come up above the water and, cradled in the\nbosom of the waves, swing gently to and fro in the soft summer air;\nand the white gleam of their arms is the glint of ripples in the\nmoonlight. But when the wild storm-wind shrieks over the sea and the\nskies are dark and lowering, they forget their fears, and are filled\nwith madness. Then they chase each other across the black waters with\nwild locks flying in the wind, and woe to those who are out upon the\nhigh seas when the Nereids dance in the storm, for their dance is the\ndance of Death. The fire of the lightning runs hot in their veins as\nthey fly on the wings of the whirlwind, and wherever they go the waves\nhiss white and angry behind them. On the crests of the billows they\nrise and fall, and with the voice of the storm-wind they shriek aloud,\nand call upon all things to join in their dance; and they leap on the\ndecks of the travailing ships, and man, woman, and child they clasp in\ntheir cruel white arms, crying, \"Come, dance with us over the sea.\"\nWith a force that none can withstand they bear them away, and whirl\nthem round in the dance of Death, till they hang limp and lifeless in\ntheir arms. Then they toss them aside, nothing caring, to be washed\nashore in the wan morning light, or to sink to a nameless grave in the\ndepths of the ocean. Wherever they have passed wreck and ruin lie\nbehind; but they rush on, till the storm dies away, and they sink down\nexhausted to their home in the sea. Sometimes in the calm green waters\nbelow they find the bodies of those they have drowned in their frenzy,\nbut they know them not; for all that they did when the spirit of the\nstorm was upon them they forget, and it passes from their minds as a\ndream dies at break of day. So when they see the bodies lying still\nand lifeless, they call to them to come and play with them in the\nwater, and when they get no answer, they creep closer, and find that\ntheir eyes are closed. Then they know that, however long they call,\nthey will never get an answer, for they have learnt that those whose\neyes are closed have neither life nor voice, but are as the rocks and\nstones. But the Nereids know not sleep nor death, and when they look\nupon one lying dead they think he has always been so; and they do not\ngrieve nor weep for him, for the gods did not make them for grief, but\nto be the bringers of beauty wherever they go, and to turn all foul\nthings fair. So they gather the shells and the bright seaweeds, and\ncover the body where it lies, and it sleeps in beauty and peace in the\nhollows of the sea.\n\nOne of these same Nereids it was who saw Leander as he swam across the\nHellespont each night, and she loved him for his beauty, and longed to\nhave him as her playfellow. So she swam near to him on the crest of\nthe dancing waves, and called to him softly,\n\n\"O child of the green earth, come, come with me, and play with me and\nmy sisters in the depths of the blue \u00c6gean.\"\n\nBut he saw her not, nor listened to her pleading, for his eyes were\ndarkened. To him the gleam of her arms was the moonshine on the water,\nand the sound of her voice like the west wind on the waves.\n\nSo she followed him in vain across the channel, and when he went up\ninto the tower she sat below upon a rock, and watched for him to\nappear at the window; and she saw Hero sitting by the torch waiting\nfor her lover, and heard her cry of joy as she ran to greet him when\nhe came. Then again she called to them softly,\n\n\"O children of the green earth, come and play with me. I will crown\nyour heads with white sea-pearls, and you shall sit on coral thrones\nbeneath the waves, and be king and queen over all the nymphs of the\nsea.\"\n\nBut as they stood hand in hand at the window, they saw her not, and\nheard only the murmur of the ripples on the beach. So she sat calling\nin vain all the night long. Before the grey morning dawned Leander\ncame down, and when he reached the shore he turned and called,\n\n\"Farewell, Hero!\"\n\nAnd Hero, leaning from her window, answered,\n\n\"Leander, farewell!\"\n\nSo the sea-nymph learnt to know their names, and every night she would\nsit sadly calling them, and they heard her not.\n\nBut one night all the winds of heaven were loosed, and they rushed\nwith a wild shriek over the face of the waters, and lashed them to a\nfury of white-maned waves. With a deafening crash the thunder echoed\nthrough the hills, and the pale forked lightning lit the sky from east\nto west. With white cheeks and a heart full of fear, Hero knelt before\nthe shrine in her chamber, and prayed the gods to have mercy on the\nsailors out at sea, and, above all, to grant that Leander had not set\nout ere the storm began.\n\nMeanwhile Leander on the other side had seen the storm approaching,\nand he knew full well that when the seas ran high no man could swim\nthe channel and reach the other shore alive. So he sat by his window\nand longed for the storm to be spent and the day to dawn; for the\nnight without Hero was to him but misery. Across the stream he could\nsee the torch burning fitfully in the gale.\n\n\"The gods grant she think me not faithless,\" he said, \"for not going\nto her this night.\"\n\nAs he sat and watched, the storm grew wilder and more terrible. In the\nswirling, seething waters the Nereid danced with the madness of the\ntempest in her heart, up and down over the crested waves, with the\nstorm wind whistling through her hair. In the gleam of the\nlightning-flash she held out her arms to the shore and called,\n\n\"Come and dance with me. Leander, O Leander, come!\"\n\nAs she called, the east wind rushed with a wild shriek across the\nwater, and blew out the beacon light in Hero's chamber. Leander at his\nwindow saw the pale light disappear and return no more. A blinding\nflash of lightning rent the sky, and the rattle of the thunder sounded\nas though the mountains of the earth were falling. Then the spirit of\nthe storm came upon him too, and he heard the voice of the sea-nymph\ncalling with a wild, unearthly shriek,\n\n\"Leander, O Leander, come!\"\n\nAnd he thought it was the voice of Hero calling him in deadly peril.\nPerchance the thunderbolt had struck her tower, and it had crashed in\nruins about her and borne her with its falling stones into the rushing\nstream below. In a mad frenzy, scarce knowing what he did, he plunged\ninto the seething waters and struggled in the waves with the strength\nof despair. With a wild cry of joy the sea-nymph caught him in her\narms. \"At last, at last, thou hast heard my call,\" she said.\n\nUp and down through the hissing waves she bore him, now plunging down,\ndeep, deep, into the calm green water below, now rushing round and\nround in a whirlpool, now leaping from the crest of one white wave\ninto the boiling foam of the next, till he lay limp and breathless in\nher arms. She heeded not, but bore him on, ever on, across the water\ntill they came beneath Hero's tower. Then, rising on the crest of the\nwaves that beat against the wall, she called,\n\n\"Come, join with us in the storm-dance! Come, Hero, Hero!\"\n\nIn the breath of the east wind the stinging foam beat against the\nwindow like one knocking in wild alarm, and the echo of the\nsea-nymph's cry reached the maiden as she knelt before the shrine.\nFilled with terror, she rushed to the window and looked down on the\nseething water. A brilliant flash of lightning blazed across the sky,\nand for a moment all was light as day. On the bosom of a breaking wave\nshe saw Leander with his arms tossed helpless about him, and his head\nthrown back pale and lifeless, and above him stood the sea-nymph in a\nrobe of flashing foam. With a cry of despair Hero leaped to the sill\nand plunged into the roaring waves, and with her arms about Leander,\nshe, too, was tossed along in the dance of Death, till the storm died\naway and the nymph bore them down side by side to the floor of the\nblue \u00c6gean. There, true to her word, she set them on thrones of coral,\nand twined white sea-pearls in their hair, and in time the winding\nseaweeds and clinging ocean flowers wove a shroud of beauty about\nthem; and their bodies slept side by side in the fair ocean depths. So\ndid it come to pass that the curse of the gods was fulfilled.\n\nBut whether it was truly a curse or a blessing, who shall say? For\nthey lived and loved with a love that has become famous among men, and\nside by side they died. And does not the poet tell us of the islands\nof the blest, where the souls of the brave and true abide for ever;\nwhere the breeze blows always bright and fresh, and the golden fruits\nare glowing, and the crimson-flowered meadows before the city are full\nof the shade of trees of frankincense? In that far land there is no\ndeath nor parting, no sorrow and no tears, but those who have been\ntrue on earth dwell ever side by side. If the poet is right, Hero and\nLeander are there together, where no storm can reach them and no sea\ncan part them ever again.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nThe Sacrifice of Alcestis\n\n\nI\n\nOnce upon a time when Pelias, the crafty king, ruled in Iolchos by the\nsea, his nephew Jason came and tried to win back from him the land\nthat was his by right. But Pelias put him off with cunning words, and\nsent him forth to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece, thinking\nthat so he need never look upon his face again. Jason, therefore, who\nwas brave and stout of heart, and feared not man nor beast, sent a\nproclamation through the land, bidding all who loved adventure to join\nhim in the good ship _Argo_, and sail with him for the Golden Fleece.\nFrom the length and breadth of Hellas the heroes and sons of the\nImmortals flocked. Among them came Admetus of Pher\u00e6, in the first\nbloom of his manhood, and sailing with the Argonauts, he braved all\nthe terrors of that fearful voyage, and sat at his oar like a man in\nthe midst of deadly peril.\n\nAfter many a long day the remnant of the heroes who had sailed away\nfrom Iolchos returned with the Golden Fleece; and standing before\nproud Pelias, they laid it at his feet. In the great hall of the\npalace he received them sitting on his throne: on his right hand sat\nPhilomache his wife, and all about him stood his daughters, Peisidice\nand Asterop\u00e6a, Hippothoe, and Evadne, and Alcestis--maidens whose\nbeauty would gladden any father's heart. But fairest of the fair, as\nthe moon among stars, was Alcestis. When Admetus looked upon her face,\nhis heart was filled with love for her, and he swore a great oath that\nhe would live and die unwed, or else have Alcestis to wife.\n\nWhen Pelias had welcomed back the Argonauts, he bid the henchmen\nspread the tables in the hall, and soon the king with his son Acastus\nand all the menfolk were seated with the heroes round the well-filled\nboard. Against a pillar leant a minstrel, who sang of great deeds and\nheroes, and how the good ship _Argo_ had braved the terrors of the\nseas; while the daughters of Pelias bore round the sweet dark wine in\nflagons, and filled up the golden goblets. To Alcestis it fell to fill\nup the cup of Admetus, and as he held it out towards her their eyes\nmet, and she blushed beneath his gaze, and tried to hide her confusion\nin the folds of her veil. She was vexed with herself for the blush and\nvexed with him for having called it forth. Yet withal her heart beat\nfast, and the beating of it was not altogether born of wrath; for\nAdmetus was a proper man in the prime of life, who had sailed the high\nseas and seen danger face to face, and a brave man's admiration is\never dear to a woman's heart. So it came to pass that when Admetus\ndrew from his breast a lock of the Golden Fleece, which Jason had\ngiven him for a memorial, and held it forth to her, she refused it\nnot, but took it and hid it in the folds of her gown, and when Admetus\nwas gone away she would draw it forth and sigh as she looked at it.\n\nWhen Admetus saw that she did not altogether disdain him, he was glad\nat heart, and plucked up all his courage, and went and stood before\nthe king her father, and boldly asked her hand in marriage. As he\nspoke the king's brow darkened, for he loved not Jason nor any of his\ncrew. He had sent them forth, as he thought, to their death, and now\nthey were come home to wrest the kingdom from him and give it to the\nlawful heir. So he cast about in his mind for some excuse; for Admetus\nwas nobly born, and heir to a great kingdom, and he could not say him\nnay without good reason. In his trouble he bethought him of an ancient\noracle which a soothsayer had spoken when Alcestis lay a babe upon her\nmother's breast. Till now he had put aside all thought of it, and had\nlooked upon the seer as a mad prophet whose words were of no account.\nBut now that they would serve him in his need, he pretended that he\nhad always laid them up in his heart, and intended to abide by them.\n\n\"Young man,\" he said, \"they who would woo my child Alcestis must woo\nand win her as the gods have ordered. When she lay in her mother's\narms, there came a prophet and stood over her and spake, saying,\n'Child of evil fortune! whosoever thou weddest, woe to thy wedded\nlife, sobeit thy lord come not to bear thee away in a chariot drawn by\na lion and a boar.' Thus spake the prophet of the gods, and his words\nshall surely come to pass. Think not, then, that I will give my\ndaughter up to misery, or that thou hast but to look on her beauty\nand long for her, to have her for thine own. Nay; hence, away, and\nbethink thee how thou canst so beguile a lion's heart that he shall\nwalk tamely in the yoke beside his lawful prey. Then, and then only,\nwhen thou comest driving this strange pair shalt thou have Alcestis\nfor thy wife.\"\n\nAdmetus was sad at heart when he heard the king's words, and he set\nout sorrowfully home for the halls of Pheres, his father; for he\nthought that this thing was beyond the power of mortal man to do, and\nthat all his life long he must live in loneliness of soul, without\nAlcestis to wife.\n\nWhen they heard of their son's return, Pheres and Periclymene, his\nwife, came forth to greet him, and fell upon his neck and embraced him\nwith tears of joy. A great feast was prepared, and the altars of the\ngods sent up to heaven the savoury smoke of sacrifice, and all the\npeople rejoiced together at the return of the hero their land had sent\nforth.\n\nAfter all the feasting and merrymaking was ended, Pheres drew his son\naside to his chamber and said,\n\n\"My son, whilst thou hast been away in strange lands the hand of Time\nhath dealt heavily with me. My knees are weak beneath me, my hair is\nwhite with age, and all my strength is gone. Year by year it groweth\nharder for me to ride forth among my people, and the folk on the far\nboundary know my face no more, and I cannot say whether all is well\nwith them. Time is it for me to give my crown and sceptre to a younger\nman, and thou hast shown thyself worthy to rule. Take now the kingdom\nfrom my hand, that thy mother and I may pass our last years in peace\ntogether. A mighty kingdom have I builded up for thee, and worthy of\nmighty kings. See to it, then, that thou take to wife some princess of\na royal house and rear up a son to rule the land when thou art dead.\"\n\nAnd Admetus answered,\n\n\"The kingdom will I take from thee right gladly, my father, and rule\nit well and wisely so long as the gods shall give me strength. But as\nto taking a wife in my halls, that I can never do.\"\n\nThen he told him of his love for Alcestis, and how he could never hope\nto win her. But his father laughed and shook his head.\n\n\"'Tis the way of hot-headed youth to think that in all the wide world\none woman alone hath a fair face and bright eyes. Time and the beauty\nof another woman shall heal thy malady, never fear.\"\n\n\"Time and another woman may drive me to my death,\" he answered hotly,\n\"but never will I wed with any maid save Alcestis alone, whom I love.\"\n\nAnd he strode in anger from the room. But Pheres laughed the louder.\n\n\"Verily, young blood is the same the whole world through,\" said he.\n\nSo Admetus became King of Pher\u00e6, and ruled in his father's stead; and\nfrom the shores of the sea below Pelion to the land of the Molossians,\nthe mountain-folk of the Far West, his name was held in honour among\nhis people; for the land had peace in his day, and the valleys stood\nthick with corn, and by the fair-flowing waters of Boebe the shepherd\nplayed his pipes, and his flocks wandered browsing about the green\nmeadows. No stranger was ever turned away from the palace doors, but,\nhowever poor and ragged he might be, he was welcomed right gladly, and\nfeasted in the halls and sped upon his way with kindly words. So it\ncame to pass that through the length and breadth of Hellas, when men\nspoke of good cheer and hospitality, they always raised the cup in\nhonour of Admetus, the kindliest of hosts to rich and poor alike.\n\n\nII\n\nOne day as Admetus sat at meat in the great hall with his parents and\nall the household, a thing befell which changed the course of his\nwhole life. Inside the fire burnt brightly on the hearth, and the\ntorches on the walls sent a cheerful gleam through the shadowy\nvastness. But outside the wind howled about the corners of the palace\nlike Furies in their wrath, and anon it sunk down to a sob and a wail,\nwhile the lashing of the rain against the walls was as the whip of a\nfurious driver urging on his steeds. And lo! from out the darkness of\nthe storm there came a man, who stood in the doorway of the great hall\nand looked round about upon the company. Many a long mile must he have\ncome that day in the teeth of the gale, for from head to foot he was\nsplashed with mud, and the water ran from his ragged cloak in\nstreamlets, making a pool upon the floor. In his hand he carried a\nstaff; from a strap about his body hung a strange instrument such as\nno man in the hall had ever seen before; and he held his head up\nproudly and looked fearlessly about him, so that for all his sorry\nraiment he seemed no common beggar, but a young king in all his pride.\nA hush fell upon the people as they gazed, for his eyes shone\nstrangely bright, and in the darkness of the shadowy doorway his\nstature seemed greater than that of mortal man. When he had looked his\nfill and saw where Admetus sat, he strode across the hall with great\nswinging strides, and came and stood before him. As he walked the\npeople looked silently after him, for a great ship running before the\nwind was not more fair than he.\n\n\"O king,\" he said, and his voice rang clear and mellow through the\nhall, \"a suppliant I stand before thee, and my hand is red with blood.\nSay, wilt thou receive me in thy halls, or wilt thou turn me forth\ninto the storm and darkness?\"\n\nAnd Admetus marvelled at his words.\n\n\"Who art thou, stranger, to make this bold request? When a man's hand\nis stained with blood, 'tis to the altars of the gods that he should\nfly for cleansing, and not bring pollution to the palaces of kings.\"\n\n\"My name it behoveth thee not to know now, nor the deed I have done.\nLet it suffice thee when I say that not yet have the altars of that\ngod been built who hath the power to cleanse me from blood-guiltiness.\nNay, myself I must work out mine own cleansing, and for the waxing and\nthe waning of twelve moons it is decreed that I must serve a mortal\nman. Wilt thou take me for thine herdsman--yea or nay?\"\n\nAt this Admetus marvelled the more, and looked hard in the face of the\nstranger, but his eyes fell beneath the other's fearless gaze as those\nof a dog beneath his master's; and he answered him never a word, for\nhe felt that the thought of his heart lay writ beneath that piercing\nlook as clear as writing on a tablet. So he signed to his attendants,\nand they led the stranger forth and bathed him in warm water, and\nanointing him, clad him in fresh sweet linen and a tunic of silk. When\nall was accomplished, they led him back to the hall; and if the people\nhad marvelled before at his beauty, their wonder was increased twofold\nas they gazed at him now.\n\nWhen he had taken his fill of meat and wine, the stranger turned to\nAdmetus and said,\n\n\"My noble host, fain would I, in some poor measure, requite thee and\nthy household for kindness to a wanderer and a suppliant. I have some\nsmall skill in song, and have fashioned me an instrument whereon I\nplay sweet harmonies, that frame the melody of my song like the golden\nsetting of a gem. Have I thy leave to sing before thee in thy halls?\"\n\nAs Admetus bowed his head the stranger loosed the curious instrument\nfrom his girdle. The body of it was the hollow shell of a tortoise, in\nthe rim of which two twisted horns were cunningly fitted, joined\ntogether towards the top by a silver band. The space between the band\nand the furthermost edge of the shell was spanned by seven strings of\ngold. Lovingly he drew his fingers across the strings, and the chords\nrang soft and true through the silence of the hall, as he played a\nprelude to his song, and anon raised his voice and sang. He sang a\nstrange, sweet song, such as no man there had ever heard, and yet in\nthe depths of his soul each one of them felt that he had known it\nbefore he was born. For the song that the stranger sang was the song\nthat the stars first sang together when the universe was born, and\nlight sprang forth from the darkness. The melody they made that day\nvibrates for ever till the end of time. Musicians and artists and\npoets, and those whom the gods love, hear it and sing it, each in his\nseparate way, for those who have forgotten the sound of it. Deep in\nthe heart of every man it lies voiceless, till once at least in his\nlifetime the hand of the divine musician sets the chords vibrating,\nand opens the ears of the soul to hear the heavenly harmonies. Such\nwas the song that the stranger sang, and the people sat breathless\nbeneath his spell, and gazing deep into the red-hot heart of the fire,\nsaw strange dreams and visions. The very dogs awoke from their sleep,\nand crept closer to the music, and with their heads between their\npaws, gazed with unblinking eyes at the singer; and a magic thrill ran\nround the circle of them that listened, both man and beast, and welded\nand fused their souls in one, so that they felt that the life in them\nall was the same. When the song was ended, silence fell upon all\nthings--even the storm outside had ceased to rage; and Time stood\nstill as each man sat motionless in his seat, with heart too full for\nspeech. But at length the spell was broken, and with a sigh and a\nwhisper, they glided away to their rest, till Admetus and the stranger\nwere left face to face before the hearth.\n\n\"O divine musician,\" said Admetus, \"I know not who thou art. This only\ndo I know, that I could worship thee for the godlike beauty of thy\nsong, and follow thee and serve thee all my days.\"\n\n\"Nay, O king; 'tis destined that I must serve thee, and be thy\nservant for a year. To-morrow I will lay aside this silken doublet,\nand put on the dress that suits my station, and go forth with the\nother shepherds of thy flocks.\"\n\n\"O stranger, this thing can never be. Who am I that thou shouldst be\nmy servant?\"\n\n\"Thou art the man who turneth not the stranger from thy doors, though\nhis hands, like mine, be red with blood. As for me, I must work out my\ncleansing, as I told thee. For blood-guiltiness is mine, though I have\nnot sinned in the shedding thereof. But even Zeus himself, thou\nknowest, hath not reached wisdom and might, save by sore struggle\nagainst powers less wise than he. Happy am I if by the service of an\nupright man I may be purified.\"\n\nFrom that day forth the stranger became a herdsman in the halls of\nAdmetus, and in no wise would he be treated differently from the other\nservants. Clad in the coarse, rough homespun of a shepherd, he would\ngo forth at early dawn with the flocks, and at eventide return and sit\namong his fellows at the lower table. The hearts of all the household\nwere warmed towards him, and it seemed that in his presence no evil\nthing could live; for if ever a quarrel or strife of tongues arose, a\nlook from the stranger would take all the spirit from the combatants,\nand the matter fell dead between them like a ball at the feet of\nlistless players--nay, it seemed that he could read the very thoughts\nof their inmost hearts, and all malice and unkindness withered away in\nthe sunshine of his presence, like sprigs that have no root. Strange\ntales were told of how he shepherded his flocks, for the shepherd\nlads who went forth with him at dawn would lie at his feet in some\nshady grove whilst the flocks browsed close at hand; and he would take\nhis lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and earth, and at\nthe sound of his voice the hearts of all living things were moved.\nFrom the rocky heights of Othrys the lion came down and fawned at his\nfeet with bloodless fangs, and the spotted lynxes gambolled with the\nflocks. The shy fawns forgot their fears and left the shelter of the\ntall pine-woods, and danced about his lyre with fairy feet; for the\nmagic of his singing made the whole world kin, and the bow and the\narrow were laid aside in those days, and no watchman stood upon the\nheights to guard the herds from beasts of prey. But the flocks\nincreased and multiplied, and the earth brought forth rich harvests of\ncorn and fruit, and all the land had peace. So Admetus loved and\nhonoured his strange herdsman above all his fellows, and took counsel\nwith him, and followed his advice in all things.\n\n\nIII\n\nMeanwhile in Iolchos by the sea the old king Pelias had died. His son\nAcastus succeeded to his throne, and, as the custom was, held great\ngames in honour of his father. Far and wide through Hellas he sent the\nnews, and bade all men of might come and take part in the contests of\nrunning and wrestling and hurling the quoit. To the victors in each\ntrial he offered to give one of his sisters in marriage, but for\nAlcestis he made the contest doubly hard, for she was the fairest and\nnoblest of the daughters of Pelias, and he knew that the suitors\nwould flock without number for her hand if the task that was set them\nwas not well-nigh impossible. So he ordained that he who would win her\nmust prove himself the mightiest of all men in the field that day, and\nthat, moreover, he must come to bear away his bride in a chariot drawn\nby a lion and a boar; for so the king, her father, had ordered in\nobedience to the words of the prophet.\n\nWhen Admetus heard the news, the fire of his love for Alcestis burst\nforth into flame, and he felt that he could conquer the whole world to\nwin her. When he went to rest that night he could dream of nought but\nher, and of how all men would marvel when they saw him come to bear\nher away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. How he was to train\nthis strange yoke-pair he knew not, but he felt that Alcestis was not\none whom the gods had fated to live unwedded all her days. From the\nlength and breadth of Hellas men would flock to woo her, and surely\nfrom all the host one would be found to do this deed, and why should\nhe not be that one? So he argued, and dreamed sweet dreams of love and\nhappiness. But,--whether it be that sweet dreams take the heart from a\nman, because in sleep they put within his grasp visions which, on\nwaking, he finds to be but shadows of a shade, and he longs to clasp\nthem once again without the labour and toil which alone on earth can\nbring man happiness,--certain it is that when he awoke Admetus felt\nthat the task was hopeless, and that all his efforts would be vain.\nHis heart was in a tumult; his longing for Alcestis was as strong as\never, but the confidence of winning her was gone. He went out into the\nwoodland and threw himself on the grass beside the stream and gazed\nmoodily into the dark depths of a pool. Its silent stillness so\nmaddened him that he cast a pebble into the midst, and watched it as\nit slowly sank, feeling that it was an image of his own life. An hour\nor more he sat there idly playing with the pebbles and the water,\nheavy at heart, and a prey to morbid fancies. At length he was roused\nfrom his dreaming by the sound of music far away. Slowly it drew\nnearer, and from the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman\nplaying on his lyre, followed by his flocks and the wild creatures of\nthe forest. Without a word he came and sat beside Admetus at the\nwater's edge, and the animals lay grouped around. Then he changed the\nkey of his song from a merry dance-tune to a solemn lay, and the\nburden of his song was love--how love, if it were but strong and pure,\ncould conquer the whole world and accomplish deeds undreamt of. As\nAdmetus listened, the tumult of his heart was stilled, and once again\nthe flower of hope sprang up in his breast--not the phantom flower\nthat springs from idle dreams, but the bright living flower whose\nroots are firmly planted in the will to do and dare all things to win\nthe promised prize.\n\nWhen the herdsman had ended his song, he laid aside his lyre and gazed\nat Admetus.\n\n\"Dost thou love this maiden with all thy heart and soul, Admetus?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"I would face the whole world to win her,\" said he.\n\n\"Wouldst thou lay down thy life for her?\"\n\n\"Why ask so poor a sacrifice? My life without her would be a thing of\nnought.\"\n\n[Illustration: From the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman,\nplaying on his lyre.]\n\nAgain the herdsman gazed at him, and seemed to read his inmost soul.\n\n\"In sooth, I verily believe that, were death now to face thee, thou\nwouldst gladly die for her. Go forth, then, and win thy bride, and I\nwill help thee all I can. If thou fulfil the first part of the test, I\nwill see to it that thou fail not in the second.\"\n\n\"Master,\" cried Admetus, \"what meanest thou?\"\n\n\"Go thou and enter the lists for Alcestis, and show thyself the best\nman in the field that day. When they hail thee victor, and bid thee\ncome to fetch away thy bride, as her father willed, answer boldly that\nthe next day at noon thou wilt come in a chariot drawn by a lion and a\nboar to bear her away to thine own land. Then do thou hasten alone to\nthe wood that lies on the road to Pher\u00e6, five miles from Iolchos, and\nthere, by the temple of Hecate, wilt thou find me and the chariot\nready harnessed. Believest thou that I can do this thing?\"\n\n\"O master, do I not see before me the lion lying tamely by the sheep\nand the wolf by the side of the lamb? How can I doubt thy power?\"\n\n\"So be it, then. One word of counsel would I give thee: in the day of\nthy triumph forget not the gods.\"\n\n\"From my youth upwards have I honoured the gods, O stranger. How,\nthen, in the day of my triumph, should I forget them?\"\n\n\"May they deliver thee in the hour of thy wealth, Admetus, and save\nthee from blindness and hardness of heart! Above all, when thou art\ncoming home with thy bride, beware lest in thy haste thou pass by the\naltar of Hecate without the tribute of a prayer. Mighty is the\ngoddess, and in her hands are life and death. The sun with his glad\nwarm rays shines down upon the bosom of the earth, and draws forth the\nyoung corn from her breast, and with loving hand he paints the purple\nbloom of the grape. But when summer skies are cloudless, and the\nbreath of the breeze smites hot upon the land, men pray for rain and\nthe cooling veil of mists to hide the parched and thirsty fields from\nthe cruel shafts of his rays. Even so is the might of Hecate; in one\nhand she hath a blessing, in the other a curse. She may stand beside\nthy wife in the hour of her need, and bring thy children with joy into\nthe world (for the life of all young things she loveth); or if she be\nslighted, she can blast the parent-stock ere it hath time to bear\nfruit, and cut off the fair promise of the race.\"\n\n\"Surely, I will not forget her,\" said Admetus.\n\n\"An hour before noon, then, on the day after the contest of the\nsuitors, I will await thee in the wood. May the gods speed thee in thy\ntrial!\"\n\n\nIV\n\nOn the day before the games were to be held Alcestis went on to the\nroof of the palace, and looked down upon the great courtyard below.\nAll was bustle and confusion. The bronze gates stood wide upon their\nhinges, and a stream of people passed to and fro. The chariots of the\nsuitors thundered across the pavement. Through the colonnades\nre-echoed the clattering of horses' hoofs and the clanging of harness\nchains, and from his post at the gateway the warder shouted his orders\nto the pages and attendants. Far out across the country Alcestis\ngazed and traced the white roadway where it wound over the bosom of\nthe plain. He for whom she was looking had not entered the courtyard,\nand she strained her eyes to see whether, among all the folk who were\nwending their way towards the city, she could find him. But the palace\nstood high upon the hill, with the houses of the town nestling below,\nand the folk upon the road were like flies, so small and black they\nseemed upon the dusty highway. Many a long hour she watched upon the\nroof, and still he came not. At length the sun went down behind the\nmountains in a glory of crimson and gold, and the purple hills cast\ntheir shadow across the silent plain. Then Alcestis laid her head upon\nher arm, and great tears stole through her fingers, and fell upon the\ncold stone parapet.\n\n\"Ah me, the gods are cruel!\" she sobbed. \"They have planted the seed\nof love within my heart, and now they would have me tear it out. Hard\nis a woman's lot. In bitterness of soul she sits within, whilst out in\nthe great world men fight for her beauty, as though she were some\npainted image or lifeless weight of gold. On the slipping of a foot or\nthe cast of a die her fate may rest for weal or woe, and the happiness\nof her life hang upon the issue of a moment.\"\n\nThen she felt in her bosom for the lock of the Golden Fleece which\nAdmetus had given her, and drew it forth and kissed it.\n\n\"Alas, he has forgotten me! He is a great king now, and thinks no more\nof the maiden in whose eyes he looked when he first came back from his\nvoyage.\"\n\nSadly she put the lock back in her bosom, and turned and went down the\nturret-stair. It was close upon the hour when all the suitors were to\nbe feasted in the great hall, and with her sisters she was to sing the\np\u00e6an song at the pouring of the third libation. Full often had she\nsung it in her father's halls; for only unwedded maidens, pure and\ninnocent of soul, might sing it, and ask for blessings on their home\nand kindred, and return thanks to great Zeus, the saviour, for the\ngladness of a well-filled board and the happy faces of friends and\nkinsfolk round the hearth. Her heart was heavy within her when she\nthought that now for the last time this task would be hers, and that\nonly one more sun would set before she would be far away in a strange\nland, the wife of a man whose very name she knew not yet. Her one hope\nlay in the words of the prophet and the will of her father, that she\nshould wed that man only who could come to bear her away in a chariot\ndrawn by a lion and a boar; and from the depths of her soul she prayed\nthat all might find the task impossible.\n\n\"Better to die a maiden,\" she thought, \"than to be the prize of a man\nI do not love.\"\n\nAs she reached the bottom of the stair she heard her sisters calling.\n\n\"Alcestis, Alcestis, where art thou? The feast is wellnigh finished,\nand all men wait for us to sing the p\u00e6an song. Tarry no longer, but\nhasten and come.\"\n\n\"I come, I come,\" she answered. \"Yet the song of joy upon my lips will\necho like a dirge through the chambers of my soul.\"\n\nAnd the sisters marvelled at her, and shook their heads.\n\n\"She hath always wayward fancies,\" they whispered, \"and is different\nfrom other folk.\"\n\nTheir hearts were a-flutter with hope and joy, for on the morrow they\nwould each one be wedded to a brave man, and go to a strange new land,\nand be queens in their own palaces. So they took no heed of her words,\nbut tripped along the galleries with joyful feet, and took their\nplaces in the crowded hall. After them came Alcestis. Slowly, and with\nsad, unseeing eyes, she took her seat beside them.\n\nMeanwhile Admetus had tarried alone outside the city walls. He had\nsent his servants before him with his chariot and his gear to secure a\nstabling for his horses and a sleeping-place for himself in the\ncrowded alcoves of the king's palace. But his soul longed for peace\nand quiet, and he felt he could not face the noisy crowd before it was\nneedful. Time enough if he slipped into the great hall when the\ncompany was gathering for the feast. Only then might he hope to see\nAlcestis. So he turned aside into the quiet fields and wandered by the\nwinding stream. Behind him the dust rose in white clouds from the\nhigh-road as the chariots of the suitors thundered up towards the\npalace, and Admetus knew that many a brave and mighty hero would stand\nagainst him on the morrow. Yet hope burned high in his heart, and he\nfelt that his love for Alcestis was a power which his rivals lacked--a\npower which would nerve his arm and give him the strength of ten. The\ndesire of his heart went up to the throne of Zeus like the breath of a\ngood man's prayer; and Zeus heard the cry of his soul, and into his\nveins he poured of that fire which runs in the veins of the\nImmortals. On earth men know not what to call it, and they name it\nwith many names--inspiration, genius, and the spirit of prophecy, or,\nwhen it works too far beyond their understanding, they call it\nmadness.\n\nAs the sun was sinking low in the sky, Admetus turned up the steep\nroadway to the palace. In the courtyard he found his servants, and\nthey brought him water to wash with, and a change of raiment, and\nclothed him as befitted one who had come to woo a fair princess. As\nthe shades of evening fell he entered the great hall, and mingled with\nthe company, and when the tables were spread, he took his seat among\nthe rest. But when his neighbour spoke to him, he would answer at\nrandom, and ever his eye wandered restlessly up and down the hall to\nfind Alcestis. Now the feast drew to its close, and yet no womenfolk\nappeared. At last one of the serving-men drew aside the great curtain\nthat hung across the doorway, and as the daughters of Pelias entered\nAdmetus felt his heart leap in his bosom, and he leant eagerly across\nthe table. The moments that passed before Alcestis came seemed\neternity, and when at length she entered, her eyes were cast upon the\nfloor, and she saw him not. But when she had taken her seat, the\nsilent voice of his soul sped across the great hall, and found an echo\nin her heart, and she raised her eyes and looked at him, and for one\nmoment they two were alone in that crowded place.\n\nAnd now the wine was mixed, and each man held out his cup for the\npouring of the third libation. Then Alcestis rose from her seat, and\nher sisters played a prelude on their pipes. When the prelude was\nended she raised her voice and sang.\n\n\"O all-bestowing Zeus, Father Almighty, for the mercies thou hast\nshowered upon us, for the evil thou hast warded off, lo, with thankful\nhearts we make libation of the sweet dark wine! O friend of the\nstranger, who searchest out the secrets of men's hearts, midst the\nwhirlwind rush of the chariots and the dust of the wrestling-ring,\nstand thou beside the brave man and the true! Make firm his axle-pin,\nand the earth beneath him sure, and chain blind Fortune's hands. So\nshall the prize fall to the most valiant. To those whose lives must be\nmoulded by another's will, grant thou patience and an understanding\nsoul, O Lord, and may the desire of their heart be according to thy\nwill. O father of gods and men, cloud-enthroned, who ridest on the\nwings of the whirlwind, joy and sorrow by thee are blended into one\nharmonious whole. By the sunshine of thy mercy, by the scorching fire\nof thy wrath, open thou the blinded eyes of men to see the glory of\nthy works. All hail to thee, saviour and king most high!\"\n\nAs she sang the people marvelled, for her voice was as the voice of\nsome priestess of the gods filled with the breath of heaven.\n\nWhen the feast was ended, the pages took down the torches from the\nwalls, and led forth the guests to the shadowy alcoves where each\nman's couch was laid, and there was silence in the halls. On noiseless\nwings Sleep glided through the palace, and stood by each man's side.\nWith gentle hands she soothed his weary limbs, and put fresh courage\nin his heart for the contest of the morrow. But when she came to\nAlcestis she found her gazing out upon the starlit sky.\n\n\"My daughter,\" she said, \"come to my arms and lay thy head upon my\nbreast, and I will ease the trouble of thine heart.\"\n\n\"Ah, sweet Sleep, not to-night,\" Alcestis answered, \"for with Zeus a\nmortal's fervent prayer availeth much. I cannot stand beside Admetus\nin the lists, but at least he shall not fail for want of a true\nheart's prayer to-night.\"\n\nSo Sleep passed her by, and till the bright-haired dawn shone out in\nthe east Alcestis sat by the open window. When it was light she went\nto rouse her sisters, for early in the morning they were to lead the\nprocession of the maidens to the temples of the gods and lay wreaths\nand garlands before the shrines, while the men-folk gathered in the\nplain to watch the contest of the suitors.\n\nNow once more there was bustle and confusion in the city, and the\nstreets were thronged with eager folk hurrying to the lists. Ever and\nanon there was a shout, and the crowd parted this way and that, like\nthe earth before a ploughshare, as a chariot thundered over the stones\nbearing some proud suitor to the games. Last of all, when everything\nwas ready, came the king, Acastus, and took his seat beneath a canopy,\nand the people rose as one man, and greeted him with cheers. Then came\na herald, and blew a call upon his trumpet, and one by one the suitors\nmarched up and stood before the king, and with a loud voice the herald\nproclaimed each man's name and station and the contest he would enter\nfor that day. Truly it was a goodly sight to see them marching past,\nstrong men all, in the prime of life. Broad were their shoulders, and\ntheir limbs were straight and brown, and the rhythm of their marching\nwas like the swell of the sea. Never since the day when all the heroes\ngathered at the call of Jason for the search of the Golden Fleece had\nthere been such a goodly concourse of men in fair Iolchos. From all\nthe wide plain of Thessaly they flocked, from hill-girt Attica and the\nSpartan lowlands, from Argolis and the green valleys of Arcadia, and\nfrom the isles of the sea.\n\nAll the day long the people sat and watched the games, and ever and\nanon a shout went up to heaven when a strong man overthrew his\nadversary, or one swift of foot passed the others in the last lap of\nthe race. There was hurling of quoits, and leaping and wrestling, and\nbeneath the feet of the boxers the earth was trampled hard. Far away\nacross the plain the chariots flew, and the people shaded their eyes\nwith their hands, and strained to see which was foremost. But the dust\nrose in clouds about the horses' breasts, so that till they were close\nat hand no man could say who was leading.\n\nAt last the great day drew to a close, and once more the herald stood\nbefore the king and blew a call upon his trumpet. Each in turn the\nvictorious suitors came forward, and when the herald had proclaimed\nhis name and the contest he had won, the king placed a crown of leaves\nupon his head, and told him which of the daughters of Pelias was to be\nhis bride. Brave men were they all, and bravely had they fought that\nday, but mightiest among the mighty had been Admetus of Pher\u00e6. Last of\nall the victors, the herald called his name, and he came and stood\nbefore the throne; and the king placed the crown of leaves upon his\nhead and said,\n\n\"In token that thou hast proved thyself the mightiest in the field, I\nplace this garland on thine head, Admetus. Verily, the gods have stood\nupon thy side and filled thee with the fire of heaven, so that the\nstrength of thine adversary was turned to weakness before thy might.\nMay they grant thee, in like way, to fulfil the last part of the task;\nfor, of a truth, it would grieve me to see one so mighty depart\nwithout a prize.\"\n\nThen Admetus answered boldly,\n\n\"But one more sun shall set, O king, before Alcestis shall be my\nbride. To-morrow at noon will I come to bear her away in a chariot\ndrawn by a lion and a boar.\"\n\nAnd those who heard him marvelled at his confidence.\n\n\nV\n\nThe next day towards noon the king came forth and sat upon a throne in\nthe portico before the palace, and all the nobles and suitors stood\nround about and waited to see if Admetus would fulfil his word. As the\nsun stood high in the heavens there fell upon his ears a sound like\nthe moaning of the sea far away when a storm is at hand. Louder and\nlouder it grew, drawing nearer every moment, till at length, like the\nbreak of a mighty wave, a host of cheering citizens surged through the\ngreat bronze gates. Into the wide courtyard they poured, and then\nstood back upon either side, and, up the alley in the midst, drove\nAdmetus in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. Straight across the\ncourt he came, and, like well-trained steeds, the beasts looked\nneither to right nor left, nor heeded the cheers of the people. With a\njingling of bells and the rattle of harness-chains, they trotted\nbetween the ranks, and came and stood before the king.\n\n\"I have kept my word, O king, and have come to bear away my bride, as\nthe prophet of the gods ordained.\"\n\nThen the king rose up and greeted Admetus.\n\n\"Right glad am I to see thee, Admetus,\" he cried, \"and right glad that\nmy sister shall be thy bride. May the gods bless thy wedded life, even\nas they have blessed thy suit this day!\"\n\nThereupon the pages threw open the palace doors, and a chorus of\nmaidens came forth playing upon pipes, and singing a marriage hymn.\nLast of all came Alcestis, clad in the saffron robes of a bride, and\nto Admetus she seemed like the sun heralded by the stars of dawn.\nGently he took her hand and raised her into the car, and the people\npiled rich tapestries and vessels of gold and silver beside them for\ngifts of marriage. With a shouting and waving of hands the chariot\npassed once more across the court and down through the echoing\nstreets, till at length they two were alone upon the white highway.\nThe joy that was born of their hearts threw a magic light on all the\nland. The green grass waved in the meadows, the leaves danced gaily on\nthe trees, and from the thickets and bushes the birds sang songs of\ngladness. On and on they drove, as in a dream, heeding neither time\nnor distance. The glare of the dusty highway changed to the shade of\nthe woodland path, with green arches overhead, and a murmur of dancing\nstreams. Before the shrine of Hecate a shepherd had placed his\noffering, and was standing with his hands held high in prayer. But\nAdmetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine, nor remembered when last\nhe had stood there and taken his strange team from his herdsman.\nWithout a thought he passed the altar by. As the gleaming chariot grew\ndim in the distance, the shepherd turned and watched it, till the\ncurve of the road hid it from sight. Even then he stood and listened\nto the jingling of the bells, as though he thought that still it might\nturn back. But the bells grew fainter and fainter, till he heard but a\ntinkle now and again borne back on the wings of the wind, and at last\nhe could hear that no more. Sadly he turned back, and stood again\nbefore the shrine with outstretched hands, then silently disappeared\ninto the depths of the wood.\n\nOn went the two till the shades of night began to fall, and one by one\nthe stars came out in the sky. Now they drew near to Pher\u00e6. High up\nupon the hill the palace gleamed bright with many a torch, for\nmessengers had gone before to say that Admetus was coming with his\nbride, and all the folk had gathered together to greet him on his\nreturn. As they entered the city gates choruses of men and maidens\ncame forth to meet them, and up the steep hill the glad procession\nwound, with the singing of hymns and playing of pipes. When they\nreached the palace gates the maidens raised Alcestis in their arms,\nand bore her over the brazen threshold, that no evil omen might befall\nher as she entered her new home. Long and merry was the\nmarriage-feast, and ere it was over the night was far spent. But at\nlength the last libation had been poured, the last cup had passed\nround the board, and the maidens stood waiting to take Alcestis to the\nmarriage chamber. So she rose and went with them, and they decked her\nin the robes in which for the first time a young bride greets her\nlord. When all was ready, they took down the torches from the walls,\nand left her. Outside the door they formed in chorus to sing the\nlove-song till Admetus should come to his bride.\n\n[Illustration: Admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine.... Without\na thought he passed the altar by.]\n\nNot long did they wait. With eager steps he came and drew aside the\ncurtain from the doorway. In the middle of the chamber stood Alcestis,\nand never had she looked more fair. As the sweet notes of the\nlove-song stole softly through the door, she held out her arms to\nAdmetus. Her hair fell in a cloud about her shoulders, and her white\nrobe touched the floor. From the casement the pale moonbeams fell\nslanting down, and cast about her a halo of light. With the silver\nshimmer of her hair and the gleam of her outstretched arms, she seemed\nto Admetus a messenger of the gods come down by the ladder of light.\nWith a cry of joy he stepped towards her. As he did so a terrible\nthing befell. Between him and his bride there rose up two huge\nserpents, and as he rushed towards them they circled Alcestis about in\ntheir gleaming coils. The nearer he drew the more closely did they\nclasp her, and their forked tongues flashed like lightning about her\nhead.\n\n\"Back, back!\" she gasped, \"or they will strangle me.\"\n\nUnconsciously he fell back. As he did so the great beasts relaxed\ntheir grip, and fell down in shining coils upon the floor; but their\nheads waved to and fro above the ground, and when once more he took a\nstep forward, they rose up again about her with an angry hiss.\n\n\"Oh, leave me, leave me!\" cried Alcestis. \"The gods are angry, and\nwill not let thee touch me. Fight not against their will, or the\nserpents will slay me.\"\n\n\"Nay, with these hands will I strangle them,\" cried Admetus.\n\nAgain he rushed forward, and again, before he could cross the room,\nthe monsters had wound themselves about Alcestis with a clasp of iron,\nso that she could scarcely breathe. Just in time Admetus drew back, or\nthey would have squeezed the life from her. With a groan he turned and\nfled from the room, and the love-song changed to a shriek of terror as\nthe maidens scattered this way and that before him. With head bowed\ndown and wide eyes full of horror, he staggered on like a drunken man,\nand disappeared into the darkness of the silent hall. In terror the\nmaidens clung together, with whisperings like the twitter of\nfrightened birds. At length one more bold than her companions drew\naside the curtain from the door and looked into the chamber. Full in\nthe path of the moonbeams Alcestis lay stretched upon the floor. Her\neyes were closed, and her face was pale as with the paleness of death.\nYet there seemed nothing in the room that should have caused her to\nswoon away. The maiden called to her companions, and together they\nlifted Alcestis upon the couch, and ministered to her, till at length\nshe opened her eyes.\n\nAdmetus meanwhile had rushed through the deserted hall and out into\nthe moonlit court. All was quiet, save for one solitary figure, who\nwalked up and down in the shadow of the colonnade. As Admetus\nstaggered across the court, the man came out and stood across his\npath.\n\n\"Whither goest thou, O king?\" he asked.\n\nRaising his eyes, Admetus found himself face to face with his strange\nherdsman.\n\n\"My head burns from feasting in the crowded hall,\" he said, \"and I am\ncome out to get the cool night air.\"\n\nThe herdsman answered him never a word, but gazed at him with his\nstrange piercing eyes. And Admetus glanced this way and that, but\ncould not meet that steadfast look.\n\n\"Why do the gods torment me?\" he cried hotly. \"What have I done that I\nshould be tortured on my bridal night?\"\n\n\"Nay, think rather what thou hast left undone.\"\n\n\"Left undone?\" cried Admetus, and pointed to the altar in the centre\nof the court. \"Seest thou not the fire still red from the burning of\nthe sacrifice? Not here only, but throughout the whole city, do they\nsteam with the savoury smoke.\"\n\n\"Altars may steam while hearts are cold, Admetus. One fervent prayer\nbefore the solitary shrine availeth more than hecatombs of oxen slain\nwithout a thought. Did I not stand before thee in the path this day\nand lift my hands in prayer to Hecate? But with unseeing eyes didst\nthou pass me by, and the goddess is wroth at thy neglect, and her\nanger standeth between thee and thy bride.\"\n\nAnd Admetus stood with eyes downcast before him, and had never a word\nto say.\n\n\"Yet because I love thee I will help thee once again,\" the herdsman\nsaid. \"Go back upon thy road and offer now thy prayers. I too will\nintercede for thee, and methinks that the voice of my pleadings she\nwill not disdain.\"\n\nSlowly and sorrowfully did Admetus return along the road he had\ntravelled with so light a heart before. For three days and three\nnights he was not seen within the palace, and for three days and three\nnights Alcestis lay tossing to and fro upon her bed, with wild words\nupon her lips, and before her eyes fearful shapes that she alone could\nsee. On the fourth day Admetus came slowly up the hill. The dust of\nthe highway clung white about his clothes, and the sweat of weariness\nstood out upon his brow. Yet straightway he came and stood beside\nAlcestis, and took her hand in his. Then she opened her eyes and\nlooked at him, and for the first time since her marriage night she\nlooked on a face with eyes that could see. The fearful shapes and\nvisions fled away, and she smiled at him with tears of joy. Then\nAdmetus knew that his prayers had not been vain, and that Hecate had\nheard his cry, and given him back his wife.\n\n\nVI\n\nQuickly the days and nights sped by, and the palace was full of joy\nand happiness. At last the season came round that had brought the\nstrange herdsman to Admetus the year before. On the selfsame day of\nthe month he came and stood once more before him.\n\n\"Twelve moons have waxed and waned, O king,\" he said, \"since the day\nwhen first thou gavest me shelter in thy halls. The time of my\ncleansing is accomplished, and I am come to bid thee farewell.\"\n\n\"Farewell?\" cried Admetus. \"That is a bitter word in mine ears. Fain\nwould I have thee with me always. Yet have I no heart to beg thee to\nremain, for thou art mightier than I, and even to call thee guest and\nfriend would sound presumptuous in mine ears. Farewell, then. May the\ngods reward thee tenfold for the blessings thou hast showered upon my\nhouse!\"\n\n\"When first I stood within thy halls thou didst say to me, 'Stranger,\nwho art thou, and whose blood is on thy hands?' Dost thou not ask me\nthat question now once more ere we part?\"\n\n\"Master, I asked it then in ignorance of thee and of thy ways. To-day\nit lieth with thee to tell me or not as thou wiliest. If thou wouldst\nhide thy name from me still, I am content.\"\n\n\"Nay, I will tell thee, for 'tis meet thou shouldst know. The fame of\nthe deed I wrought has spread far and wide throughout the world\nwherever men speak with awe the name of Delphi. Thou knowest how in\nthe beginning Earth held the sacred shrine, and gave forth, from the\nmouth of her priestess, dark and dreadful oracles, and Chaos and Night\nhad their seats there, and the wingless foul Furies, the trackers of\nblood. Round about the awful spot the mountains re-echoed the voice of\nlamentation and the cries of human victims led forth to sacrifice; and\nlest at any time one strong of arm and stout of heart should come to\nwrest away the shrine from the powers of darkness, there lay before\nthe gates a guardian fierce and terrible--Python, the sleepless\ndragon. In and out and round about the portals he wound his monstrous\nlength, and his scales threw back the light like points of flashing\nsteel, and his eyes were like the red-tongued flame. No man in those\ndays could pass that dreadful portal, but, like a dim, uncertain echo,\nthe voice of the priestess floated down to the trembling folk below.\nAt last one day there came a shining one whose sword was the sunlight,\nand his arrows were darts of living fire. With the strength of his\nright arm he slew the Python, and stretched out his monstrous coils\nbeneath the hot sun's rays, till the flesh melted and rotted away, and\nonly his bones lay gleaming white upon the rocks, to show how once he\nhad guarded the shrine against all comers; and the victor took the\nshrine and made it his own, and placed his priestess there to utter\nforth true oracles to men when the divine spirit filled her breast.\nThe waters of the Castalian spring he purified, so that those who came\nmight wash away their guilt, and stand with pure hearts before the\nshrine. And over the green lawns beneath Parnassus he led the choir of\nthe Muses, the bright-haired sisters of poetry, and music, and\ndancing. Because their feet have touched the earth where Castalia has\nits fount, men say that those who drink of those waters are filled\nwith their spirit, so that the words that they speak and the songs\nthat they sing are immortal, and will live for ever upon the lips and\nin the hearts of men. He who did this thing and turned the darkness\ninto light stands here before thee now.\"\n\n\"Apollo!\" cried Admetus, \"lord and master!\" And he fell upon the\nground before him, and clasped him by the knees. \"Ah, forgive the\nblindness and presumption of my heart!\" he begged.\n\n\"Nay, there is nought to forgive. They that shed blood must pay the\nprice--yea, though it be the blood of a monster rightfully poured out\nupon the ground. Light was the cost of my purification, for thou art a\nkind master and an honourable man. But now my hands are clean, I go\nback to my seat on fair Olympus, where high above the clouds the\ndeathless gods dwell evermore in the clear, bright light of heaven.\nYet do I love thee, and will not forget thee. When the shadow of\ndespair falls dark across thy path, call on me, and I will help thee.\"\n\nSo saying, he bent forward and took Admetus by the hand, and raised\nhim up. Once more that piercing glance burned through to his very\nsoul; then the stranger turned and strode away across the palace\ncourt. Like one changed to marble Admetus stood and watched him go.\nThen with a start he rushed to the gateway, and looked eagerly down\nthe road. But though he shaded and strained his eyes, he could see\nthat familiar form no more. Only far away on the dim horizon the veil\nof clouds which hung about Olympus melted away beneath the sun's\nbright rays, and the snow-clad peak flashed clear and sparkling as a\ncrystal against the summer sky.\n\n\"Lo, even dread Olympus smiles a welcome to the god of Light and\nTruth!\" said Admetus.\n\nThen with a sigh he turned back into the palace.\n\n\nVII\n\nFor ten long years Admetus and Alcestis ruled in Pher\u00e6, and the gods\ngave them joy and happiness and two children to bless their wedded\nlove. And when Admetus looked back to the days of the past, he was\nwell pleased with the story of his life. Had he not held an oar in the\ngood ship _Argo_, whose fame had reached to the uttermost parts of the\nearth? By the strength of his arm he had won to wife the fairest maid\nin Thessaly, and brought her home behind a pair such as no man before\nor since had dared to yoke together. Moreover, through the length and\nbreadth of Hellas his house was famous as the home of hospitality and\ngood cheer. Not men alone, but great Apollo, the bright-haired god of\nLight, had been his guest--nay, his very servant. Was he not king,\ntoo, of a rich and fruitful land, in which year by year the earth\nbrought forth plenteous harvests, because the greatness of his name\nheld back the tide of war, and peace with unfettered feet walked\njoyously through field and city? When he remembered all these things,\nhis heart waxed big with vanity and pride, and he began to forget the\ngods and to look down upon his fellow-men, and think that he alone of\nall mankind had done great deeds, and that without him the world would\nbe but a sorry place. This pride it was that made him do a mean thing\nthat marred all the glory of his life.\n\nOne day Death came and stood beside him, and put his seal upon his\nbrow, and Admetus knew that he must die. When he felt that now he\nstood upon the threshold of Hades, the dim dark world of the dead,\nwhere high and low, rich and poor, strong and weak, wander for ever as\nvoiceless shades through the sunless groves, where kingship and\nslavery are one, his heart was turned to water, and his spirit called\naloud in his anguish,\n\n\"Apollo, O Apollo! Hear me in my sore distress, and deliver me from\ndeath.\"\n\nFar away on the sunlit peak of Olympus Apollo heard his cry, and swift\nas the lightning crosses the sky he came and stood beside him.\n\n\"What wouldst thou with me, Admetus?\" he asked. \"I have come in answer\nto thy prayer.\"\n\nThen Admetus raised his head, and pointed to his brow, and Apollo\ngazed sadly at him. \"I see the seal upon thy brow, my friend--the seal\nthat none may break.\"\n\n\"Ah, say not that, my lord! Am I not even now in the prime of my\nmanhood, when others look forward to many a long year of joyous life?\nWhy should I die before my time? My mother and my aged father still\nlive, and rejoice in the sunlight, yet no kingdom standeth by the\nmight of their right arm. The meanest slave within my palace is more\nfortunate than I. Why, out of them all, hath Death laid his hand on\nme?\"\n\n\"He is but the servant of the Fates, Admetus, whose ways neither gods\nnor men can understand.\"\n\n\"The Fates? Are they lower than the beasts, then, and will not listen\nto the voice of reason?\"\n\n\"The voice of man's reason is to them as the baying of jackals in the\nwilderness, Admetus.\"\n\n\"O god of Light, is there nothing that will touch their hearts? Canst\nthou by thy music turn the souls of man and beast, and soothe the fury\nof the whirlwind and the crying of the rain, and yet over them alone\nhast thou no power? Ah! by the love thou once didst bear me, go,\nstrike thy lyre before them, and sing thy song of magic. Surely they\nwill not withstand thee, but will put my life into thy hands in return\nfor the beauty of thy song.\"\n\n\"Because I love thee I will go, Admetus. Yet, if I go, it is because\nthey call me; and if I prevail, or if I fail, it is because they have\nwilled it long ago. Farewell.\"\n\nSo Apollo sped away on the wings of the wind, far, far away beyond\nearth's widest bounds, beyond the region of unmelting snow and the\nland of the midnight sun, beyond the ever-rolling stream of ocean and\nthe deserts of the air, till he came to the unchanging land where the\nthree Great Sisters dwell together, without beginning and without end.\nIn that land there is neither north nor south, east nor west. There is\nneither sun nor moon, night nor day, time nor change. On three great\nthrones of mist the mighty Sisters sit, and their forms are neither\nfoul nor fair. On their brows are crowns of sovereignty, and in their\nhands the destinies of man, which they sit spinning, for ever\nspinning, into the mighty web of Life. The first is Lachesis the\nChooser. From the tangled mass beside her she picks out threads of\nvaried hue and hands them to Clotho the Spinner, who weaves them into\nthe web upon her knees. On the other side sits Atropos the Unswerving\nOne. In her hands she holds a pair of shears, and as the ends of the\nthreads hang loose on the wrong side of the web, she cuts them off and\ncasts them at her feet.\n\nSo Apollo came and stood before them with his lyre in his hand. Softly\nhe touched the golden strings, then raised his voice and sang. At the\nsound of that magic song Lachesis forgot to hand the threads to her\nsister, the web dropped low on Clotho's knee, and the hand of Atropos\nfell lifeless by her side, and till the ending of the song Time itself\nstood still. While the magic of his singing held them spellbound\nApollo urged his plea.\n\n\"Almighty Sisters, from the ends of the world have I come, from the\nhaunts of mortal man, to ask a boon for one I love.\"\n\n\"Say on, Apollo. Thou hast turned our hearts to water by the magic of\nthy song. What wilt thou?\"\n\n\"In the fertile land of Pher\u00e6, Admetus lies a-dying. He is young, and\nthe love of life runs hot within his veins. He is a great king, too,\nand rules his subjects well and wisely, and loud will be the wail of\nthe people if he must die before his time. If my song has pleased you,\nmighty ones, O grant that he may live to a green old age.\"\n\n\"All mortals would live to a green old age, Apollo, and thou lovest\nmany among the sons of men. There would be no end to our bounty if for\nevery song we must grant thee a life. Nay, ask some other boon, for\nthy song has reached our hearts!\"\n\nBut Apollo turned sadly away. \"There is nothing else I would ask of\nyou, great Sisters. For this, and for this alone, have I come.\"\n\n\"On one condition only can we grant thee thy boon, Apollo. Thou sayest\nthat Admetus is a great king, and well loved by all his folk. If among\nthem all he can find one soul that will go to Hades in his place, we\nwill let him live on to a green old age. Surely we ask not much. Some\nslave who loveth not his life, or some old man whose grey hairs are a\nburden, will gladly die that one so wise and great may live on for his\npeople's joy.\"\n\n\"So be it, mighty ones. Yet methinks 'tis an empty boon thou hast\ngiven me, for men cling to life and the sunny days on earth, and\nAdmetus may seek far ere he find one who will cast it aside for the\ndarkness and gloom of the sad underworld. And, in any case, he is not\none to live on at the price of another's life.\"\n\n\"We can grant no more,\" they said.\n\nSo Apollo went back by the way he had gone; and he came and stood\nbeside Admetus, and told him the word of the Fates. When Admetus heard\nit he was glad.\n\n\"O God of Light, thou wast ever my friend, and now I shall owe my very\nlife to thee. How can I thank thee?\"\n\nBut Apollo looked through to his inmost soul. \"Dost thou accept the\ncondition, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"What else can I do, master?\" he replied.\n\n\"Thou canst die.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" cried Admetus; \"but why must I die before my time? With\nthe Argonauts I sailed the unknown seas; in the lists I have fought\nand prevailed against the flower of Hellas; and for twelve months a\ngod deigned to dwell beneath my palace roof. Surely my life is worth\nmore than most men's, and I do well to keep it while I may.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" said Apollo, but his face was stern and terrible, and\nAdmetus trembled at his frown. \"Go now, and find one who will die for\nthee.\" And he turned and left him.\n\n\nVIII\n\nWhen Admetus was left alone his heart was in a tumult. He felt the\nwrath of Apollo like the lash of a whip, and he knew that his anger\nwas just. When he looked back on his life, he was ashamed at the\nchange which long years of prosperity and peace had wrought in him;\nthat much manliness at least was left him. When he thought of the\ngreat deeds he had done in his youth, and how, when he had but sipped\nof its joys, he had been ready a hundred times to cast life lightly\naside, he felt like a thief slinking guiltily home by night, laden\nwith the spoils that will make himself rich and leave his friend poor\nand starving. If he took another's life as the price of his own, he\nfelt he would never be able again to look a man straight in the face.\nAnd yet he could live his life but once; and life, with prosperity and\nease, sunshine and riches, had become more dear to him than honour,\nmore dear than the love and esteem of his fellow-men. His very deeds\nof valour had become a snare to entice him to the path of meanness and\ndishonour, to make him hold another's life as a cheap price to pay for\none so great as he. So he quenched the last spark of manliness that\nstill struggled for life in his heart, and sent a proclamation through\nthe land, bidding all those who would die that their king might live,\nto come and stand before him in the palace, that he might choose\nbetween them; for he thought that many would be glad to die for him.\nFor many a long day he waited, and no man came. Then he sent forth\ntrusty messengers to stir the people's hearts; but they returned with\nwords instead of men.\n\n\"We will ride in the chase, we will sail the stormy seas, we will\nfight against our country's foes, and in all these things will we risk\nour lives to save the king. But we will not leave our wives and little\nones and the pleasant life on earth, for no cause save that another\nmay live beyond his fated time.\"\n\nSuch were the words of the people.\n\nThen Admetus sent for all his household--the slaves that had been born\nand bred within the palace. And they said that they would toil for\nhim all their days, but die for him they would not; for even the life\nof a slave was better than the endless years of gloom in the kingdom\nof the dead.\n\nThen the heart of Admetus grew bitter within him, and he hated the\nthought of death more than ever before, when he found that even the\nmeanest life was dear to the hearts of men. In his despair he turned\nto his aged parents, for he thought within himself,\n\n\"Surely one of them will be ready to die for their own son. At best\nthey have not many years of life, and if I die before them they will\nhave no son to bury them and perform the funeral rites and prayers, as\nonly a son can do for his parents.\"\n\nSo he went to Pheres his father, and begged that he would die in his\nplace. But his father answered,\n\n\"Dost thou think that because thou lovest the sunlight thy father\nloves it not?\"\n\n\"Nay, but in any case Death must lay his hand upon thee soon, whilst I\nam in the prime of life.\"\n\n\"Because the years that are left me are few, they are none the less\nsweet. Nevermore in the land of Hades shall I warm my old bones in the\nsun as I look forth upon the fruitful earth. So the years that are\nleft are doubly dear.\"\n\n\"Then, when thou comest to die, men will point the finger of scorn at\nthy grave. 'Behold the coward, who, though his hair was grey and his\nlimbs were feeble, yet refused to die for his own son!' Thy name will\nbe a byword throughout all Hellas.\"\n\n\"When I am dead it matters little what men shall say of me,\" said\nPheres.\n\n\"May the gods forgive thee for what thou hast said!\" cried Admetus,\nand turned away in wrath. For it was a dreadful thing for a Greek to\nsay he cared not what men would think of him when he was dead.\n\nThen Admetus went to his mother. But she, no less than his father,\nclung to life, and refused to die in his stead.\n\nLast of all he turned to his wife, Alcestis. From the beginning she\nhad been ready to die for him, for she loved him, and placed his life\nabove her own. But he had said there was no need that she should die\nand take away half the joy of his life, when another would do as well.\n\n\"It needs a great love to sacrifice life for the sake of another,\" she\nhad answered, \"and there is no one in all the world who loves thee as\nI do.\"\n\nNow he found that her words were true, and that he must either die\nhimself or take her life as the price of his own; and his self-love\nhad the mastery, though he tried to persuade his heart that he was\nliving beyond his appointed time for his country's sake and his\npeople's good. Yet at bottom he was not satisfied, and his heart grew\nbitter against all those who had refused to die for him, and he\naccused them of being the murderers of his wife. But he knew full well\nthat it was his own hand that was sending her to the grave in the\nflower of her life.\n\nAt last the day of doom arrived on which Alcestis was to die. Till\nthen she had put aside all thought of death, and had lived her life as\nthough no shadow hung over her; for she thought within herself,\n\n\"At least I will be happy my last days on earth. I shall have long\nenough to mourn for my life in the kingdom of the dead.\"\n\nBut now the last day had come she could put away the thought of death\nno longer. Before a gleam of light shone forth on the far horizon she\nwas up to greet the first rays of the sun, for she was a true daughter\nof Hellas, and she loved the glad sunshine and all that was bright and\nfair, while death and darkness and the gloom of the sad underworld\nfilled her soul with horror. For the last time she looked upon the\nfaint gleam in the east and watched it spread over the sky, and saw\nthe red disc of the sun as he rose from the way of the sea and made\nthe pale dawn blush. The clouds were tinged with glory, and the\nheavens were filled with light, and the earth awoke with a smile of\nflowers dancing in the glad morning breeze. Then she washed in the\nfresh fountain water, put on her gayest robes, and went and stood\nbefore the altar on the hearth, to pray her last prayer on earth.\n\n\"O lady Goddess! I am going far away across the dark river of Death,\nand for the last time do I make my prayer to thee. Ah, when I am gone,\nhave mercy on my children. Hard are the ways of the world, and they\nare young to be left without a mother's love. Put forth the right hand\nof thy pity, lady, and bring them to a glad old age. Let them not\nperish, as I must, in the bloom of their life, but give to my son a\nloving wife, and a noble husband to my daughter; and may they be happy\nall their days!\"\n\nThen she went through the palace and bade farewell to all the\nservants. To each one she gave her hand, even to the meanest slave of\nthem all, and spoke kindly to them. And they bathed her hand with\ntheir tears, for they loved their mistress, and knew that when she\ndied they would lose a good friend. As she went the children clung\nweeping about her skirts, for they, too, knew that she must die.\n\nLast of all she went alone to her chamber, for she could endure no\nmore; and she threw herself upon her couch, and wept as though her\nheart would break. She kissed the pillows and smoothed them tenderly\nwith her hands.\n\n\"Alas, alas! for the happy days on earth,\" she cried, \"and happiest of\nall the years that I have lived here as the wife of Admetus! Farewell,\nmy couch--farewell for ever!\"\n\nShe tried to tear herself away, but again and again when she had\nreached the door she turned back and fell once more weeping upon her\ncouch. At last she felt the weakness of death creeping over her, and\nshe knew if she did not leave her chamber then, she would leave it\nnevermore alive. All her tears were spent, and she had no strength\nleft to weep any more. Outside in the great hall Admetus sat with his\nhead upon his hands, weeping for his wife, and cursing the bitterness\nof his fate. And she went and stood beside him.\n\n\"Take me out into the sunlight, Admetus,\" she said; \"the darkness\nwithin oppresses me. I can breathe more freely in the air.\"\n\nWhen he looked at her he was afraid, for she was as pale as death.\nGently he raised her in his arms, and placed her on a couch in the\nportico before the palace. And when she saw the blue sky and the\nsunshine she smiled.\n\n\"O sun and light of day,\" she said, \"and ye dancing, eddying clouds,\nfarewell!\"\n\n\"O ye gods, have mercy!\" cried Admetus. \"My dearest, look up, and\nleave me not all desolate.\"\n\nBut with a cry of fear she started up, and pointed in front.\n\n\"Look, look! The boat of the dead, and the ferryman of souls with his\nhand upon the pole--Charon! He calls, 'Alcestis, why dost thou tarry?\nHasten and come with me.'\"\n\n\"Ah, Fate, Fate--cruel Fate!\" cried Admetus.\n\n\"He is snatching me away--oh, save me!--down, down to the dark halls\nof death. Away, let me go! He frowns with his dark gleaming brows. Ah,\nthe dread journey before me!\"\n\n\"Leave me not, leave me not!\" cried Admetus.\n\n\"Lay me down again,\" said Alcestis, and her voice was scarce more than\na whisper. \"The strength is gone out of my limbs, and darkness creeps\nover my eyes. My children, where are you? Come here, my little ones,\nand nestle close beside me.\"\n\nAnd the children crept silently to her.\n\nThen she held out her hand to Admetus.\n\n\"My lord,\" she said, \"farewell. Already my feet are planted in the\npaths of death, and thou canst not hold me back. I have been a loving\nwife to thee, Admetus; my beauty, my youth, my joy of life--all these\nI give to thee. Ah, when I am dead, forget me not, for the children's\nsake, for these poor little ones--promise me. Promise me thou wilt not\nwed again, for a stepmother's heart would be hard against my children,\nand they would suffer. Promise me that thou wilt be a father and\nmother to them in one.\"\n\n[Illustration: And the children crept silently to her.]\n\n\"I promise,\" said Admetus.\n\n\"Then into thy hands I give them. Poor little ones, what will you do\nwithout me? My son, for thee thy father will ever be a strong tower of\ndefence, and will bring thee up to be a true man. But for thee, little\nmaiden, my heart bleeds. Thou wilt have no mother to dress thee on thy\nwedding-day, or to comfort thee in thy sorrows, when there is no love\nlike a mother's. Be doubly tender with her, Admetus.\"\n\n\"I will, I will. All that thou sayest I will do, and more also. Not\nfor one year only, but all my life long, will I mourn for thee. Forget\nme not, I pray thee. Prepare a place for me below, that I may be with\nthee when I come to die.\"\n\n\"Nay, I will not forget thee. Lay me back now. I can say no more.\"\n\nGently he laid her back, and knelt down by her side, and all they that\nstood around bowed their heads in silence, for they knew that Death\nwas standing in their midst.\n\nAt last Admetus looked up.\n\n\"My friends,\" he said, \"she is gone. Help me now to carry her in, that\nthe maidens may clothe her in the robes of death.\"\n\nGently and reverently, with heads bowed in grief, they carried her in.\nThe maidens clad her in long white robes, and laid her on the bier,\nand the mourners stood round and sang a dirge for the dead. On the\nthreshold before the palace Admetus placed the locks he had shorn from\nhis head in token that within one lay dead, and he put on long black\nrobes of mourning, and took off the golden circlet from his brow.\nThroughout the city he sent a proclamation to say the queen was dead.\n\n\"Men of Thessaly,\" it said, \"all ye who own my sway, come, share with\nme in sorrow for my wife who is dead. Shave the bright locks from your\nheads, and don your sable robes. Harness your four-horsed chariots;\nput the bit in the mouths of your steeds. Cut off the long manes from\ntheir necks, and follow with me to her grave. Let not the voice of the\nflute be heard in your streets, nor the sound of the lyre, till full\ntwelve moons have waxed and waned; for she was the noblest of women,\nand dearest of all on earth to me. Her life she sacrificed for mine.\nPay her high honours, then, for she is most worthy.\"\n\n\nIX\n\nWhilst the preparations for the funeral were being made, anyone who\nchanced to look along the highroad would have seen a stranger making\nhis way towards the palace. He was a strong man and tall--three cubits\nand more in height. The muscles of his arms and chest stood out like\nthongs of cord. In his hand he carried a huge knotted club, and over\nhis shoulders hung a lion's skin. If the wind or the sun were too\nstrong, he would draw the jaws of the beast over his head like a hood,\nand the great teeth shone out white and terrible over his brows and\nunder his chin. He walked along with great swinging strides, balancing\nthe club upon his shoulder as though it were some light twig, and not\nheavy as a sapling oak. As he went through the villages the people\nstood aside from his path in wonder, and even the strongest champion\nof them all would whisper, \"May the gods deliver me from ever having\nto stand up against him in single combat. In his little finger is the\nstrength of my right arm.\"\n\nBut he walked on, little heeding what folk thought of him, singing now\nand again snatches of some drinking-song, and passing the time of day,\nor cracking some joke with those he met upon the way; for, in truth,\nhe had a merry heart, and wished well to all mankind. Those who were\nfrightened when first they saw his club and lion's skin forgot their\nfears as soon as they could see his face, for his eyes were blue and\nlaughing as the summer sky, and his smile was bright as the sun in\nspring. And yet there were lines and scars about his features which\nproved that he was no idler, but one who had looked labour and danger\nin the face.\n\nSo he came to Pher\u00e6 and went up the steep path to the palace. It\nchanced that Admetus was standing in the portico on his way in. When\nthe stranger saw him he shouted out,\n\n\"Hail to thee, Admetus! Turn back and greet an old friend.\"\n\nWhen Admetus heard him, he turned and came towards him.\n\n\"Welcome, Heracles,\" he said, and held out his hand to greet him.\n\nBut when Heracles saw his black robes and shorn locks he was troubled.\n\n\"I have come at an evil hour, Admetus,\" he said; \"thou art mourning\nfor one who is dear to thee.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" he answered; \"it is true.\"\n\n\"One of thy children, can it be, or thy father?\"\n\n\"Nay, there is nought amiss with them. It is a woman I am carrying out\nto burial this day.\"\n\n\"Is she a stranger, or one of the family?\"\n\n\"She is not one of the family. Yet she is very dear to us, for on her\nfather's death she came and lived with us. She was a fair and noble\nwoman, and all the house is plunged in grief at her death.\"\n\n\"Then I will leave thee and go elsewhere. A house of mourning is no\nplace for guests.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried Admetus; \"I beg of thee, do not go. Never yet have my\nhalls turned away a traveller from the gates. The dead are dead. What\nmore could we do for them? 'Twould do them small good to lack in\nfriendship for the living. Come in, come in, I pray thee.\"\n\nIn spite of all his entreaties, he forced him to come in, and bade his\nsteward take him to a guest-room apart, where he might eat and drink,\nand hear nothing of the sounds of mourning when the body was carried\nout to the tomb; and he did all in his power to hide from his guest\nthat it was Alcestis who was dead; for he was ashamed for Heracles to\nknow that he had allowed his wife to die for him.\n\nMeanwhile all had been prepared for the funeral, and a train of\ncitizens stood waiting in the court to follow behind the bier. Their\nlong black robes fell trailing in the dust; their heads were shorn in\ngrief, and with slow steps they followed behind the bier, whilst the\nmourners sang a dirge for the dead.\n\n\"O daughter of Pelias, farewell, farewell for evermore! Mayest thou\nhave peace in the world below and such joy as may be in those sunless\nplaces! O thou black-haired god of Death, never has one more noble\ncome down to dwell in thy halls; never, O Charon, thou grim ferryman\nof souls--never hast thou carried a burden more precious across the\ndark and dreadful stream! Oft shall thy praises be sung, lady, by\nminstrels of music in every land. On the seven-stringed mountain-lute\nshall they sing thee, and in hymns, without lyre or lute, in Sparta,\nwhen the circling seasons bring round the summer feast-time, and all\nnight long the moon rides high in heaven. In bright and shining Athens\nshall they praise thee, too; for thou alone, O brightest and best,\nhast dared to die for thy lord, and give up thy young life for him. O\ndark Necessity, who shroudest all men about with death, how heavy is\nthy hand upon this house! From thee none can flee, and Zeus himself\nbows down before thee. Thou alone, O goddess, hast no temple, no\nimages to which men turn in prayer, neither hearest thou the voice of\nvictims slain. Alcestis is gone--gone for ever. Our eyes shall see her\nno more. Light may the earth lie above thee, lady. Dear wast thou when\nthou wast among us; dear shalt thou be, too, in death. No mere mound\nof the dead shall thy tomb be, but honoured of every passer-by, as\nsome shrine of the Immortals. The stranger toiling up the winding way\nshall bow his head before it and say, 'Here lieth one who died for her\nlord; now she is a blessed spirit. O lady, have mercy upon me!' So\ngreat shall be thy glory among men for ever. Fare thee well, fare thee\nwell, most beautiful.\"\n\nSo they laid her in the polished tomb, and placed rich gifts about\nher, and sacrifices of blood to the grim god of Death. When all the\nrites were accomplished, they went away sorrowful.\n\n\nX\n\nMeanwhile Heracles had been led to a guest-chamber apart, and the\nservants ministered to all his wants, and brought him water to wash\nwith, and change of raiment. As they waited on him, he talked gaily to\nthem of his adventures on the way, and made them laugh in spite of\ntheir grief for their mistress. Only the old serving-man stood aloof,\nand looked darkly at the stranger who dared to make merry in a house\nof mourning.\n\nWhen he had washed and dressed, he sat down to meat. They placed an\nample meal before him, and brought him wine to drink. But in his eyes\ntheir bounty was dearth, and he kept calling for more till they could\nscarce contain their astonishment at his appetite. At length, when he\nhad eaten his fill, he crowned his head with vine-leaves, and fell to\ndrinking long and deep. The wine warmed his heart, and sent a cheerful\nglow through all his veins. So happy was he that he could not sit in\nsilence, but raised his voice and sang, and his singing was like the\nroaring of a bull.\n\n\"Great Zeus, preserve us!\" sighed the old waiting-man; \"never have I\nheard anything more discordant and unseemly.\"\n\nBut the guest grew merrier and merrier, and the face of the\nserving-man, as he watched, grew longer and longer. At length Heracles\nhimself noticed his disapproving countenance.\n\n\"Ho, there!\" cried he; \"why so dark and gloomy, my friend? I had as\nsoon be welcomed by an iceberg as by thee, old sour-face.\"\n\nThe serving-man answered him never a word, but only scowled the more.\n\n\"What!\" cried Heracles, \"is this the sort of welcome thou art wont to\ngive thy master's guests? Come hither, and I will teach thee better\nways.\"\n\nAnd he took hold of the old man and set him down beside him at the\ntable.\n\n\"Alack! What a countenance! And all for a strange girl who has chanced\nto die. How wilt thou look when one of thy masters is laid in the\ngrave? I like not this mask of hypocrisy, my friend. Thou carest not\nfor her who is dead, but pullest a long face, and strikest a chill to\nthe hearts of all beholders, because, forsooth, it is seemly to mourn\nfor the dead. Why, we must all pay our tribute to death, every man of\nus, and no one knoweth whether he shall ever see the next day's light;\nthen count the present as thine own, and eat and drink with me and\nmake merry. A frowning face profits not the dead--nay, it serves but\nto blacken the sunshine of this life that we can live but once. Up,\nman, drink and wash away thy frowns! Believe me, life is no life at\nall--only labour and misfortune to those who walk through it with\npompous steps and sour faces.\"\n\nAnd he poured out a brimming goblet.\n\n\"All this I know full well, master,\" answered the old man, \"but the\nshadow that has fallen on this house is too heavy for me to join in\nthy revelry.\"\n\n\"Thou makest too much of death. Thou canst not grieve for a stranger\nas thou wouldst for one of the household. Thy master and mistress\nlive. Let that suffice thee.\"\n\n\"What! My master and mistress live? Alas! my master is too kind a\nhost.\"\n\n\"Must I starve, then, because a strange girl is dead?\"\n\n\"It is no stranger, I tell thee, but one most near and dear.\"\n\n\"Have I been deceived? Has he hidden some misfortune from me?\"\n\n\"Ask no more, but go in peace. My master's sorrows are for me to bear,\nnot for thee. And he bade me not speak of it.\"\n\n\"Speak, speak, man! I see he has hidden some great sorrow from me. Who\nis the woman who is dead?\"\n\n\"Ask me not. My master told me not to say.\"\n\n\"And I forbid thee not to say. Tell me forthwith!\"\n\nSo fierce and terrible did he look that the old man trembled before\nhim.\n\n\"May my lord forgive me!\" said he. \"It is Alcestis, his wife.\"\n\n\"Alcestis!\" cried Heracles. \"And he would not share his sorrow with\nme, his friend, but let me come in and feast and sing while he went\nout to bury her. Woe is me! I thought he loved me.\"\n\n\"It was to spare thee pain that he did not tell thee, master.\"\n\n\"How came she to die?\" asked Heracles, and took off the vine-leaves\nfrom his head, and poured out the wine upon the floor.\n\nThen the old man told him the whole tale.\n\n\"Where have they buried her?\" he asked, when it was ended.\n\n\"Out yonder, where the white highway leads to Larissa, in the plain.\nThere, on the outskirts of the city, thou wilt find the tomb of the\nkings of Pher\u00e6, where they are laying her.\"\n\n\"Is there no shorter way I can go and reach her quickly?\"\n\n\"There is a footpath by the fields that I will show thee.\"\n\n\"Come, then, straightway. I must go and lie in wait for the black Lord\nof Death. He will come up to drink of the blood that is poured out for\nhim beside the tomb. Then I will fall upon him from my ambush and\nwrestle with him and prevail, and he shall give me back Alcestis. Even\nif I must go down to Hades and fetch her, she shall come back. She is\ntoo fair and too noble to pass her young life in the dark underworld.\"\n\nThe old man marvelled at his words; but he went out with him, and\nshowed him the footpath across the fields, and stood watching him till\nhe passed out of sight.\n\n\"Verily, we talk and weep,\" he muttered to himself, \"and he laughs and\nacts. He is worth ten of us.\"\n\n\nXI\n\nMeanwhile the funeral procession was coming back along the highway. As\nthey came into the city each man departed to his own house; only\nAdmetus with his near friends and kinsmen returned to the palace to\ncelebrate the funeral feast. Whilst they were waiting for the feast\nto be prepared, Admetus stayed outside alone in the court. He sat down\non one of the stone seats beneath the colonnade, and buried his face\nin his hands. He could not bring himself to go into the house, where\neverything would remind him of the wife he had lost--the chair in\nwhich she used to sit, empty now; the fire on the altar burning low,\nand the ashes scattered about, because she was there no more to feed\nthe dying flames. The full force of the sacrifice came home to him\nnow, and he shuddered as he thought of the deed he had done.\n\n\"I have slain her--I have slain her whom I loved, to save myself from\ndeath, because I loved my life, and hated to go to the dark world\nbelow. Woe is me!\" he cried. \"The sun is turned to darkness and the\nearth to Hades since she went away. I grasped at the substance, and\nall the while I followed after a shade. Fool that I was to upbraid\nthem who refused to die for me and cast her death in their teeth! She\nis dead, dead--slain by my hand alone. Nevermore can I look my people\nin the face, nor glory in the deeds I have done. The shame of my\ncowardice will blot them all out, and I shall slink like a cur among\nmy fellows. Would that I had died with her!\"\n\nThus he sat making fruitless moan. His friends came out and tried to\ncomfort him and bring him into the house, but he sent them away, and\nwould not go in. All the evening he sat there alone till darkness\nbegan to fall. At length he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder,\nand, looking up, he saw Heracles standing beside him.\n\n\"Why couldst thou not trust me, Admetus?\" he asked. \"All thy\nhousehold, all the city, knew that thy wife Alcestis was dead. Me\nonly, thy familiar friend, didst thou keep in ignorance. I had thought\nto stand beside thee in thy sorrow, and thou didst not even tell me of\nit.\"\n\n\"I was ashamed,\" answered Admetus.\n\n\"Well, well, what is done cannot be undone. There is but one way now\nthat thou canst prove thou art still my friend. After I had eaten, I\nwalked out across the fields, and came upon a place where the people\nwere holding games and giving rich prizes to the winners--horses and\noxen, and a fair woman to the best man of all. When I saw the woman I\ndetermined to win her. So I entered for the contest and beat all my\nrivals. The woman I have brought back with me now, and beg of thee to\nkeep her till I come back from the wild Thracian folk, for I cannot\ntake her with me there. If by any chance I should never come back, but\nmeet my fate away, I give her to thee to keep for thyself. I have\nbrought her with me now to give into thy care.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he led forward by the hand a woman who had been standing\nnear him. She was closely veiled, so that Admetus, when he glanced up\nat her, could not see her face, but only the outline of her form.\n\n\"Oh, take her away, take her away!\" he cried. \"In height and figure\nshe is like my wife, and I cannot bear to look upon her. I would do\nmuch for thee, my friend, but ask not this of me. No woman shall ever\nlive in my house again. Take her to some other of thy friends.\"\n\nIn spite of all Heracles could say, he refused to take her.\n\n\"I see that thou wouldst no more be my friend, Admetus,\" he said at\nlast. \"First thou wilt not tell me of thy sorrow, and now thou wilt\nnot do this little thing for me. I will go and trouble thee no more\nwith my friendship.\"\n\nAt this Admetus was cut to the quick.\n\n\"Ah, say not that. Thou knowest that I love thee, but this is a hard\nthing thou askest. Whenever I look at her I shall be reminded of my\nwife. And the tongue of slander will not be silent. Men will say that\nI take comfort, and have forgotten the woman who gave her life for\nmine. Nevertheless, if thou wilt have it so, I yield. Take the woman\nin, or let one of the servants show her the way.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Heracles; \"to thee alone will I trust her. She is fair and\nnoble, and I would not have her treated as a common woman.\"\n\nAnd he forced Admetus to take her by the hand.\n\n\"Now I know that thou wilt treat her honourably, thou mayst look upon\nher face,\" he said, and lifted up the veil which shrouded her.\n\nWhen Admetus saw her face, he fell back terrified, for, pale and\nbeautiful, scarce looking as though she breathed, Alcestis stood\nbefore him.\n\n\"Ye gods!\" he gasped; \"the spirit of my wife!\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Heracles, \"but her very self.\"\n\n\"Thou mockest; it cannot be.\"\n\n\"It is no mockery, as who should know better than I who won her?\" said\nHeracles. \"By Zeus, I have wrestled many a tough match, but never a\none so tough as this, the gods be praised! I have met Death face to\nface, and I hope I may never have to stand up against him more.\"\n\n[Illustration: She answered him never a word, but held out both her\nhands and raised him from his knees.]\n\n\"Ah, my friend, how can I thank thee? I have not deserved so much\njoy,\" cried Admetus, and fell on his knees before them.\n\n\"I thought not of thy deserts, but of hers,\" said Heracles. \"Come,\ntake her in.\"\n\n\"I dare not touch her. Ah, lady, canst thou love one who sent thee to\nthy death?\" he asked, with head bowed down before her.\n\nShe answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and raised\nhim from his knees; and he looked deep into her eyes, and found them\nfull of love. Tenderly and humbly he put his arm about her and led her\naway, and felt that, if anything on earth could ever raise him from\nthe depths of selfishness and meanness to which he had fallen, it\nwould be the boundless, measureless love of the woman before him.\n\n\"Now to change the funeral feast to a banquet of rejoicing,\" cried\nHeracles. \"Truly, I could eat an ox after this last bout of mine.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nThe Hunting of the Calydonian Boar\n\n\nIn the city of Calydon long ago there were great rejoicings because\nthe queen Alth\u00e6a had given birth to a son, her first-born, who, if he\ngrew to years of manhood, would in time sit upon the throne of his\nfather OEneus, and rule the land. Some seven days after the child\nwas born it chanced that the queen was lying alone in her chamber,\nwith the babe upon her breast. It was winter-time, and the shades of\nevening had fallen early about the room, but a bright fire blazed upon\nthe hearth, and the flickering flames threw dancing shadows on the\nwalls. The queen was very happy as she pressed her baby to her breast,\nand held its soft little hand in hers, and whispered in its ear words\nwhich only a mother knows how to use to her child.\n\nAs she lay she watched the shadows playing up and down upon the walls,\nand to her eyes they took strange forms of men and beasts. Now it was\na great fight she saw, with horses and chariots rushing over a plain,\nand mighty warriors meeting face to face in battle; now it was a\nhunt, with winding of horns and dogs straining at the leash, and a\nwhite-tusked boar breaking through a thicket. But whether it was a\nhunt or whether it was a battle, everywhere there was one figure of a\nman she watched--a man tall and fair and brave, who stood out\nconspicuous among his fellows--such a hero as her son might grow to be\nif he lived till years of manhood. And she prayed that her vision\nmight come true, and her son grow up to be a hero--a man mighty in\nsport and mighty in battle. In time the flames died down, and the fire\nburned clear and still upon the hearth. The queen's eyes grew heavy,\nand she was about to turn on her side to sleep when a strange thing\nhappened, which took from her all desire for rest. The wall of the\nroom in front of her, which had glowed bright and cheery in the\nfirelight, grew grey and misty and seemed to vanish before her eyes,\nand through the opening there came towards her the forms of three\nstrange women, taller and more terrible than any women of earth. The\nfirst one carried in her hand a skein of thread, the second a spindle,\nand the third a pair of great sharp shears. The queen lay still and\nmotionless with terror as they came forward slowly arm in arm and\nstood beside the couch, looking down upon the child at her breast. At\nlength the first one spoke.\n\n\"I give to thy child, Alth\u00e6a, a thread of life exceeding bright and\nfair.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the second, \"will weave that thread into dark places,\nwhere it will shine the brighter for the darkness round about, and\nbring him honour and great renown.\"\n\nThe third one said never a word, but walked slowly round the couch\ntill she stood before the fire on the hearth. A great brand had fallen\nfrom the grate, and lay smouldering on the stones. Bending down, she\ntook it in her hand, and thrust it deep into the red-hot heart of the\nfire, and stood watching it till it was well alight, and the tongues\nof flame shot crackling upwards. Then she turned towards the queen.\n\n\"As soon as that brand upon the fire is consumed,\" she said, \"I will\ncut the shining thread with my shears, and his life shall be as ashes\ncast forth upon the wind.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she held out the shears, and they gleamed sharp and\ncruel in the firelight.\n\nWith a cry of terror the queen sprang up from her couch, forgetful of\nher weakness, and thinking only of the life of her child; and she\nrushed across the room, and, drawing forth the blazing brand from the\nfire, she smothered it in her gown, and crushed it beneath her bare\nfeet, till not a live spark remained about it. Then she hid it in a\nsecret place where she alone could find it, and cast herself upon her\ncouch and knew no more. When the attendants came in, they found the\nroom empty, save for the queen and her child; and she lay senseless on\nthe couch, with her feet and her gown all scarred and burnt.\n\nFor many a long day she lay between life and death, but at last the\ngods had mercy, and her strength came slowly back to her. But when\nanyone asked her the cause of her burning, she would shudder and\nmutter some strange tale of a brand which fell from the fire, and\nwould have burnt out the life of her child. What she meant no one ever\nknew, but they thought that the gods had stricken her with a sudden\nfever, and that, not knowing what she did, she had burnt herself in\nthe fire. But of the half-burnt brand and of the word of the Fates\nthey knew nothing, for Alth\u00e6a had said in her heart,\n\n\"The Fates have spoken, and their word shall surely come to pass. A\nfine and fair thread of life has Lachesis given to my son, and Clotho\nwill weave it into dark places, where it shall shine exceeding bright.\nThe gifts they have given are good. The hand of Atropos alone is\nagainst him, and she has measured his life by the life of a frail\npiece of wood. But so long as the gods shall give me strength no\ncareless hand shall place that brand upon the flames, and no man shall\nknow the secret of his life, for grief or madness may turn even the\nheart of a friend. On me, and on me alone, shall my son's life rest;\nfor well do I know that neither prayer nor sacrifice can avail to turn\nthe heart of Atropos, the Unswerving One.\"\n\nSo she kept the brand securely hidden where she alone could find it.\nMany other fair children did she bear to OEneus the king--Phereus\nand Agelaus and Periphas, and Gorge and Melanippe, and the hapless\nDejaneira, who married Heracles, and unwittingly caused his death. But\nbest of them all she loved Meleager, her first-born; for the word that\nthe Fates had spoken came true. He grew to be a great warrior and a\nmighty man, and was feared by his foes and loved by his friends\nthrough the length and breadth of the land; for there were great wars\nin those days between the Curetes of Pleuron and the \u00c6tolians of\nCalydon, and on either side fought men whose names were not despised\namong their fellows, but among them all there was none so famed as\nMeleager. In all the country-side there was no man who could hurl the\njavelin with such force and skill as he, and whenever he went forth to\nbattle the victory lay with the men of Calydon, and he was called the\nsaviour and protector of his city.\n\nWhen he was in the flower of his manhood, the call of Jason came from\nfar Iolchos for all the heroes of Hellas to join him in his search for\nthe Golden Fleece. Amongst them sailed Meleager in the good ship\n_Argo_, and came to the land of the dusky Colchians on the shores of\nthe Euxine Sea. One tale goes that he slew \u00c6etes their king, the child\nof the Sun, and saved his comrades from deadly peril. But whether this\nbe true or no, certain it is that he played his part like a man, and\ncame back to Calydon with a fair name for courage and endurance. Then\nwas he hoisted on the shoulders of his countrymen and carried through\nthe streets of the city, and feasted right royally in his father's\nhouse.\n\nSoon after his return it chanced that the harvest was more plentiful\nthan it had ever been within the memory of man. The golden corn stood\nhigh upon the plains, and on the sunny mountain-sides the olive-trees\nwere thick with berries, and the vine-branches drooped low with their\nweight of purple fruit. Wherefore OEneus the king ordered a great\nthanksgiving to be held throughout the land in honour of Dionysus and\nDemeter and grey-eyed Pallas Athene, who had given such good gifts to\nmen. At every shrine and temple the altars smoked with sacrifice, and\nglad bands of youths and maidens with garlands on their heads danced\nhand in hand around, singing the song of the harvest.\n\n\"All hail to thee, Demeter, great Earth-Mother! From Evenus to the\nsilver eddying waters of wide Achel\u00f6us thou hast covered the bosom of\nthe plain with golden ears of corn, and they dance beneath the west\nwind like the waves on summer seas. All hail to thee, Dionysus, who\nbringest joy to the heart of man! About thine altars the juice of the\nvine shall flow like water, and the souls of those who were bowed down\nbeneath labour and toil shall be uplifted to thee in the glad\nharvest-time. And Pallas Athene, grey-eyed maiden, thee too we hail,\nfor thy gift of the fragrant olive. The shade of thy trees lies cool\nupon the panting hill-sides, and thou hast looked with kindness on our\nland. Oh, come hither, all ye townsfolk and ye dwellers on the plains\nand hills--come hither in your hundreds, and dance about the altars,\nand sing thanksgiving to the great gods on high.\"\n\nThus did they dance and sing, and there was gladness and rejoicing\nthrough all the land, and not one soul among them all knew how soon\ntheir laughter would be turned to tears. For when Artemis, the\nhuntress, saw that everywhere the altars smoked in honour of Demeter,\nand Dionysus, and Pallas Athene, but that never a single stone was\nraised to her, she was filled with jealousy and wrath. One night, when\nall the land lay sleeping, she left the mountains, where she loved to\nhunt, and came down to Calydon. The arrows in her quiver rattled as\nshe strode along in her wrath, and the flash of her eyes was as the\nflash of summer lightning across the sky. With great swinging strides\nshe came and stood over OEneus as he slept.\n\n\"O king,\" she said, \"too long have I been patient and waited for my\ndues; but I will suffer thine ingratitude no more. When the young corn\nstands green upon the plain, and the vine-leaves are shooting, and the\ntrees cast once more their shade upon the bare hill-side, then shalt\nthou have cause to know my power. Demeter may sow her golden grain,\nand Dionysus and Pallas Athene may fill their fruits with gladdening\njuice, but thou hast yet to learn that, if it be my will, though the\npromise of the harvest be fair, the fruits thereof shall lie spoilt\nand ungathered where they grew. Broad and dark are the forests which\ncover wild Arachynthus, and deep the ravines, and many a wild beast\nlurks therein that is tame at my word alone. One of these will I let\nloose upon thy land. Many a fair field shall be trodden underfoot, and\nmany a vineyard and olive-grove laid waste--yea, and red blood shall\nflow, ere my wrath be assuaged, and I take away the pest from your\nmidst. I have spoken, and no sacrifice shall turn me from my word.\"\n\nThus did she speak, saying the words in his ear, and turned and left\nthe room by the way she had come. With a start he awoke from his sleep\nand looked around him, but no one could he see. Only a sudden storm of\nwind lashed the branches of the trees against each other, and a dark\ncloud hid the face of the moon.\n\n\"The sad winter-time is coming,\" he thought, \"with its storms and its\ndarkened days. Yet, lest there be aught in my dream, I will remember\nArtemis to-morrow, and her altars, too, shall smoke with sacrifice.\"\n\nSo on the morrow a great festival was held in honour of Artemis, the\nmaiden huntress, and OEneus laid aside all thought of his dream. But\nwhen the spring-time came and the early summer, he had cause to\nremember it with sorrow, for out of the forests of Arachynthus there\ncame a great boar which laid waste all the country, right and left. In\nsize he was more huge than an ox of Epirus, whose oxen are the largest\nin the world, and the bristles on his neck stood up like spikes. His\nbreath was as a flame of fire that burned up all that stood in his\nway, and his cruel little eyes gleamed red with blood. Over the\ncornfields he raged, and trampled the green blades beneath his hoofs,\nand with his strong white tusks he tore down the vine-branches and\nbroke the overhanging boughs of the olive, so that the young berries\nand fruit lay spoilt upon the ground. Not only did he lay waste the\nfields, but the flocks and herds on the pasture-land were not safe\nfrom his attack, and neither shepherds nor dogs could protect them\nfrom his fury. Through all the country-side the people fled in terror\nfor their lives, and hid within the city walls, only now and again a\nband of the bravest would go forth and lay nets and snares for him;\nbut so great was the strength of the beast that he broke through every\ntrap they could devise, and, killing any man who stood in his path, he\nwould return, with greater fury than before, to his attack upon the\nfields and cattle. At length things came to such a pass that, unless\nthe monster could be checked, famine would ere long stare the people\nin the face. When Meleager saw that neither prayer nor sacrifice would\nturn the heart of Artemis, nor any ordinary hunting put an end to the\nboar, he determined to gather around him a band of heroes who, for the\nsake of glory, would come together for the hunt, and either kill the\nbeast or perish themselves in the attempt. So he sent a proclamation\nfar and wide through all the kingdoms of Hellas.\n\n\"O men of Hellas,\" he said, \"the fair plains of Calydon lie trodden\nunderfoot by a grievous monster, and her people are fallen upon evil\ndays. Come hither and help us, all ye who love adventure, and fear not\nrisk nor peril, ye seasoned warriors whose spirit is not dead within\nyou, and ye young men who have yet your name to win. Come hither to\nus, and we will give you fair sport and good cheer withal.\"\n\nIn answer to his call there flocked from far and wide to Calydon a\ngreat host of brave men, and mighty was the muster which gathered\nbeneath the roof of OEneus for the hunting of the boar. Jason\nhimself came, the leader of the Argonauts, and Castor and Pollux, the\ngreat twin brethren, whose stars are in the sky. There was Theseus,\ntoo, who slew the Minotaur, and Peirithous his friend, who went down\nwith him to Hades, and tried to carry off Persephone from the king of\nthe Dead. And swift-footed Idas came, and Lynceus, his brother, whose\neyes were so sharp that they could see into the centre of the earth.\nOthers were there besides, whose names are too many to tell, and\nToxeus and Plexippus, the brothers of Alth\u00e6a the queen, whom she loved\nas she loved her own son Meleager. For as a little maid she had played\nwith them in the palace of Thestius, her father, and she remembered\nhow she would watch for them to come home from the hunt and clap her\nhands with joy, when from afar she saw them returning home with their\nspoil. And they would fondle her and play with her, and so long as\nthey were with her she was as happy as a bird; but when they went\naway, her heart ached for them to come back. The memory of those days\nstill shone bright within her heart, and when her brothers came with\nthe other guests for the hunting of the boar, she welcomed them right\ngladly. In the great hall a sumptuous feast was spread, and loud was\nthe laughter and bright were the faces, as one friend met another he\nhad not seen for many a long day, and sat down by his side in\ngood-fellowship with the groaning board before them. The feast was\nwell under way when one of the attendants whispered in the ear of the\nking that yet another guest had come for the hunting of the boar.\n\n\"Who is he?\" asked the king.\n\n\"My lord, I know not,\" the man replied.\n\n\"Well, keep him not standing without, at all events,\" said OEneus,\n\"but show him in here, and we will make him welcome with the rest.\"\n\nIn a few moments the man returned, and held back the curtain of the\ngreat doorway for the new-comer to enter. All eyes were turned eagerly\nthat way to see who it might be, and a murmur of surprise ran round\nthe hall; for they saw upon the threshold no stalwart warrior, as they\nhad expected, but a maiden young and beautiful. She was clad in a\nhunter's tunic, which fell to her knee, and her legs were strapped\nabout with leathern thongs. Crosswise about her body she wore a\ngirdle, from which hung a quiver full of arrows, and with her right\nhand she leant on a great ashen bow like a staff. Her shining hair\nfell back in waves from her forehead, and was gathered up in a coil\nbehind, and she held her head up proudly and gazed round on the\ncompany unabashed. The glow of her cheek and the spring of her step\ntold of life in the open, and of health-giving sport over hill and\ndale, so that she might have been Artemis herself come down from her\nhunting on the mountains. She looked round the hall till her eyes fell\non OEneus, the host, in the place of honour, and in no wise troubled\nby the silence which her coming had caused, she said,\n\n\"Sire, for my late-coming I crave thy pardon. Doubtless some of thy\nguests have come from more distant lands than I, but, as ill-luck\nwould have it, I chose to come by way of the sea instead of by the\nisthmus, and for a whole day I ate out my heart with waiting by the\nshrine of Poseidon for a favouring breeze; for the east wind blew like\nfury across the Cris\u00e6an Gulf, and any barque that had ventured to try\nthe crossing had been blown to the isles of the Hesperides ere it had\nreached thy land. So I waited perforce till the wind fell and I could\ncross over in safety.\"\n\nConcealing his surprise as best he could, OEneus answered,\n\n\"Maiden, we thank thee for thy coming, and make thee right welcome in\nour halls. Yet we fain would know thy name who, a woman all alone,\nhast crossed barren tracts of land and stormy seas unflinching, and\ncome to take part in a hunt which is no mere child's sport, but a\nperilous venture, in which strong men might hesitate to risk their\nlives and limbs.\"\n\nAs she listened to his words she smiled.\n\n\"O king,\" she said, \"thou hidest thy surprise but ill. Yet am I not\noffended, nor will I make a mystery of who I am. My name is Atalanta,\nand I come from the mountains of Arcadia, where all day long I hunt\nwith the nymphs over hill and over dale, and through the dark forests,\nfollowing in the footsteps of her we serve, great Artemis the\nhuntress. At her command I stand before thee now, for she said to me,\n'Atalanta, the land of Calydon lies groaning beneath the curse,\nwherewith I cursed them because they forgot me, and gave me not my\ndues. But do thou go and help them, and for thy sake I will lay aside\nmy wrath, and let them slay the monster that I sent against them. Yet\nwithout thee shall they not accomplish it, but the glory of the hunt\nshall be thine.' Thus did she speak, and in obedience to her word am I\ncome.\"\n\nWhen she had spoken, a murmur ran round the hall, and each man's gorge\nrose within him as he determined in his mind that no mere woman should\nsurpass him in courage and strength. The sons of Thestius, the queen's\nbrothers, especially looked askance at her, and their hearts were\nfilled with jealousy and wrath; for her eye was bright and steady, and\nher limbs looked supple and swift, and there seemed no reason why she\nshould not be a match for any man among them, in a trial where\nswiftness of foot and sureness of eye would avail as much as brute\nforce. When Meleager saw their dark looks he was very angry that they\nshould so far forget their good breeding as to fail in welcoming a\nguest, and he rose from his seat and went towards her.\n\n\"O maiden,\" he said, \"we make thee right welcome to our halls, and we\nthank thee because thou hast heard our appeal, and art come to help us\nin the day of our trouble. Come, now, and sit thee down, and make glad\nthy heart with meat and wine, for thou must need it sorely after thy\nlong journeying.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a place of honour\nbetween his father and himself, and saw that she had her fill of the\ngood fare on the board. As he sat beside her and talked with her, his\nheart was kindled with love, for she was exceeding fair to look upon;\nand the more he thought upon the morrow's hunting, the more loath was\nhe that she should risk her life in it. At length he said,\n\n\"Atalanta, surely thou knowest not what manner of beast it is that we\nare gathered together to destroy. Thou hast hunted the swift-footed\nstag, perchance, through the greenwood, but never a monster so fierce\nas this boar that Artemis has sent against us. I tell thee, it will be\nno child's play, but a matter of death to some of us. Hast thou no\nmother or father to mourn thee if any evil chance befall, or any lover\nwho is longing for thy return? Think well ere it be too late.\"\n\nBut she laughed aloud at his words.\n\n\"Thou takest me for some drooping damsel that sits at home and spins,\nand faints if she see but a drop of blood. I tell thee, I know neither\nfather, nor mother, nor husband, nor brother, and I love but little\nthe lot of womenkind such as thou knowest. Never have I lived within\nfour walls, and the first roof that covered me was the forest-trees of\nMount Parthenius, which stands where three lands meet, on the borders\nof Sparta, Argolis, and wooded Arcadia, that I have chosen for my\nhome. Whence I came or how I got to Parthenius no one can tell, and I\nhave no wish to find out. As for savage beasts, had I not the eyes\nof a hawk and the feet of a deer, I had not been safe ten seconds on\nthe uplands of Arcadia. For there, as doubtless thou hast heard, there\ndwells a fierce tribe of centaurs--monsters half human and half\nhorse--who have the passions of men and the strength of beasts. These,\nwhen they set eyes upon me, were fired by my beauty, and pursued me\nover hill and dale, and I fled like the wind before them; but ever and\nanon I found time to turn and let fly from my bow a dart which fell\nbut seldom short of the mark. So dire was the havoc I wrought in their\nherd that after a time they gave up in despair, and molested me no\nmore. So talk not to me of fierce beasts or of danger. All my life\nlong I have breathed in danger from the air about me, and I had as\nsoon die outright, as sit with thy womenkind in safety within, whilst\nall of you went forth for the hunting of the boar.\"\n\n[Illustration: As he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a\nplace of honour between his father and himself.]\n\nAnd nothing that Meleager could say would turn her from her purpose.\n\n\"Dost think I have left the mountains of Arcadia, and the nymphs, and\nthe joys and dangers of the hunt, to come and sit with the old wives\nround thy palace fire in Calydon?\" she said with a laugh; and her\nwhite teeth shone like pearls in the torchlight, and the gleam of her\nhair and the fire of her eyes kindled yet more surely the flame of\nlove in his heart, so that he could have fallen at her feet and begged\nher for his sake to keep away from danger. But across the board he saw\nthe eyes of Toxeus and Plexippus, his mother's brothers, fixed upon\nhim, and their brows were dark and lowering as they frowned upon him\nand Atalanta. So he said no more, lest they should discover his secret\nand taunt him for his passion; but in his heart he knew that on the\nmorrow his thought would be as much for her safety as for the killing\nof the boar. As for Atalanta, a stone would have returned his love as\nreadily as she. For a companion in the hunt she liked him full well,\nbut to give up her maiden life for his sake was as far from her\nthoughts as the east is from the west. As yet she knew not the love of\nman, and had vowed in her heart that she never would. Howbeit, such\nthings are not altogether within the power of mortals to will or not\nto will, and Atalanta, like any other woman, was destined one day to\nbow her proud head to the dust before a man's great love, though the\ngods had not ordained that Meleager should be the one to win her. But\nmore of that hereafter.\n\nWhen the morrow dawned, great was the bustle and confusion in the\ncourt of the palace, where all were to meet together for the hunting\nof the boar. Attendants ran this way and that to fetch and carry for\ntheir masters, and, as the huntsman blew his horn, the hounds barked\nimpatiently, and strained, whining, at their leashes. At length, when\nall was ready, Alth\u00e6a with her maidens came forth into the portico,\nand bade farewell to her guests, her husband, her brothers, and to\nMeleager, her son.\n\n\"God speed thee, my son,\" she said, as she looked proudly on him, \"and\ngood luck to thy hunting.\"\n\nThen she stood on the step and waved to them with a smile as they\nturned to look back at her before the curve of the roadway hid them\nfrom sight. But though a smile was on her lips, her eyes were full of\ntears, and her heart within her was dark with a dim foreshadowing of\nevil. With a heavy step, she turned and went into the house, and as\nshe passed the altar by the hearth she stopped and bowed her head.\n\n\"Great Artemis,\" she prayed, \"have mercy and bring my loved ones\nsafely back to me this day.\"\n\nThen she went to her chamber and drew forth from its hiding-place the\nhalf-burnt brand on which her son's life depended.\n\n\"His life, at any rate, is safe,\" she thought, \"so long as this brand\nis in my keeping.\"\n\nAnd she hid it away again where she knew no one could find it, and set\nto work restlessly, to while away the hours as best she could, till\nthe hunters should come home.\n\nThey, meanwhile, had gone their way up the steep path which led into\nthe mountains and deep into the heart of the forest, where they knew\ntheir prey was lurking. Soon they came upon the track of his hoofs\nleading to the dry bed of a stream, where the rushes and reeds grew\nhigh in the marsh-land, and the bending willows cast their shadow over\nthe spot he had chosen for his lair. Here they spread the nets\ncautiously about, and stationed themselves at every point of vantage,\nand, when all was ready, let loose the hounds, and waited for the boar\nto come forth from his hiding-place. Not long did they have to wait.\nWith a snort of rage he rushed out. The breath from his nostrils came\nforth like steam, and the white foam flew from his mouth and covered\nhis bristly sides and neck. Quick as lightning, he made for the first\nman he could see, and the tramp of his hoofs re-echoed through the\nwoods like thunder as he came upon the hard ground. As soon as he\nrushed out, a shower of missiles fell towards him from every side,\nbut some were aimed awry or fell too far or too short of him, and\nthose that touched him slipped aside on his tough hide, as though they\nhad been feathers instead of bronze; and he broke through the nets\nthat had been spread to catch him, and galloped away unharmed, whilst\nbehind him a hound lay dead among the reeds, pierced through with his\ntusk, and two of the hunters, who stood in his path, and had not been\nable to rush aside in time, lay groaning on the ground with the iron\nmark of his hoof upon them, and a gaping wound in the side of one.\nWhen the rest saw that he had escaped them, they gave chase with all\nspeed, headed by Castor and Pollux, on their white horses, and\nAtalanta close beside them, running swiftly as the wind. Ahead of them\nthe woodland track gave a sudden turn to the left, and the boar,\nrushing blindly forward, would have plunged into the undergrowth and\nbushes, and escaped beyond range of their darts. But Atalanta, seeing\nwhat must happen, stopped short in the chase. Quick as thought, she\nput an arrow to the string, and let fly at the great beast ahead; and\nArtemis, true to her word, guided the arrow so that it pierced him in\nthe vital part behind the ear. With a snort of pain and fury, he\nturned round upon the hunters and charged down towards them as they\ncame up from behind, and great would have been the havoc he had\nwrought among them but for Meleager. As the brute bore down, he leaped\nlightly to one side, and, gathering together all his strength, buried\nthe spear deep into the beast's black shoulder, and felled him to the\nearth with the force of his blow. Immediately the others gathered\nround, and helped to finish the work that Meleager had begun, and soon\nthe monster lay dead upon the ground in a pool of his own blood. Then\nMeleager, with his foot upon the boar's head, spoke to the hunters.\n\n[Illustration: As the brute bore down, Meleager buried the spear deep\nin his shoulder.]\n\n\"My friends,\" he said, \"I thank you all for the courage and devotion\nyou have shown this day. My land can once more raise her head in joy,\nfor the monster that wrought such havoc in her fields lies dead here\nat my feet. Yet the price of his death has not been light, my\nfriends.\" And they bowed their heads in silence, as they remembered\nthe two whom the boar had struck in his rush, one of whom was now\ndead. \"Yet those who have suffered, have suffered gloriously, giving\nup themselves, as brave men must, for the sake of others, and their\nnames shall surely not be unremembered by us all. Once more, my trusty\ncomrades, I thank you, every man of you. As for thee, lady,\" he\ncontinued, turning to Atalanta, \"while all have played their part, yet\nthe glory of the hunt is thine. But for thy sure hand and eye the\nbeast might yet be lurking in the forest. Wherefore, as a token of our\ngratitude, I will give to thee the boar's head as a trophy to do with\nas thou wilt.\"\n\nAt his words a murmur of applause went round the ring of them that\nlistened. Only the voices of Toxeus and Plexippus were not heard, for\nthey were mad with jealousy and wrath, and as soon as there was\nsilence they spoke.\n\n\"By what right,\" asked Toxeus, \"shall one bear off the trophy of a\nhunt in which each one of us has played his part?\"\n\nThe insolence of his words and looks roused the anger of Meleager to\nboiling-point. All through the hunt the brothers had shown scant\ncourtesy to Atalanta, and now their rudeness was past bearing.\n\n\"By the same right as the best man bears off the prize in any\ncontest,\" he answered quietly, though he was pale with rage.\n\n\"Happy is that one who has first won the heart of the judge, then,\"\nsaid Plexippus with a sneer, as he looked at Atalanta.\n\nBy the truth and the falsehood of his words Meleager was maddened past\nall bearing. Scarce knowing what he did, he sprang upon him, and\nbefore anyone knew what he was about, he had buried his hunting-knife\nin the heart of Plexippus. When Toxeus saw his brother fall back upon\nthe grass, he sprang upon Meleager, and for a moment they swung\nbackwards and forwards, held each in the other's deadly grip. But\nMeleager was the younger and the stronger of the two, and soon Toxeus\ntoo lay stretched upon the ground beside his brother, and a cry of\nhorror went through the crowd of those who stood by. Pale and\ntrembling, Meleager turned towards them.\n\n\"My friends,\" he said, \"farewell. You shall look upon my face no more.\nWhether I slew them justly or no, the curse of Heaven is upon me, and\nI know that night and day the Furies will haunt my steps, because my\nhand is red with the blood of my kinsmen. O fair fields of Calydon,\nthat I have loved and served all my days, farewell for ever. Nevermore\nshall I look upon you, nor my home on the steep hill-side, nor the\nface of the queen, my mother; but I must hide my head in shame far\nfrom the haunts of men. As for thee, lady,\" he said, turning to\nAtalanta, \"their taunt was false, yet true. Right honourably didst\nthou win thy trophy, as all these here will testify;\" and he pointed\nto the hunters standing round. \"Yet my soul leapt with joy when I\nfound that into thine hand and none other's I might give the prize of\nthe hunt. Wherefore, think kindly on my memory, lady, when I am far\naway, for a brave man's heart is in thy keeping. Farewell.\"\n\nAnd he turned and went away by the forest-path. So surprised were all\nthe company that no man moved hand or foot to stop him. The first to\nspeak was Atalanta.\n\n\"Comrades,\" she said, \"do you bear home the dead and break the news as\ngently as may be to the queen, and I will follow him, if perchance I\ncan comfort him, for the hand of Heaven is heavy upon him.\"\n\nSo firmly did she speak that no man found it in his heart to withstand\nher; and when she saw that they would do as she bid, she ran swiftly\ndown the path by which he had gone, and disappeared from sight.\n\nMeanwhile the day had been drawing towards its close, and Alth\u00e6a had\ncome out into the portico to watch for the return of the hunters. The\nrumour had reached the city that the boar had been killed, but not\nwithout loss among the gallant band that had gone out against him, and\nwith a heavy heart Alth\u00e6a was waiting to know who it was that had\nfallen. In time she saw them returning home, and in their midst four\nlitters carried on the shoulders of some. When she saw them, her heart\nstood still with fear, and as they came up and laid down the litters\nbefore the doorway she was as one turned to marble, and moved neither\nhand nor foot. When OEneus the king saw her, he took her gently by\nthe hand.\n\n\"Come within, lady,\" he said; \"the hunting of the boar has cost us\ndear.\"\n\n\"Ah! tell me the worst at once,\" she cried. \"I can bear it better so.\nThe suspense is maddening me.\"\n\n\"Two of those who lie before thee are strangers who have given\nthemselves for us,\" he said. \"One of them is sore wounded, and the\nother is gone beyond recovery. The other two, Alth\u00e6a, are very near\nand dear to us--Toxeus and Plexippus, thy brothers.\"\n\nAnd he pointed to two of the bodies which lay side by side with their\nfaces covered before her. With a wild cry she rushed to them, and drew\nback the coverings, and gazed upon the faces that she loved so well.\nAs she looked, she saw the wounds that had killed them, and she knew\nnow that it was no wild beast that had slain them, but the hand of\nman. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looked round on those\nwho stood by, and the gleam of her eyes was terrible to see.\n\n\"Deceive me no more,\" she said, \"but tell me how these two came to\nfall by the hand of man.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said OEneus, \"they sought a quarrel with one of our company,\nand in anger he slew them both.\"\n\nFor a moment she was silent, then in a low voice, yet one that all\ncould hear, she spoke.\n\n\"My curse be upon him, whosoe'er he be. O Daughters of Destruction,\nfoul wingless Furies, by the blood of my brothers yet wet upon his\nhand, I bid you track his footsteps night and day. May no roof cover\nhis head nor any man give him food or drink, but let him be a\nvagabond on the face of the earth till just vengeance overtake him.\nOn thee, OEneus, do I lay this charge, and on my son Meleager, to\navenge the death of these my kinsmen, who have been foully slain.\"\n\nIn vain did OEneus try to stop her. She was as one deaf to his\nentreaties. When she had finished, she looked round for Meleager, and\nwhen she could not see him, the blood froze in her veins.\n\n\"My son,\" she cried--\"where is my son?\"\n\n\"Lady,\" said OEneus, \"even now the wingless bearers of thy curse are\nhunting him through the forest.\"\n\nFor a moment she swayed to and fro as though she would fall.\n\n\"Ye gods, what have I done?\" she muttered.\n\nThen with a cry she turned and rushed through the doorway, across the\ndeserted palace to her own chamber, and barring the door behind her,\nshe took from its hiding-place the brand she had kept jealously so\nlong. As on the day when the Fates had come to her, a bright fire was\nburning on the hearth, and deep into the heart of it she pushed the\nlog with both her hands.\n\n\"O my son, my son!\" she cried; \"to think that I should come to this!\nBut though the flame that devours thy life burns out my heart within\nme, yet must I do it. Thus only can I save thee from my curse. For the\nword, once spoken, never dies, and the Furies, once aroused, sleep\nnever, night nor day. Wherefore Death alone can give thee peace, O\nMeleager, my first-born and my dearest.\"\n\nOEneus meanwhile had followed her, and stood without, asking her to\nopen to him. But she cried out to him,\n\n\"All is well. I beg thee leave me. I would be alone.\"\n\nSo he left her; and she stood watching the flames slowly eat the wood\naway, and at last, when the log fell apart in ashes, she sank down\nupon the floor, and with her son's life hers too went out for grief.\n\nMeleager meanwhile had gone blindly forward along the forest track,\nand from afar Atalanta followed him. For a time he went onward,\nstraight as an arrow, never stopping, never turning. But when his\nmother's curse was spoken, faster than the whirlwind the Furies flew\nfrom the realms of endless night, and came and crouched before his\nfeet, loathsome shapes of darkness and of horror. With a cry he turned\naside, and tried to flee from them, but wherever he looked they were\nthere before him, and he reeled backwards and forwards like a drunken\nman. But soon his strength seemed to give way, and he fell forward on\nthe grass, and Atalanta ran forward and took his head upon her knee.\nTo her eyes they two were alone in the heart of the forest, for the\nfoul shapes of the Furies he alone had seen. But now he lay with his\neyes closed, faint and weak, and she thought that some time in the\nhunt he must have strained himself, and lay dying of some inward hurt\nthat no man could heal, for on his body she could see not a scratch.\nSo she sat in the gathering gloom with his head upon her lap. There\nwas nought else she could do. Help lay so far away that he would have\ndied alone had she left him. At last, when his heart beat so faint\nthat she thought it had stopped once for all, he opened his eyes and\nlooked up at her, and when he saw her the fear and the madness died\nout of his face, and he smiled.\n\n\"The gods are kind,\" he said. Once more he closed his eyes, and\nAtalanta knew that he would open them never again. Gently she laid him\nwith his head on the moss-covered roots of a tree, and sped away to\nthe city to bear the news of his death. In the darkness of night they\nbore him through the forest, and all the people gathered together and\nwatched from the walls the torchlit procession as it came slowly up\nthe hill; and the heart of each man of them was heavy within him as he\nthought that the hero and saviour of his country was being carried\ndead into the walls of his native town. By the side of his mother they\nlaid him, and burned above them the torches of the dead, and the\nmourners, with heads bowed in grief, stood around.\n\nThus did it come to pass that the hunting of the boar ended in grief\nfor the land of Calydon, and Atalanta went back to the Arcadian\nwoodlands with a sore place in her heart for Meleager, who had died\nhappy because his head was resting on her knee.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nThe Curse of Echo\n\n\nIn the flowery groves of Helicon Echo was once a fair nymph who, hand\nin hand with her sisters, sported along the green lawns and by the\nside of the mountain-streams. Among them all her feet were the\nlightest and her laugh the merriest, and in the telling of tales not\none of them could touch her. So if ever any among them were plotting\nmischief in their hearts, they would say to her,\n\n\"Echo, thou weaver of words, go thou and sit beside Hera in her bower,\nand beguile her with a tale that she come not forth and find us. See\nthou make it a long one, Echo, and we will give thee a garland to\ntwine in thy hair.\"\n\nAnd Echo would laugh a gay laugh, which rang through the grove.\n\n\"What will you do when she tires of my tales?\" she asked.\n\n\"When that time comes we shall see,\" said they.\n\nSo with another laugh she would trip away and cast herself on the\ngrass at Hera's feet. When Hera looked upon Echo her stern brow would\nrelax, and she would smile upon her and stroke her hair.\n\n\"What hast thou come for now, thou sprite?\" she would ask.\n\n\"I had a great longing to talk with thee, great Hera,\" she would\nanswer, \"and I have a tale--a wondrous new tale--to tell thee.\"\n\n\"Thy tales are as many as the risings of the sun, Echo, and each one\nof them as long as an old man's beard.\"\n\n\"The day is yet young, mother,\" she would say, \"and the tales I have\ntold thee before are as mud which is trampled underfoot by the side of\nthe one I shall tell thee now.\"\n\n\"Go to, then,\" said Hera, \"and if it pleases me I will listen to the\nend.\"\n\nSo Echo would sit upon the grass at Hera's feet, and with her eyes\nfixed upon her face she would tell her tale. She had the gift of\nwords, and, moreover, she had seen and heard many strange things which\nshe alone could tell of. These she would weave into romances, adding\nto them as best pleased her, or taking from them at will; for the best\nof tale-tellers are those who can lie, but who mingle in with their\nlies some grains of truth which they have picked from their own\nexperience. And Hera would forget her watchfulness and her jealousies,\nand listen entranced, while the magic of Echo's words made each scene\nlive before her eyes. Meanwhile the nymphs would sport to their\nhearts' content and never fear her anger.\n\nBut at last came the black day of reckoning when Hera found out the\nprank which Echo had played upon her so long, and the fire of her\nwrath flashed forth like lightning.\n\n\"The gift whereby thou hast deceived me shall be thine no more,\" she\ncried. \"Henceforward thou shalt be dumb till someone else has spoken,\nand then, even if thou wilt, thou shalt not hold thy tongue, but must\nneeds repeat once more the last words that have been spoken.\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" cried the nymphs in chorus.\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" cried Echo after them, and could say no more, though she\nlonged to speak and beg Hera to forgive her. So did it come to pass\nthat she lost her voice, and could only say that which others put in\nher mouth, whether she wished it or no.\n\nNow, it chanced one day that the young Narcissus strayed away from his\ncompanions in the hunt, and when he tried to find them he only\nwandered further, and lost his way upon the lonely heights of Helicon.\nHe was now in the bloom of his youth, nearing manhood, and fair as a\nflower in spring, and all who saw him straightway loved him and longed\nfor him. But, though his face was smooth and soft as maiden's, his\nheart was hard as steel; and while many loved him and sighed for him,\nthey could kindle no answering flame in his breast, but he would spurn\nthem, and treat them with scorn, and go on his way, nothing caring.\nWhen he was born, the blind seer Teiresias had prophesied concerning\nhim,\n\n\"So long as he sees not himself he shall live and be happy.\"\n\nAnd his words came true, for Narcissus cared for neither man nor\nwoman, but only for his own pleasure; and because he was so fair that\nall who saw him loved him for his beauty, he found it easy to get\nfrom them what he would. But he himself knew nought of love, and\ntherefore but little of grief; for love at the best brings joy and\nsorrow hand in hand, and if unreturned, it brings nought but pain.\n\nNow, when the nymphs saw Narcissus wandering alone through the woods,\nthey, too, loved him for his beauty, and they followed him wherever he\nwent. But because he was a mortal they were shy of him, and would not\nshow themselves, but hid behind the trees and rocks so that he should\nnot see them; and amongst the others Echo followed him, too. At last,\nwhen he found he had really wandered astray, he began to shout for one\nof his companions.\n\n\"Ho, there! where art thou?\" he cried.\n\n\"Where art thou?\" answered Echo.\n\nWhen he heard the voice, he stopped and listened, but he could hear\nnothing more. Then he called again.\n\n\"I am here in the wood--Narcissus.\"\n\n\"In the wood--Narcissus,\" said she.\n\n\"Come hither,\" he cried.\n\n\"Come hither,\" she answered.\n\nWondering at the strange voice which answered him, he looked all\nabout, but could see no one.\n\n\"Art thou close at hand?\" he asked.\n\n\"Close at hand,\" answered Echo.\n\nWondering the more at seeing no one, he went forward in the direction\nof the voice. Echo, when she found he was coming towards her, fled\nfurther, so that when next he called, her voice sounded far away. But\nwherever she was, he still followed after her, and she saw that he\nwould not let her escape; for wherever she hid, if he called, she had\nto answer, and so show him her hiding-place. By now they had come to\nan open space in the trees, where the green lawn sloped down to a\nclear pool in the hollow. Here by the margin of the water she stood,\nwith her back to the tall, nodding bulrushes, and as Narcissus came\nout from the trees she wrung her hands, and the salt tears dropped\nfrom her eyes; for she loved him, and longed to speak to him, and yet\nshe could not say a word. When he saw her he stopped.\n\n\"Art thou she who calls me?\" he asked.\n\n\"Who calls me?\" she answered.\n\n\"I have told thee, Narcissus,\" he said.\n\n\"Narcissus,\" she cried, and held out her arms to him.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" he asked.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" said she.\n\n\"Have I not told thee,\" he said impatiently, \"Narcissus?\"\n\n\"Narcissus,\" she said again, and still held out her hands\nbeseechingly.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he cried, \"who art thou and why dost thou call me?\"\n\n\"Why dost thou call me?\" said she.\n\nAt this he grew angry.\n\n\"Maiden, whoever thou art, thou hast led me a pretty dance through the\nwoods, and now thou dost nought but mock me.\"\n\n\"Thou dost nought but mock me,\" said she.\n\nAt this he grew yet more angry, and began to abuse her, but every word\nof abuse that he spoke she hurled back at him again. At last, tired\nout with his wanderings and with anger, he threw himself on the grass\nby the pool, and would not look at her nor speak to her again. For a\ntime she stood beside him weeping, and longing to speak to him and\nexplain, but never a word could she utter. So at last in her misery\nshe left him, and went and hid herself behind a rock close by. After a\nwhile, when his anger had cooled down somewhat, Narcissus remembered\nhe was very thirsty, and noticing for the first time the clear pool\nbeside him, he bent over the edge of the bank to drink. As he held out\nhis hand to take the water, he saw looking up towards him a face which\nwas the fairest face he had ever looked on, and his heart, which never\nyet had known what love was, at last was set on fire by the face in\nthe pool. With a sigh he held out both his arms towards it, and the\nfigure also held out two arms to him, and Echo from the rock answered\nback his sigh. When he saw the figure stretching out towards him and\nheard the sigh, he thought that his love was returned, and he bent\ndown closer to the water and whispered, \"I love thee.\"\n\n\"I love thee,\" answered Echo from the rock.\n\nAt these words he bent down further, and tried to clasp the figure in\nhis arms, but as he did so, it vanished away. The surface of the pool\nwas covered with ripples, and he found he was clasping empty water to\nhis breast. So he drew back and waited awhile, thinking he had been\noverhasty. In time, the ripples died away and the face appeared again\nas clear as before, looking up at him longingly from the water. Once\nagain he bent towards it, and tried to clasp it, and once again it\nfled from his embrace. Time after time he tried, and always the same\nthing happened, and at last he gave up in despair, and sat looking\ndown into the water, with the teardrops falling from his eyes; and the\nfigure in the pool wept, too, and looked up at him with a look of\nlonging and despair. The longer he looked, the more fiercely did the\nflame of love burn in his breast, till at length he could bear it no\nmore, but determined to reach the desire of his heart or die. So for\nthe last time he leaned forward, and when he found that once again he\nwas clasping the empty water, he threw himself from the bank into the\npool, thinking that in the depths, at any rate, he would find his\nlove. But he found naught but death among the weeds and stones of the\npool, and knew not that it was his own face he loved reflected in the\nwater below him. Thus were the words of the prophet fulfilled, \"So\nlong as he sees not himself he shall live and be happy.\"\n\nEcho, peeping out from the rock, saw all that had happened, and when\nNarcissus cast himself into the pool, she rushed forward, all too\nlate, to stop him. When she found she could not save him, she cast\nherself on the grass by the pool and wept and wept, till her flesh and\nher bones wasted away with weeping, and naught but her voice remained\nand the curse that was on her. So to this day she lives, a formless\nvoice haunting rocks and caves and vaulted halls. Herself no man has\nseen since the day Narcissus saw her wringing her hands for love of\nhim beside the nodding bulrushes, and no man ever shall see again. But\nher voice we all have heard repeating our words when we thought that\nno one was by; and though now she will say whatever we bid her, if\nonce the curse were removed, the cry of her soul would be,\n\n[Illustration: For the last time he leaned forward.]\n\n\"Narcissus, Narcissus, my love, come back--come back to me!\"\n\nBy the side of the clear brown pool, on the grass that Echo had\nwatered with her tears, there sprang up a sweet-scented flower, with a\npure white face and a crown of gold. And to this day in many a land\nmen call that flower \"Narcissus,\" after the lad who, for love of his\nown fair face, was drowned in the waters of Helicon.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nThe Sculptor and the Image\n\n\nIn the fair isle of Cyprus, long ago, lived a young sculptor named\nPygmalion. As a child he had been quick to see beauty in the forms\naround him, and while he found nothing better, he would dig the clay\nin the garden and sit for many a long hour happy in the shade of the\ntrees, modelling horses and cows and human figures, whilst his mother\nwas busied with her duties in the house. She, for her part, was glad\nhe had found something to amuse him and keep him out of mischief, for\nhe had no brothers or sisters to play with, and his father was dead,\nso they two lived alone together in a great white house between the\nmountains and the sea. From time to time she would come down into the\ngarden to look at his figures and praise them; for though they were\nchildish and crude, and sometimes grotesque, they were full of life\nand promise, and being a wise woman, she knew that where Nature points\nthe way, it is well to make the road as smooth as may be. At first she\ngave him no better material to work with than the clay he could dig\nfor himself, nor any master to teach him; for she wished to see how\nlong he would persevere, and how far he would get alone. There are\ntimes, too, when a master can hinder more than he can teach.\n\nOne day when he was old enough, she took him down to the city below,\nwhere the people were keeping the feast of Aphrodite, and they watched\nthe glad procession wind through the streets, with its choruses of\npriests and maidens, and little children scattering roses in the way.\nWith the rest of the folk they followed the procession up the hill to\nthe shining temple, and Pygmalion stood beside his mother, and\nwondered at the tapering white columns and the clouds of incense, and\nall the colours and fair forms such as he had never seen before. The\npicture of all these things he carried home in his mind, and thought\nof them by day and dreamt of them by night, till they became almost as\nreal to him as the living forms he saw around him. Then he worked more\nbusily than ever at his modelling in the garden; but whereas before he\nhad been content to leave the figures he had made, standing them out\nin rows for his mother to admire, now he was no longer pleased with\nhis work. He would look at the figure he had made and compare it with\nthe image in his mind, and he saw that while his ideal was fair and\nbeautiful beyond measure, his work was clumsy and rude. Then he would\nset to work and alter his model. But whatever he did he was not\nsatisfied, and when his mother came down from the house to see him,\nshe found him with broken bits lying about him, and never a finished\nfigure to show her.\n\nThen she knew that one of two things had happened; either he had come\nto the limit of his powers, and, as a child will, had grown tired of a\nthing in which he could make no further progress; or else he had\nreached an age when the mind sees fair forms which the hand cannot\nfashion, and in disgust at his failure he had broken up his figures,\nthough they were better than what he had done before, because they\nfell short of the ideal in his mind.\n\n\"Thou art tired of playing with clay, my child,\" she said; \"come with\nme, and I will see if we cannot find something that will please thee\nbetter.\"\n\nSo she kept him with her, and taught him letters, and read to him\ntales of the gods and heroes, till the child's eyes grew big with\nwonder, and she saw that all she read passed before his mind like a\nmoving picture. She read to him from the old Greek poets, tales of\nbravery and might, of love and of adventure--tales, too, of cruelty\nand bloodshed, jealousy and hate. But whatever she read was beautiful,\nfor the Greeks loved beauty above all things else, and clothed their\nthoughts in fair forms of words, so that even when they told of\nwickedness and wrong they left no stain of ugliness upon the mind.\nPygmalion drank in eagerly all that was read to him, and because he\nhad within him the soul of a poet he understood. The music of the\nwords sank into his heart like seed planted in a fertile soil, which\nsprings up to forms of loveliness and grace. So did the old tales\nbring before his eyes shapes of beauty, and once again he began to go\ndown into the garden and try to mould them into figures of clay. His\nmother watched him, and saw that he persevered, and that week by week\nhis models grew more beautiful and more true, as the image in his own\nmind grew clearer. Then she knew that her reading had done what she\nhoped it would do, and that the vague and fleeting visions had become\nfor him forms as clear as those he saw around him.\n\n\"At least my son has the soul of an artist,\" she thought, \"but whether\nhe has the hands and the fingers of one who can do more than play with\nthe clay, the gods alone can tell. He shall have a master to teach\nhim, and in time we shall see whether he is one of the many in whom\nthe divine fire burns, but whose bodies are instruments too coarse to\ncarry out the thoughts of the soul, or whether he is one of the few\nwho are able to do that of which others vainly dream.\"\n\nSo she gave him a master--a white-haired, venerable man, in whom lived\nthe spirit of the old Greek sculptors, who had been the first to show\nmankind how stone and marble might be wrought into shapes of beauty.\nHe taught the lad how to work in all kinds of stone and metal, and to\ncopy faithfully the forms he saw around him. But he would not let him\nbe satisfied with this alone, for he saw that he had in him the making\nof better things.\n\n\"Pygmalion,\" he would say, \"in life there are many things that are not\nfair, but in art all things should be fair, and no art is truly great\nthat is not beautiful. When thou lookest on the world, see only that\nwhich is beautiful; thou, because thou hast the soul of a poet, wilt\nsee beauty where others cannot find it. Drink it in as a thirsty man\nwill drink from the wayside stream, then give forth to the world, in\nstone, copies of those ideal forms thou seest with the eye of thy soul\nalone.\"\n\nThe child was an apt pupil; he understood, and did as his master bade\nhim.\n\nAs the years flew by, he grew to be a man and a great sculptor, so\nthat in the temples of the gods and the palaces of the rich his\nstatues stood, and at the corners of the streets, a joy to rich and\npoor. The years, which had brought him to fame, had taken from him the\nwhite-haired old man, his master, and the mother who had helped to\nmake him what he was; and now he lived alone in the great white house\nbetween the mountains and the sea. But he was happy, perfectly happy,\nworking all day long at his images, and dreaming each night of fairer\nforms that he would some day work into stone and marble. His friends\nwould come up from the town to look at his work, or to buy, and would\nsay to him,\n\n\"Pygmalion, art thou not lonely here, all alone? Why dost thou not\ntake thee a wife, and rear up children to be a comfort to thee in\nthine old age?\"\n\nAnd he would answer, \"No, I am not lonely, for my art is to me both\nwife and children. I will never marry one of the daughters of men.\"\n\nWhatever they said, they could not move him from his resolve. But what\nhis friends could not do Aphrodite accomplished. When she saw there\nwas one man among the Cyprians who had reached the prime of life\nwithout giving her a thought, or offering up one prayer before her\nshrine, she was angry, and determined that he should feel her power.\nSo one night she sent into his mind the vision of a maiden, who in\nloveliness surpassed all other forms he had ever dreamed of, and she\nset his heart aflame, so that he thought he saw a living form before\nhim. He started up in his bed and held out his arms towards her, but\nawoke with a start to find he was clasping the empty air. Then he knew\nit was only a vision he had seen; but it haunted him, and he tossed\nrestlessly from side to side, unable to sleep. At last he could bear\nit no more; while the dawn was yet grey in the east he rose from his\ncouch and went to his workroom. Gathering together his instruments and\nsome clay, he set to work to model the figure of his dream. On and on\nhe worked, scarce thinking of food or rest, and chose out a block of\nfair white marble, which day by day grew into shape beneath his\nfingers. In his hand there seemed a magic it had never had before, so\nthat his chisel never failed nor slipped, till the marble stood\ntransformed before him, shaped into the image of a perfect woman, the\nvision of his dream; and he loved her as other men love a woman in the\nflesh, with his whole heart and soul. But small joy did he have of his\nlove, for though he had fashioned her with eyes that spoke to him of\nlove and hands held out towards him, yet when he spoke to her she\ncould give no answer, and when he clasped her in his arms her touch\nwas the cold, hard touch of marble. Then he tried to put her away from\nhis mind, and covered her over with a curtain; but when he was not\nlooking at the marble figure, her image was still present before his\nmind, and he could not forget her. Day by day his love grew, till it\nbecame a burning fever in his heart. He grew thin and ill from want of\nfood and rest, and could neither work by day nor sleep by night. His\nfriends, when they came up to see him, marvelled at the change in\nhim; and when they asked to see what new work he had done he would\nanswer,\n\n\"My friends, I have no new work to show you. The cunning has departed\nfrom my hand. Never again shall I fashion the white marble into shapes\nof beauty.\"\n\nThey wondered what had come over him, for the image that had been his\nundoing he never showed them, nor let them know what was troubling his\nheart. But he made a niche for her in his chamber where the light fell\nupon her from the window, and at night when he could not sleep he\nwould sit with his arms clasped about her ankles and his head resting\non her feet. Her face would look down on him full of pity and love,\npale and beautiful in the cold white light of the moon. When the day\ndawned and the cloudlets clustered red about the rising sun, the warm\nrays would fall upon her giving to her some hue of life, and\nPygmalion's heart would beat high with the hope that a miracle had\nbeen wrought, and that his love at last had kindled a soul akin to his\nown in the marble statue before him. With a cry he would put his arms\nabout her, but still she remained a cold, hard, unresponsive stone. So\nday by day and week by week he grew more wretched; for there is nought\nlike a passionate love which is unreturned, and which never can be\nreturned, to take out the life from a man.\n\nAt last Aphrodite had compassion on him, when she saw that he had\nsuffered as much and more than most men at her hands, and that he no\nlonger held her in disdain. One night Pygmalion, as usual, had been\nkneeling before the statue with his arm clasped about her feet, till,\ntired out with longing, he had fallen asleep. On the breath of the\nnight wind Aphrodite came in, and she kissed the statue on the lips.\n\n[Illustration: On the breath of the night wind Aphrodite came in, and\nshe kissed the statue on the lips.]\n\n\"Let love kindle life,\" she said. \"Live, Galatea, thou milk-white\nmaid, and bring joy to the heart of Pygmalion.\"\n\nThen she stole forth again through the moonlit casement, and Pygmalion\nslept on unconscious. In the morning the sunlight streamed in through\nthe window, and fell full upon his face. With a start he awoke, and\nlooked up at the statue, and to his sun-dazed eyes it seemed to move.\n\n\"O Aphrodite,\" he cried, \"mock me not! Thou hast deceived me so\noften.\"\n\nIn despair he cast his arms about the image, certain that once again\nhe would find her a cold white stone. But lo! instead of unyielding\nmarble he was clasping in his arms a living woman. Her arms were about\nhis neck, her lips on his lips, and she looked into his eyes with a\nfire that answered the fire in his own.\n\n\"At last, at last,\" said he, \"my love has prevailed!\"\n\n\"Even in the heart of a stone, Pygmalion,\" she said, \"love can kindle\nlove. My form is the work of thy hand, and my soul is the child of thy\nlove. As long as stone can last, so long shall my body last; and as\nlong as thy love can live, so long shall my soul live also.\"\n\n\"My love,\" he said, \"will live for ever.\"\n\n\"Then for ever,\" said she, \"my soul will live with thine.\"\n\nSo as husband and wife they lived together for many a long year. The\ncunning came back to Pygmalion's hand, and many a fair statue did he\nmake for the people of Cyprus. In time he died in a green old age. His\nspirit fled away to the dwelling-place of souls, and with him the\nspirit of Galatea, his wife; and her body returned to the form in\nwhich Pygmalion first had made her--a fair white marble image. In the\ngarden where he, in his childhood, had learned to model the clay, the\nCyprians buried him, building a fair tomb over him, and in a niche\nthey placed the statue of Galatea. So the words she had spoken when\nshe came to life were fulfilled. Her form lived as long as stone could\nlive, and her soul lived as long as Pygmalion could love her. And\nwhich of us can say that this could not be for ever, or that they do\nnot still live in the light of each other's love in the dwelling-place\nof souls?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nThe Divine Musician\n\n\nNorth-West of the \u00c6gean, where the cliffs of Pelion rise sheer out of\nthe sea, dwelt long ago Cheiron, the centaur, the wisest of living\nthings, half man, half horse. Many brothers had he, who in form were\nlike himself, but their hearts within were hard and wild, and because\nof their untamed passions and their cruelty and lust they were hated\nalike by gods and men. But Cheiron was gentle and mild. He knew all\nmanner of strange things; he could prophesy, and play upon the lyre,\nand cure men of their hurts by means of healing herbs. He was brave\nwithal, and had been in many a bloody fight, and knew the arts of war\nfull as well as the arts of peace. Wherefore the old Hellenes called\nhim Cheiron, the Better One, and sent up their sons to live with him\nthat they might be taught all the things which man should know. In a\nhollow cave on the mountain-side he had his home. Far up above him the\nsnow-capped peaks of Pelion kept watch over the nestling townships of\nthe plain, and far, far below the waves of the \u00c6gean washed without\nceasing on the rocks of that pitiless coast, now soft and soothing as\nthe song a mother sings to her child, now loud and boisterous beneath\nthe lash of the storm-wind, when the seabirds fly screaming to the\nshelter of the shore. All around were dark forests of chestnut, pine\nand oak, where many a fierce beast had his lair. In the branches of\nthe trees the wild birds built their nests and filled the dark glades\nwith song. About the mouth of the cave the ground was trampled hard\nbeneath the tread of many feet, and paths led this way and that, some\ninto the heart of the forests, others down the steep cliff to the\nshore.\n\nEvery morning at sunrise a troop of boys and youths would come forth\nfrom the cave, and, dividing into groups, would go their several ways\nto fish or to hunt, or to follow the course of some stream to its\nunknown source in the mountains. Sometimes Cheiron himself would go\nwith them, if he thought they had need of his help; but more often he\nleft them to their own devices, to follow each one his own bent as\nNature prompted him. In the evening they would come home and tell him\nof their doings in the day; and he would praise or blame them,\naccording as they had done well or ill, and show them how they might\ndo better another time. Then they would go to their couches of dried\nmoss and leaves, and sleep the deep sleep of youth and health, while\nthe cool night breeze blew in upon their faces from the mouth of the\ncave, and put fresh life and strength into their tired limbs. In the\nwinter-time, when the night was longer than the day, and the snow lay\ndeep upon the hills, they would light a great fire in front of the\ncave with logs they had stored in the summer months, and Cheiron\nwould take his lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and\nearth, while they lay round about and listened. The songs which he\nsang to them then they never forgot, because Cheiron was wise, and\nspoke to their souls in his singing. So they laid up his songs in\ntheir hearts; and many a long year after, when they were grown men far\naway, and some danger or difficulty stood in their path, the drift of\nhis teaching would come back to them in the words of a song, and their\nhearts would grow brave and strong once more to act worthily of their\nboyhood's sunny days on Pelion. Many a hero whose name still lives\namong men had been trained by Cheiron in his youth--Peleus, who\nmarried a goddess, and Achilles his son, the swiftest and bravest of\nmortal men; and Jason, the leader of the Argonauts; and Asklepios, the\nmighty healer; and, not least among them, Orpheus, the greatest of\nGreek musicians and mystics, whose tale I will tell you now.\n\nOne day, as the shades of evening were beginning to fall, Cheiron\nstood before the mouth of the cave waiting for the lads to come home.\nSooner than he expected he saw one of them far away coming down a path\nfrom the mountains, and he marvelled that he should return so soon and\nalone. As he came nearer Cheiron saw that he walked with his eyes upon\nthe ground, deep in thought. Every now and again he stopped and looked\nround upon the peaceful hillsides stretching calm and smiling in the\ngolden glow of the evening; and when he had gazed for a moment he\nsighed, as though he would breathe into his soul the beauty he saw\naround him, and then went on his way once more with his eyes on the\nground. So he walked till he came close to the cave and saw Cheiron\nstanding in the entrance. Then he ran up to him and put his hand upon\nhis shoulder.\n\n\"My father,\" he cried, \"look round upon the hills; hast thou ever seen\nthem so fair as they have been this day?\"\n\nCheiron smiled at his words.\n\n\"Orpheus,\" he said, \"the fair face of the earth changes but little. In\nthe soul of man it lies to look upon her and see her beauty or to be\nblind.\"\n\n\"Till this day I have been blind, Cheiron,\" he said.\n\n\"And who has lifted the veil from thine eyes, my son?\" asked his\nmaster.\n\n\"I know not,\" he said. \"But this morning, while yet it was dark, there\ncame to me a strange unrest and a longing to be alone. So I crept\nforth from the cave whilst you were all sleeping, and climbed up the\nmountain-side--up, up, in the grey light before dawn, till I came to\nthe place where the white snow lies like a cloak about the shaggy\nshoulders of Pelion. There I left the track of my footsteps where no\nfeet but mine had trod, and climbed up upon a boulder and looked out\nacross the sea. And I saw the great sun rise out of the east. As I\nlooked it seemed that I beheld the face of God; and as the snow and\nthe sea and the forests awoke to life in the light of His glory, my\nsoul awoke within me. All the day long I wandered about the forests\nand hills; and I saw the beauty of the trees and the grass, and the\ngrace of the wild deer as he bounded over the rocks, as I had never\nseen it before. The wonder of this day lies like a burden on my heart\nthat I fain would ease, yet I have no words to tell of it.\"\n\nThen Cheiron took up the lyre which was lying by his side and passed\nhis fingers gently over the strings.\n\n\"Orpheus,\" he said, \"many a long year ago, when thou wast a little\nlad, thy mother Calliope brought thee to me. And she put thy hand in\nmy hand, and said: 'Cheiron, make a man of my son. Make him brave and\nfearless and strong, a worthy companion of the noble lads thou hast\naround thee. When the right time comes I will breathe my spirit upon\nhim, and he shall be great, as few in this world are great.' This day\nshe has kept her word, Orpheus. She has breathed her spirit upon thee,\nand has opened the eyes of thy soul and made them see.\"\n\n\"Who is my mother Calliope?\" asked the lad.\n\n\"She is the Fair-voiced One who speaks through the lips of mortals by\nmusic and song, Orpheus. With her sisters, she dwells for ever by the\nsunlit streams of Helicon, where they follow in the footsteps of\nApollo, their lord, across the green lawns and the flowery meadows.\nAll knowledge, all music of sound and of words, comes to men by their\ngift--those nine great sisters, the Muses. Happy art thou to be her\nson. Take now this lyre from mine hand. Ease the burden of thy soul in\nsong, and learn how great is the gift she has given thee.\"\n\nSo Orpheus took the lyre from his master, and struck the chords, as\nall the lads who dwelt with Cheiron knew full well how to do. But\ninstead of the old songs that he had learnt from his childhood, a new\nsong came to his lips, and he sang as he had never sung before. Far\naway upon the hillsides his companions heard his voice, and they\nstopped upon their homeward way to listen, as the evening breeze bore\nthe sound to their ears. When they knew that the voice came from home,\nthey hastened on and drew silently near, that no sound might disturb\nthe singer, and throwing themselves upon the ground at his feet,\nforgot their weariness and hunger as they listened. On and on he sang,\nforgetful of all else but his song, till the red glow of the evening\ndied away in the west and the stars shone pale in the twilight. There\nwas a strange magic about his music which drew all living things to\nhis feet, as a magnet draws the cold heart of steel. From the woods\nand the forests they came, and from the bare hillsides--the lion, the\nleopard and the trembling fawn. The snake came forth from his\nhiding-place, the rabbit from his hole, and the wild birds wheeled\nabout his head and settled on the brow of the cave. The very trees\nseemed to hear him, as they swayed their heads to and fro to the\nrhythm of his song. As he looked round upon his comrades whilst he\nsang, his heart grew strong within him, for he felt that a strange new\npower had been born in his soul, which could bow the heads of men\nbeneath his will as the wind bows the rushes by the stream. So he sang\non as the twilight deepened into night, and all the stars of heaven\ncame forth to listen, till at length his song died upon his lips, like\na breeze lulled to rest at sunset. For a moment the creatures lay\nspellbound around him; then one by one they crept back to their homes,\nwith their fears and their hatreds tamed for a while by the magic of\nhis singing. And his companions crowded round him with words of praise\nand eager questions.\n\n\"Who taught thee thy magic song, Orpheus?\" they cried.\n\n\"The sunrise and the snow,\" he answered, \"and the teaching of Cheiron,\nand my happy days with you, and the spirit of my mother Calliope--all\nthese have taught me my song.\"\n\nBut his answer was a dark saying to them, and not one of them\nunderstood it, save Cheiron. He knew that it is the commonest things\nin life that are the material of all that is beautiful and fair, just\nas a temple may be built of common stone; but that the children of the\nMuses are few, who can by music and art open the blind hearts of men\nto see.\n\nThus did the gift of song fall upon Orpheus, so that he became the\ngreatest of all singers upon earth. All day long he would wander about\nthe woods and the hills, and tame the heart of every living thing with\nthe magic of his voice.\n\nOne day it chanced that he came into a wood where he had never been\nbefore, and he followed a grass-grown track which led to the mouth of\na cave. On one side of the cave stood a tall beech-tree, whose\nmoss-covered roots offered a tempting seat, and close by a clear\nstream gushed forth from the rocks. He drank eagerly of the water, for\nhe had wandered far and was thirsty; and when he had quenched his\nthirst, he sat down on the roots of the beech-tree and began his song.\nAs before, the wild things gathered about him, and crouched at his\nfeet, tame and silent, as he sang; and from the shadow of the cave\ncrept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass, with her chin between her\nhands, looking up into his face. For a time he did not see her, so\nsilently had she come; but at last the power of her eyes drew his\neyes upon her, and he turned his head and looked at her. When he saw\nher, his arm fell useless by his side and his voice died away in his\nthroat, for he had never looked upon anyone so fair. Her hair was\nblack as the storm-cloud, but her eyes were blue as the summer sky,\nand she lay like a white flower in the grass at his feet. For a long\nmoment he gazed into her face without speaking, as she gazed back at\nhim, and at last he spoke.\n\n\"Who art thou, maiden?\" he asked.\n\n\"I am Eurydice,\" she answered.\n\n\"Thy hair is black as midnight, Eurydice,\" he said, \"and thine eyes\nare bright as the noonday.\"\n\n\"Are not midnight and noonday fair to thine eyes?\" she asked.\n\n\"They are fair indeed, but thou art fairer.\"\n\n\"Then I am well content,\" she said.\n\n\"I know not thy name nor thy face, Eurydice,\" said he, \"but my heart\nbeats with thy heart as though we were not strangers.\"\n\n\"When two hearts beat together, Orpheus, they are strangers no more,\nwhether they have known each other all their days, or have met as thou\nand I have met. Long ago the fame of thee, and of thy singing, reached\nmine ears, but I hardened my heart against thee, and said, 'It is an\nidle rumour, and he is no better than other men, before whose face I\nflee.' But now the gods have brought thy steps to the hollow cave\nwhere I dwell, and thou, by thy magic, hast drawn me to thy feet, so\nthat I, who doubted thy power, must follow thee whithersoever thou\nwilt.\"\n\n[Illustration: From the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay\nupon the grass.]\n\n\"Shall I sing thee a song, Eurydice--the song thou hast sown in my\nheart?\"\n\n\"Yes, sing me that song,\" she answered.\n\nSo he struck the chords of his lyre and sang her the song that was\nborn of her beauty. One by one the wild creatures stole back to the\nforest, for that song was not for them, and they two were left alone\nbeneath the spreading boughs of the beech-tree. As he sang, Eurydice\ncrept closer to him, till her head rested on his knee and her long\nblack hair fell in a cloud about his feet. As she drew nearer his\nvoice grew lower, till it became but a whisper in her ear. Then he\nlaid his lyre on the ground beside him and put his arms about her, and\ntheir hearts spoke to each other in the tongue that knows not sound\nnor words.\n\nSo it came to pass that Orpheus returned no more to dwell with Cheiron\nand his companions in the hollow cave below Pelion, but lived with\nEurydice, his wife, in her cave in the heart of the forest. But he\nnever forgot his boyhood's happy days, nor all that Cheiron had done\nfor him. He would come often to see him and take counsel with him, and\nsing to the lads his magic song. For a few short years he lived a life\nthe gods might envy, till the dark days came, when not even music\ncould bring comfort to his heart. For one day, as he roamed with\nEurydice through the dark forest, it chanced that she unwittingly trod\nupon a snake, and the creature turned upon her and pierced her white\nfoot with its venomous fang. Like liquid fire the poison ran through\nher veins, and she lay faint and dying in his arms.\n\n\"O Eurydice,\" he cried, \"Eurydice, open thine eyes and come back to\nme!\"\n\nFor a moment the agony of his voice awoke her to life.\n\n\"Orpheus,\" she said, \"beloved, this side of the river of death we can\ndwell together no more. But love, my dear one, is stronger than death,\nand some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered.\"\n\nWhen she had spoken her head sank down upon his breast, and her spirit\nfled away, to return no more. So he bore the fair image of his wife in\nhis arms, and laid her in the depths of the cave that had been their\nhome. Above her head he placed a great pine torch, and all the long\nnight watches he sat with his arms about her and his cheek against her\ncheek; and his heart groaned within him with a grief too great for\nwords. Ere the day dawned he kissed for the last time the lips that\ncould speak to him never again, and laid back her head on a pillow of\nleaves and moss. Then he pulled down the earth and stones about the\nmouth of the cave, so that no one could find the opening, and left for\nevermore the home he had loved so well. Onward he walked in the grey\nlight of dawn, little caring where he went, and struck the chords of\nhis lyre to tell all the earth of his grief. The trees and the flowers\nbowed down their heads as they listened, the clouds of heaven dropped\ntears upon the ground, and the whole world mourned with him for the\ndeath of Eurydice his wife.\n\n\"Oh, sleep no more, ye woods and forests!\" he sang, \"sleep no more,\nbut toss your arms in the sighing wind, and bow your heads beneath the\nsky that weeps with me. For Eurydice is dead. She is dead. No more\nshall her white feet glance through the grass, nor the field-flowers\nshine in her hair. But, like last year's snow, she is melted away, and\nmy heart is desolate without her. Oh! why may the dried grass grow\ngreen again, but my love must be dead for ever? O ye woods and\nforests, sleep no more, but awake and mourn with me. For Eurydice is\ndead; she is dead, dead, dead!\"\n\nSo he wandered, making his moan and wringing the hearts of all who\nheard him, with the sorrow of his singing. And when he could find no\ncomfort upon earth he bethought him of the words of his wife:\n\n\"This side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. But\nlove, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall\nprevail, never again to be conquered.\"\n\nHe pondered the words in his heart, and wondered what she might mean.\n\n\"If love is stronger than death,\" he thought, \"then my love can win\nher back. If I can charm the hearts of all living things with the\nmagic of my song, I may charm, too; the souls of the dead and of their\npitiless king, so that he shall give me back Eurydice, my wife. I will\ngo down to the dark halls of Hades, and bring her up to the fair earth\nonce more.\"\n\nWhen hope was thus born anew in his heart he grew brave for any\nventure, and pressed forward on his way till he came to the place men\ncalled the mouth of Hades. Nothing daunted by the tales of horror they\ntold him, he entered the fearsome cave, which led deep down into the\nbowels of the earth, where noisome vapours choked the breath in his\nthroat, and dark forms crouched in his path and fled shrieking before\nhim, till at last he stood by the shores of the ninefold Styx, that\nwinds about the realms of the dead. Then he shouted aloud to Charon,\nthe ferryman, to row him across in his boat. When the old man heard\nhis voice, he stopped midway across the stream.\n\n\"Who is it that calls me in the voice of the living?\" he asked.\n\n\"It is Orpheus,\" he answered. \"I am come to fetch back Eurydice, my\nwife.\"\n\nBut the old man laughed, and his laugh cut the heart of Orpheus like a\nknife.\n\n\"O beardless innocent,\" he said, \"who gave thee power over life and\ndeath? I tell thee that many have stood by the shores of this stream\nand entreated me to take them across, that they might bring their dear\nones back with them. But no living soul shall sit in my boat, nor\nshall the dead, who have sat in it once, ever return to sit in it\nagain. Go back to the earth, young man, and when thy time has come,\nthou too shalt sit in my boat, never fear.\"\n\n\"That time has come, Charon,\" he said, \"and I shall sit in thy boat\nthis day.\"\n\nRaising his lyre, he struck the chords, and his love taught him the\ntune and the words to sing. Steadfastly he gazed at Charon, and the\nmagic of his singing drew the old man towards him as surely as though\nthe rope of the boat were in his hands. Without ceasing his song, he\ntook his place in the stern, and in time to the music Charon dipped\nhis oars in the stream, so that the boat swung over the river as it\nhad never swung before. As it stranded in the shallow water, Orpheus\nleaped lightly to shore.\n\n\"Farewell for the present, Charon,\" he cried; \"we shall meet again ere\nlong.\"\n\nHe hastened on his way, playing and singing his magic song. Resting on\nhis pole, the old man looked after him with wonder in his heart, and\nshaded his eyes with his hand. For a ray of the sun seemed to shine\nfor a moment in that cold grey land as Orpheus passed by. The pale\nflowers of hell tossed their heads to and fro, as though the west wind\nplayed through their leaves, and their colour and their scent came\nback to them once more. With a sigh, Charon breathed in the perfume\nfrom the air, and tossed back the grey locks from his brow and\nstraightened his drooping shoulders.\n\n\"It is long since I smelt the fresh smell of the earth,\" he muttered.\n\"Who is this young god, who can bring light to the darkness and life\nto the realms of the dead?\"\n\nSo till Orpheus passed out of sight and the sound of his singing grew\nfaint in the distance Charon stood looking after him, and then with a\nsigh he sat down in his boat and bent to his oars once more.\n\nAnd Orpheus went on his way, with hope beating high in his heart, till\nhe came to the portals of the palace of Death. On the threshold lay\nCerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, who night and day kept watch\nbeside the gate to see that no one passed in save those who had died\nupon earth, and that those who had passed him once should pass him\nnever again. When he heard Orpheus coming, he sprang to his feet and\nsnarled and growled and bared his sharp white fangs; but as the\nstrains of music grew clearer he sank silent to the ground, and\nstretched his three great heads between his paws. Orpheus, as he\npassed by, bent down and stroked him, and the fierce beast licked his\nhands. So did he enter into the gates of Death, and passed through the\nshadowy halls, till he stood before the throne of Pluto, the king. A\ndim and awful form did he sit, wrapped about in darkness and mist, and\non his right hand sat Persephone, his wife, whom he stole from the\nmeadows of Sicily. When he saw Orpheus his eyes gleamed like the gleam\nof cold steel, and he stretched forth his gaunt right arm towards him.\n\n\"What dost thou here, Orpheus?\" he asked.\n\n\"I am come to ask thee a boon, O king,\" he answered.\n\n\"There be many that ask me a boon,\" said Pluto, \"but none that receive\nit.\"\n\n\"Yet none have stood before thee in the flesh, as I do, O king, to ask\ntheir boon.\"\n\n\"Because thou hast trespassed unlawfully on my domain, dost thou think\nI will grant thee thy boon?\"\n\n\"Nay; but because my grief is so great that I have dared what none\nhave dared before me, I pray thee to hear me.\"\n\nWithout waiting for an answer, he struck his lyre and sang to them the\nstory of his life, and of how he had loved and lost Eurydice. The eyes\nof the pale queen brightened when she heard him, and the colour came\nback to her cheeks, as the song brought back to her mind the days of\nher girlhood and the sunlit meadows of Sicily. Then a great pity\nfilled her heart for Eurydice, who had left the green earth for ever,\nand might not return, as she herself did, in the spring-time, living\nonly the dark winter months below. As Orpheus ceased his song she laid\nher hand upon her husband's.\n\n\"My lord,\" she said, \"grant his boon, I pray thee. He is brave and\ntrue-hearted, and he sings as no man has ever sung before.\"\n\nBut the stern king sat with his head upon his hand and eyes cast down,\ndeep in thought. At length he spoke, and his voice was soft and kind.\n\n\"Orpheus,\" he said, \"thou hast touched my heart with thy singing. Yet\nit lies not with me to grant thee thy boon.\"\n\n\"But if the queen, thy wife, may return to the earth in the\nspring-time, may not Eurydice, too, come back at thy command?\" asked\nOrpheus.\n\n\"The ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals, Orpheus; they walk\nby paths you may not tread. Yet, though I have no power to give thee\nback Eurydice, thou mayest win her thyself if thou hast the strength.\"\n\n\"How may that be?\" cried Orpheus. \"For the sake of Eurydice I have\nstrength for any venture.\"\n\n\"No strength of the flesh can win her, Orpheus, but the strength of a\nfaith unfaltering. I will send for her, and when thou seest her stand\nwithin the hall, holding out her hands towards thee, thou must harden\nthy heart, and turn and flee before her by the way thou camest. For\nthe love of thee she will follow, and she will entreat thee to look at\nher and give her thy hand over the stony way. But thou must neither\nlook at her nor speak to her. One look, one word, will be thine\nundoing, and she must vanish from thine eyes for ever. The spell of\nthy song still rests upon the guardians of my kingdom, and they will\nlet thee and thy wife pass by. But think not by word nor deed to help\nher. Alone she passed from life to death, and alone she must pass back\nfrom death to life. Her love and thy faith can be the only bond\nbetween you. Hast thou the strength for this?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried Orpheus, \"'tis but a small thing to ask of a love\nlike mine.\"\n\n\"It will be harder than thou thinkest,\" the king replied.\n\"Nevertheless, I will call Eurydice.\"\n\nHe signed to a messenger to fetch her. In a few moments he returned,\nand behind him came Eurydice from the garden of Death. The dank dew\nhung heavy about her, and she walked with her eyes upon the ground,\nwhile her long black hair hid the paleness of her face. Thus did she\ncome into the centre of the hall, and, not speaking or moving, Orpheus\ngazed upon her till she raised her eyes and saw him. With a cry she\nsprang towards him.\n\n\"Orpheus!\" she said.\n\nBut, remembering the words of the king, he turned and fled before her\nthrough the misty halls and out by the great gate, where Cerberus lay\ntamed with his heads between his paws. And he tried to shut his ears\nto her pleading as they sped across the plain, but every word that she\nsaid cut his heart like a stab, and more than once he almost turned to\nanswer her, so piteous was her cry.\n\n\"Oh, Orpheus, what have I done? Why dost thou flee from me? Oh, give\nme one word, one look, to say thou lov'st me still.\"\n\nBut he remained firm in his resolve, and sat himself in Charon's\nboat, and steeled his heart, whilst she sat beside him, but could not\ntouch him. For he was a living soul, and she was a shade, and might\nnot touch him if she would. But still she pleaded with him.\n\n[Illustration: \"Orpheus,\" she cried, in her despair, \"thy hand.\"]\n\n\"O Orpheus, my heart is starving for one look, one word. I know thou\nlovest me, but oh! to see thine eyes tell me so and hear thy lips say\nit.\"\n\nHe longed to turn and clasp her in his arms, and tell her how he loved\nher better than life. But still he refrained, and hugged his lyre\nclose to his breast in his agony; and as soon as the boat touched the\nshore he leapt out and hastened up the steep, dark path, whilst the\nsweat stood out in drops upon his brow, so hard was the way and so\nstifling the air. Behind him followed Eurydice, and if the way was\nhard for him, for her it was ten times harder. She had no strength for\nwords, and only by her sobs did Orpheus know she was following still.\nSo they went on, till at length the air grew pure and fresh, and the\ndaylight shone before them at the mouth of the cave. With eager steps\nOrpheus pressed forward, longing for the moment when he might clasp\nhis wife in his arms and speak to her once more. But as the way grew\neasier for him, it grew harder for Eurydice; since no one may pass\nfrom death to life without sore travail and pain. So she struggled and\nstumbled after him, and her heart gave way within her as she felt she\ncould follow no farther.\n\n\"Orpheus!\" she cried in her despair, \"thy hand.\"\n\nEre reason could restrain him, his heart had answered her sudden cry,\nand he turned and held out his arms to help her. All too late he knew\nhis folly. For even as he was about to hold her she slipped away, and\nas smoke is borne away on the wings of the wind, so was she borne\naway, helpless and lifeless, to the realms of the dead, and her voice\nfloated back like the echo of a dream,\n\n\"Farewell, Orpheus. Alas! Alas! farewell!\"\n\nSo for the second time did he lose Eurydice; and if his grief was\ngreat before, it was ten times greater now. For as the cup of joy had\ntouched his lips it had slipped from his hand and broken, and he knew\nthat the chance the gods had given him once they would give him never\nagain, but that all his life long he must dwell in loneliness without\nEurydice his wife. Blindly he went forward with his lyre beneath his\narm. The strings hung broken and lifeless, for the rocks and thorns\nhad torn them as he passed on his way up from Hades. But he heeded not\nnor made any effort to mend them, for the strings of his heart hung\nbroken too, and the music in his soul was dead. In black despair he\nwandered on, and the sunshine to his eyes was darkness, and the fair\nforms of earth were sadder than the phantoms of Hades had seemed to\nhim while hope still beat in his breast. As a colt that has wandered\nfar by unknown paths returns at last surely to his homestead, so did\nhis feet carry him back to Pelion and the dear home of his boyhood.\nNot till he stood in the path which led up to the cave did he know\nwhere he had come; but when he saw the mouth of the cave before him\nhis eyes were opened once more, and a faint joy stole into his heart\nas he went on and sat down on a stone outside. All was silent and\ndeserted, and he sat for awhile alone with his own sad thoughts, till\nhe felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up into the face of\nCheiron standing beside him.\n\n\"O my master!\" he cried.\n\n\"My son, thou hast suffered,\" said Cheiron.\n\n\"I have been down into Hades, Cheiron,\" he answered.\n\n\"My child,\" said Cheiron, \"I know it all.\"\n\nHe gazed upon him, his great mild eyes full of pity, and Orpheus gazed\nback at him, and knew that he understood, though how he had learnt his\ntale he could not tell. His heart drew comfort from the sympathy that\nunderstood without words, and was softened as the parched earth is\nsoftened by rain, so that he took Cheiron's hands between his, and\nbowed his head upon them, and wept.\n\nThus it came to pass that he returned to his boyhood's home, and dwelt\nonce more with Cheiron and his lads beneath the shade of snow-capped\nPelion. In time the bitterness of his grief was purged away, and he\nremembered Eurydice as something bright and fair that had been woven\ninto the web of his life while yet it was young, and which could never\nbe taken away. As he listened again to the old songs which Cheiron had\nsung to him and his comrades when they were lads, the fire and the\neagerness of his youth were born once more within him. When he saw the\nelder ones go forth into the world and little lads brought up to take\ntheir place with Cheiron, he felt how life stands ever beckoning and\ncalling to those in whose veins the blood of gods and heroes runs, and\nthey go forth to rule and to serve, to fight and to labour, in answer\nto the call which the foolish do not hear. So one morning he took his\nlyre, which for many a long day had lain silent, and putting fresh\nstrings for the ones that were broken, he passed his fingers lovingly\nover them as of old. And the spirit of music sprang to life once more\nin his heart, as the flowers spring to life when the winter is past,\nso that once again he could charm every living thing by the magic of\nhis song.\n\nWhen Cheiron knew that his power had come back to him he was glad.\n\n\"Orpheus,\" he said, \"thou hast conquered. A weaker man than thou art\nwould have lain crushed beneath the foot of adversity. But those who\nbravely rise again are stronger than before.\"\n\n\"Master,\" he said, \"when I saw the broken strings of my lyre and felt\nmy voice choked within me, I said, 'With the breaking of this string\nthe music dies and becomes a voiceless echo of the past, just as now\nEurydice is a shade in the shadowy land while her body is dust upon\nearth,' and lo! ere the strings were mended or the voice grew strong\nagain, the soul of song lived once more in my heart, as on the day\nwhen first my mother Calliope breathed her spirit upon me. If music\nmay live without sound or words, may not the soul live too without\nbones and flesh? This is a mystery, and I must seek the wide world for\nan answer.\"\n\nAnd Cheiron smiled upon him.\n\n\"It is good to seek,\" said he, \"though thou find no answer in the\nend.\"\n\n\"Yet will I find an answer,\" said Orpheus.\n\nSo when the call of Jason came soon after, for him to sail with the\nheroes in the good ship _Argo_ for the finding of the Golden Fleece,\nand to be their minstrel on the stormy seas, he went down right gladly\nto Iolchos. At the sound of his song the gallant ship leapt over the\nstones and into the sea like a charger ready for battle, though before\nshe had been too heavy to move. So he sailed with the heroes on their\nperilous venture, filling their hearts with courage and hope, and took\nthem safely through many a danger by the magic of his song. But though\nmany had set out, there were few that returned, and he saw the wreck\nof many a promising life on that terrible voyage, but found no answer\nto his quest. He bowed his head in reverence to the memory of those\nwho, for the sake of adventure and honour and a noble name, had poured\nforth their lives like water on a thirsty soil, knowing full well when\nthey set forth that the danger would be for all, but the prize and the\ndear home-coming for few.\n\nSo, as soon as might be, he set forth again to wander the wide world\nalone with his lyre. Some say he went to Egypt, others say to Crete,\nbut wherever he went he found at last the answer to his quest. For he\nfound the great god Dionysos, the god of many names--Bromios, Bacchos,\nZagreus--who fills men's minds with inspiration and divine madness, so\nthat they become one with him and with the life that lives for ever\nbehind the forms of things that die. He ate of the flesh of the mystic\nbull, which is the god himself, and to the sound of his lyre the\nM\u00e6nads danced over the mountains and through untrodden woods, and held\nto their breasts young lions, and cubs of the untamed wolf. Far away\nfrom towns and cities, where custom and language raise barriers\nbetween man and man, on the breast of the untouched earth they danced\ntheir mystic dance, and became one with Bacchos and with all things\nthat have life in the present, or have lived in the past. There\nOrpheus found Eurydice again in the communion of soul with soul, and\nlearnt what she had meant when she said, \"Some day our love shall\nprevail, never again to be conquered.\" So it came to pass that he\nbecame the priest of Bacchos, the mystic god, who is one with Life and\nLove. And he wrote upon tablets the rule of life, by which, through\npurity and initiation, men may become one with the god, and when they\nhave been purified by birth and re-birth in many diverse forms, they\nmay win, because they are one with him, the immortal life that\nchangeth not, like the life of the stars in heaven.\n\nThe tale goes of Orpheus that at last he came to Thrace and the wild\nmountain lands that lie to the north of Greece. There he tamed the\nfierce hill tribes with the magic of his song, and lived a life of\nabstinence and purity and ecstasy of the soul. But the followers of\nDionysos who dwelt in those parts looked on him askance; for whereas\nthey worshipped the god with shedding of blood and rending of goats,\nin the madness that is born of wine, the ecstasy of his worship was\nborn of music and beauty, and he would have no part nor lot in their\nwild revels. And because there is no hate that is greater than the\nhate of those who worship one god in divers way, there came a day when\nthe mad frenzy of the M\u00e6nads was turned against Orpheus himself. As he\nsat looking forth on the sunrise and singing as he touched his lyre,\nthe raving band came up behind him, full of madness and of wine. And\nthey tore him limb from limb in their frenzy, as they had torn the\nwild goats before, and cast his head into the Hebrus, thinking to\nsilence his singing for ever. But his head floated on the waves of\nthe eddying stream, fair and fresh as in life, singing as it floated\nits magic enchanting song. Gently the river bore it along and down to\nthe sea, and the blue sea waves kissed it and passed it from one to\nthe other, till at last they cast it up, still singing, on the shores\nof the Lesbian Isle. There the Muses came and buried it, and made of\nits tomb a sacred shrine, where, for many a long year, men came from\nfar and wide to worship and consult the oracle. About that shrine the\nnightingales sang more sweetly than in any other spot on earth, for\nthey learnt their song from the lips of Orpheus himself. And men bound\nthemselves in a holy brotherhood which they called by his name, and\nlived by the rules he had written on his tablets. Some of those who\npretended to follow him were charlatans and rogues, and brought\ndishonour and ridicule upon his name, while others kept the letter\nwithout the spirit of his law; but among them were those of a pure\nand blameless life, who kept his doctrines, and handed them down\nfrom generation to generation, till in time they became the\nfoundation-stones of the great philosophies of Pythagoras and Plato.\n\nThus did Orpheus live and die, and pointed out to men the path to\nimmortality by purity and abstinence and ecstasy of the soul. There\nwere many of old who hated his doctrine, and many who hate it now;\nand, indeed, it is not one by which every man can live. But there are\nthose to whom it brings peace and joy, though they call it by other\nnames than his; and these are the Bacchoi, the initiated, who have\nseen the inward light, and their souls are at peace.\n\n\n\n\nThe Flight of Arethusa\n\n\nMany, many hundred years ago a small band of colonists set sail from\nCorinth to found for themselves a new home and a new city in the\nfar-away west. With a song upon their lips, the sailors bent to their\noars.\n\n\"Heave ho! Heave ho!\" they sang, \"for the three-cornered isle of the\nwest! Heave ho! for the fountain that fails not, and the whispering\nwillow-trees! Heave ho! for the waters that are wedded with the waters\nof our own native land!\"\n\nThen, as the breeze filled their sails, they pulled in their oars, and\nlooked back for the last time at the home they were leaving for ever.\nProudly between two seas did the rock of Corinth raise her head,\nencircled with a diadem of walls and towers. With tears in their eyes\nthey watched her sink, and soon all around them was nothing but the\nwaste of the grey sea waves. Thus did they leave the old land for the\nnew with joy and sorrow, hope and fear in their hearts, and sailed\naway to the west, to the land of their dreams, the three-cornered isle\nof which the oracle had spoken. For when Archias, their leader, had\nconsulted the priestess at Delphi, she had answered,\n\n\"To Trinacria the god bids thee go, the three-cornered isle of the\nwest. There on Ortygia, the sacred islet, shalt thou build thee a\nhome, by the side of the fountain that fails not, Arethusa, whose\nwaters are wedded with the waters of thine own native land.\"\n\nSo, in obedience to her words, Archias set sail with his little band.\nAnd they found Ortygia and the spring Arethusa in the shade of the\nwhispering willows. There they planted the seed of that city, which\ngrew to be the greatest in all Sicily and the mistress of the\nMediterranean--Syracuse, proud Corinth's prouder daughter. For her\nsake many a battle has been fought and many a weary war been waged;\nfor through long centuries men knew that whoever held the keys of\nSyracuse held the keys of power in their hands.\n\nBut what did the priestess mean when she bade Archias go to the isle\nwhose waters were wedded with the waters of his own native land? And\nhow came it that when he and his band reached Sicily they found there\nthe flowers and the fruit of the home they had left, and streams that\nran in and out of the limestone rocks like the streams of the\nPeloponnese? I will tell you.\n\nArethusa, around whose spring in Ortygia the whispering willows bent,\nwas once a nymph, who dwelt in the Arcadian woodlands and followed\nArtemis the maiden huntress, over hill and over dale. Artemis loved\nher above all the other nymphs who were her handmaids, and as a sign\nof her favour she would let her carry her bow and her quiver full of\ndarts. On many a hot summer's day did Arethusa and her companions\nbathe with their mistress in the cool deep mountain pools. Above their\nheads the great oaks of the forest spread their branches, and the\ngrass beneath their feet was fresh and green. So long as they stayed\nby the side of their mistress the nymphs were safe from harm, for no\ngod or goddess in all the land was so powerful as Artemis, and she\nknew how to protect her own.\n\nSo it came to pass that, because Arethusa had never known what fear\nwas, she grew to think that there was no such thing, and one day she\nleft her mistress and her comrades, and wandered forth alone through\nthe woods. Her heart was gay and light, and she sang as she went. In\nthe gloom of the forest she was like a ray of the sun, and on the bare\nhill-sides she was like a sparkling stream that leaves green grass and\nflowers wherever it passes. But she thought nothing of her beauty, nor\nfeared any harm because of it. As soon would lily cease from growing,\nbecause it feared to be plucked for the sake of its fair sweet flower.\nSo she wandered on happy and light-hearted on that bright summer's\nday.\n\nAt last she came to a broad river that barred her path. High up above\nher head the water fell leaping and roaring down the face of the\nrocks, while below the swift current hurried along through swirling\neddies and foam. When she saw that she could go no farther, she sat\ndown on a rock by the edge of a stream, and let the cool water play\nover her feet; then she bent down to fill her hand and drink. As she\ndid so her heart stopped beating, and her limbs grew stiff and numb,\nand for the first time in her life she knew what fear was. For out of\nthe waters before her there rose up what seemed a great billow of foam\nand spray, which stretched out a long arm towards her, and from the\ntips of five great fingers the drops fell cold upon her shoulders.\nWith a cry, she drew herself together, and turned and fled; but she\nhad seen the form of the river-god grow clear in the billow, with the\nwater flowing down from his damp hair and beard, and the flash of his\neyes like the flash of lightning in the midst of the foam. It was\nAlpheus, the king of all the rivers of Peloponnese. He had seen\nArethusa alone on the bank, and for love of her beauty he had risen\nfrom the depths of the stream and stretched out his arms to gather her\nto himself, and draw her down beneath the waves, to live with him and\nbe his for ever. But she had been too quick for him, and now she fled\nbefore him as a deer flees before the hounds, whilst the fear that had\nnumbed her at first now lent wings to her feet. Over hill and over\ndale she fled, swift as the rushing wind. Her bright locks flew out\nbehind her, and as she leapt from rock to rock her white robes gleamed\nlike the gleam of sunlit waters. Close behind her came Alpheus. The\ndeafening roar of his flood sounded like thunder in her ears, and his\nmisty breath blew cold upon her cheek. On and on she fled, with the\nswiftness and strength of despair, till at last she could go no\nfarther; for before her stretched the blue waste of the cruel Ionian,\nand the spray of the waves stung her face, while behind her the floods\nof Alpheus rushed thundering down. Then she stretched forth her hands,\nand cried out to the Maid of the Sea,\n\n\"O Dictynna, Dictynna, have mercy! In the name of great Artemis, whom\nthou lovest as I do, help me now.\"\n\nThe Maid of the Sea heard her cry, and wrapped her about in a mist,\nand her body and her limbs were unloosed and melted away, till she\nbecame a spring of fresh, pure water that bubbled and danced over the\nstones of the shore, and dived at last into the waves of the sea. But\nbehind her the flood of Alpheus still rushed leaping and foaming. He\nhad followed her over mountain and valley, and he followed her now\nthrough the ocean. Down through the white waves they dived into the\ndepths of the sea, and passed like silvery currents of light through\nthe green sleeping waters, on and on, through forests of seaweed, and\nover shell-strewn rocks, till they were stopped at last in their\nflight by the roots of the three-cornered isle. There, through the\nfissures and clefts, they forced their way up once more to the\nsunlight, and side by side they leapt down from the rocks and the\ncrags--down towards the sea once again. But Arethusa fled no longer in\nterror, and her fear of Alpheus was gone; for he pursued her no more\nin a thundering, boisterous flood. Now he held out his strong white\narms, and called to her gently and low--as gently as the waves call in\nsummer as they dance to the shore.\n\n\"Arethusa, Arethusa, I love thee. Come, join thy waters with mine.\"\n\nBut she leapt away from him with a happy, mischievous laugh, and\ntossed back the spray from her hair, so that it fell on his cheek like\na shower of kisses. Thus she leapt laughing, down over the rocks and\ncrags towards the sea, knowing full well that he played with her, and\nthat any moment he could make her his own. At last, as she hovered for\na moment on the brink of the cliff, he caught her in his strong\nwhite arms, and together they dived once more into the salt sea waves,\nso that their waters were mingled, and for evermore they were one. And\nArethusa showed her bright head again in the spring beneath the\nwillows of Ortygia, which is called by her name to this day. From the\ntime of her flight that spring never failed or grew dry, for from the\nsnows of the mountains Alpheus flowed always to meet her, bringing\ncoolness and plenty to the waters he loved. Men said, moreover, that\nif a cup were put into the stream of Alpheus in the Peloponnese it\nwould find its way at last to the spring in Ortygia--which showed that\nthe waters of Arethusa and Alpheus were wedded and blended together,\nso that they lived apart no more.\n\n[Illustration: On and on she fled with the swiftness and strength of\ndespair.]\n\nAnd that was the reason why Archias found in Sicily the flowers and\nthe fruit of the land he had left; for Alpheus had borne their seeds\nin his stream from Peloponnese, and scattered them right and left as\nhe sprang through the rocks, that the winds of heaven might sow them\nwhere they willed. To this day you will find in Sicily the olive and\nthe vine, and the blushing flower of the almond, and the narcissus\nwith its crown of gold, as you find them in Peloponnese; for is not\nthe water that feeds their meadows one stream that joins two lands?\nAnd on the first coins of Syracuse you will find the head of the nymph\nArethusa, with the fish swimming round about; for was it not by the\nside of her spring that the first stones of the city were laid, on the\nsacred isle of Ortygia, round which the sea-fish swam?\n\nThus did Arethusa flee in terror from Alpheus, to be wedded to him at\nlast in a land across the sea.\n\n\n\n\nThe Winning of Atalanta\n\n\nOnce upon a time there ruled in Arcadian Tegea a proud-hearted king\nnamed Schoenus. A tamer of horses was he, and a man mighty in the\nhunt and in battle. Above every other thing he loved danger and sport\nand all kinds of manly exercise. Indeed, these things were the passion\nof his life, and he despised all womenkind because they could take no\npart nor lot in them. And he wedded Clymene, a fair princess of a\nroyal house, because he wished to raise up noble sons in his halls,\nwho should ride and hunt with him, and carry on his name when he was\ndead. On his wedding-day he swore a great oath, and called upon all\nthe gods to witness it.\n\n\"Never,\" he swore in his pride, \"shall a maid child live in my halls.\nIf a maid is born to me, she shall die ere her eyes see the light, and\nthe honour of my house shall rest upon my sons alone.\"\n\nWhen a man swears an oath in his pride, he repents full oft in\nhumility, and so it fell out now. For many a long year no child was\nborn to him, and when at last he had hopes of an heir, the babe that\nwas born was a maid. When he saw the child his heart was cut in two,\nand the pride of a father and the pride of his oath did battle within\nhim for victory. The pride of his oath conquered, for he was afraid to\nbreak his word in the face of all his people. He hardened his heart,\nthough he had held the babe in his arms, and its little hand with a\nbirthmark above the wrist had closed about his finger trustfully, and\ngave orders that the child should be cast out upon the mountains to\ndie of hunger and cold. So the babe was given to a servant, who bore\nit forth and left it on the slope of bleak Parthenius. But Fate made a\nmock of Schoenus, of his pride and of his oath, for no other child,\neither man or maid, was born to him in his halls. All too late he\nrepented of his folly, when he saw his hearth desolate and no children\nround his board, and knew that not only his name, but his race, was\nlike to die with him, because of the rash oath which he had sworn.\n\nYet there was one who had pity on the babe, and whose heart was kinder\nthan the heart of its own sire. When Artemis, the maiden goddess, saw\nthe child cast forth to die, she was filled with anger against\nSchoenus, and swore that it should live. For it was a fair child,\nand a maid after her own heart, and no young life ever called to her\nin vain for mercy. Wherefore she sent a she-bear to the place where\nthe child lay, and softened the heart of the beast, so that she lifted\nit gently in her mouth and bore it to the cave where her own cubs lay\nhid. There she suckled it with her own young ones, and tended it\nnight and day, till it grew strong and could walk, and the cave rang\nwith its laughter as it played and gambolled with the young bears.\nWhen Artemis knew that the child was old enough to live without its\nfoster-mother, she sent her nymphs to fetch it away, and when they\nbore it to her she was well pleased to find it fair and strong.\n\n\"Her name shall be Atalanta,\" she said to them. \"She shall dwell on\nthe mountains and in the woods of Arcadia, and be one of my band with\nyou. A mighty huntress shall she be, and the swiftest of all mortals\nupon earth; and in time she shall return to her own folk and bring joy\nand sorrow to their hearts.\"\n\nThus it came to pass that Atalanta lived with the nymphs in the\nwoodlands of Arcadia. They taught her to run and to hunt, and to shoot\nwith bow and arrows, till soon the day came when she could do these\nthings as well as any of their band. For the blood of her father ran\nhot in her veins; and not more easily does a young bird learn to fly\nthan Atalanta learnt to love all manner of sport. So she came to\nwomanhood in the heart of the hills, and as her form grew in height\nand strength, it grew too in beauty and grace. The light of the\nsunbeam lay hid in her hair, and the blue of the sky in her eyes, and\nall the rivers of Arcadia bathed her limbs and made them fresh and\nwhite. But she thought little of her beauty, or the power it might\nhave over the hearts of men, for all her delight was in the hunt, and\nto follow Artemis, her mistress, over hill and over dale. Artemis\nloved her, and delighted to do her honour; and when the land of\nCalydon cried to her for mercy, because of the boar she had sent to\nravage it in her wrath, she decreed that none but Atalanta should have\nthe glory of that hunt. The tale of how she came to Calydon, and of\nhow the boar was slain at last through her, I have told you before;\nand of how death came to Meleager, because he loved her, and would not\nlet any man insult her while he stood idly by. By the fame of that\nhunt her name was carried far and wide through Hellas, so that when\nshe came to the funeral games of Pelias there was no need to ask who\nshe was. She ran in the foot race against the swiftest in the land,\nand won the prize so easily that when she reached the goal the first\nman had scarce passed the turning-point, though he was no sluggard to\nmake a mock of. When the games were over, she went back to Arcadia\nwithout a tear or a sigh, but her face and her memory lived in the\nheart of many a man whose very name she had not known; and when\npresently the news went abroad that she would wed the man who could\nwin her, they flocked from far and wide, because they loved her better\nthan life; for they knew that the unsuccessful went forth to certain\ndeath.\n\nThe tale of how Atalanta went back to her own folk, and of how she was\nwooed and won, is as follows:\n\nOne day, when King Schoenus held a great hunt in the forest on the\nedge of his domain, it chanced that Atalanta had come to those parts;\nand when she heard the blare of the bugles and the barking of the\nhounds, her heart leapt with joy. As a dog, when he hears the voice of\nhis master, pricks up his ears and runs swiftly to meet him, so did\nAtalanta run swiftly through the woods when she heard the sound of the\nbugles. Full often had she joined in a hunt on the uplands of\nArcadia, and run with the hounds; and when the hunt was over she had\nfled back into the forest, away from those who had been fain for her\nto stay. For she loved the hunt, but not the hunters; but, because she\nwas a mortal and born of a mortal race, she did not flee from their\neyes, as the wood-nymphs fled, but hunted with them for joy of the\nhunt, and left them when it pleased her. So now she joined in the\nchase as the stag broke loose from cover, and her white feet flashed\nin the sunlight as she followed the hounds across the open moorland.\nKing Schoenus, when he saw her, was glad.\n\n\"It is Atalanta, the maiden huntress,\" he cried. \"See that she be\ntreated with due courtesy, for she is the only woman on earth who is\nfit to look a man in the face.\"\n\nAnd he rode eagerly after her. But the best horse in all that company\nwas no match for Atalanta. Far ahead of them all she shot, like an\narrow from the bow, and when at last the stag turned at bay in a pool,\nshe was the first to reach him. When the rest had come up, and the\nhuntsman had slain the stag, the king turned to her.\n\n\"Atalanta,\" he said, \"the trophy of this chase is thine, and my\nhuntsman shall bear the head of the stag whithersoever thou shalt bid\nhim. In token of our esteem, I beg thee to accept this ring. When thou\nlookest upon it, think kindly of an old man whose heart is lonely, and\nwho would fain have a daughter like thee.\"\n\nAs he spoke he drew off a gold ring from his finger and held it\ntowards her; the tears stood in his eyes and his hand shook as he\nlooked on her fair young form, and remembered the babe he had cast out\non the mountains to die. If she had lived she would have been of an\nage with Atalanta, and perchance as fair and as strong as she; and his\nheart was bitter against himself for the folly of his oath.\n\nWhen Atalanta heard his words, she had a mind at first to refuse his\ngift. Many a man before had offered her gifts, and she had refused\nthem every one; for she had no wish to be beholden to any man. But\nwhen she saw the eyes of the old king dim with tears, and how his hand\nshook as he held out the ring, her heart was softened, and yearned\nwith a strange yearning towards him. Coming forward, she knelt at his\nfeet and took the ring, and held his hand and kissed it.\n\n\"May the gods grant the prayer of thy heart, sire,\" she said, \"and\ngive thee a daughter like unto me, but fairer and more wise than I!\"\n\nAs he looked down on the hand that held his own the old king trembled\nmore violently than before, for above the wrist was a birthmark like\nthe birthmark above the wrist of the babe he had cast forth to die.\nAnd he knew that he made no mistake, for that mark had lived in his\nmind as though it had been branded with red-hot steel.\n\n\"Atalanta,\" he said, \"the gods have heard thy prayer. This is not the\nfirst time thy fingers have closed about mine.\"\n\n\"What meanest thou, sire?\" she asked.\n\n\"As many years ago as the span of thy young life,\" he said, \"I held in\nmy arms a new-born babe, the child that the gods had given me, and its\nlittle hand with a birthmark above the wrist closed about my finger\ntrustfully. But because of my foolish pride I hardened my heart. I\ncast away the gift of the gods and sent the child to die upon the\nmountains. But the birthmark on its wrist was branded on my brain so\nthat I could not forget it. Never till this day have I seen that mark\nagain, and now I see it on thy wrist, my child.\"\n\nHe bowed his head as he spoke, and the tears from his eyes fell upon\nher hand, which lay in his as she knelt before him.\n\n\"Oh, my father!\" she cried, and bent forward and kissed his hand.\n\nWhen he found that she did not turn from him, though she knew what he\nhad done, he was more deeply moved than before.\n\n\"Atalanta,\" he said, \"when I cast thee forth to die, I gave back to\nthe gods the life they had given me, and now I have no right to claim\nit again. Yet would thy presence be as sunshine in my halls if thou\nwert to come back to me, my child.\"\n\nThus did the call come to Atalanta to return to her own folk, and the\nchoice lay before her. On the one side was her free life in the\nforest, with Artemis and her nymphs, the hunt, the fresh air, and all\nthe things that she loved; on the other was life within the walls of a\ncity, and the need to bow her head to the customs and the ways of men.\nHer heart misgave her when she thought of it.\n\n\"My lord,\" she said, \"will a young lion step into the cage of his own\nfree will, think you?\"\n\nThe old king bowed his head at her words.\n\n\"Alas! what other answer could I look for?\" he said. \"I thank the gods\nthat they have shown me thy fair face this day. Perchance, when we\nhunt again in these parts, thou wilt join us for love of the chase.\nTill then, my child, farewell.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Oh, my father!\" she cried]\n\nWith trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on\nthe forehead. Then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and\nmounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. And\nAtalanta shaded her eyes and stood watching them till they disappeared\nfrom sight. When they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon\nher way. But her eyes were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights\nand sounds she loved so well, and that night she tossed restlessly\nupon her couch of moss. For before her eyes was the figure of an old\nman bowed with sorrow, and in her ear his voice pleaded, trembling\nwith longing and love.\n\n\"Thy presence would be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come\nback to me, my child.\"\n\nIn the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream\nclose by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head.\nThen she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver\nabout her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest.\nLooking neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till\nshe came to the white road that led to the city. Then she turned and\nlooked back at the forest.\n\n\"Dear trees and woods,\" she said, \"farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell\nin the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. When I\nhave trodden the white road and gone up to the city, I can live with\nyou no more. As for thee, great Artemis, who saved me in the\nbeginning, I will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my\ndays, and a lover of the hunt.\"\n\nShe leant her head against a tree close by, and the tears stood in her\neyes. It seemed that the breeze bore her words on its wings, for she\nheard a sigh from the forest, and the waters cried out to her,\n\"Atalanta, come back, come back!\"\n\nBut she closed her ears, and stepped out bravely on the white highway,\nand went up into the city. The people as they saw her pass marvelled\ngreatly at her beauty, and whispered one to the other, \"Surely it is\nAtalanta, the king's daughter. What doth she here?\"\n\nFor the tale of how King Schoenus had found his child, and of how\nshe had refused to come home with him, had spread like wildfire\nthrough the city; so that when they saw her, they knew full well who\nshe must be. She took no heed of them at all, but went straight\nforward on her way till she came to the gate of the palace. The gate\nstood open, and without knocking or calling she passed in, and went\nacross the echoing court and beneath the portico into the great hall,\nas one who comes by right. When she had entered the hall, she stopped\nand looked about her. At first all seemed silent and deserted, for the\nfolk had gone their several ways for the work of the day; but at\nlength she spied an old man sitting on a carved chair in one of the\nalcoves between the pillars. It was the king, her father. He sat with\nhis head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the floor, and his\nface was sad and full of longing, as of one who dreams sweet dreams\nwhich he knows will not come true. Gently she drew near to him, and\nthanked the gods who had timed her coming so that she should find him\nalone. And she went and knelt at his feet. The old man gazed for a\nmoment in her face, as though he did not see her; then he started from\nhis chair and laid his hand upon her shoulder.\n\n\"Atalanta!\" he cried.\n\n\"My father,\" she said, \"I have come back to thee.\"\n\nThen he gathered her up in his arms.\n\n\"Oh, my child, my child!\" he said. \"The gods are kind beyond my\ndesert.\"\n\n\"Thy voice cried out to me in the night-time,\" she said, \"and I could\nnot shut my heart to thy pleading. The call of the free earth was\nstrong, but the call of my blood was stronger.\"\n\nThus did Atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the\nheart of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms.\nA great feast was held in the palace in her honour, and through all\nthe city the people rejoiced because of her. For she was a fair\nprincess of whom any land might be proud, and her fame had spread\nthrough the length and breadth of Hellas. Indeed, as soon as it was\nknown who she was, and how she had left the mountains to come and live\nwith her own kin, suitors flocked from far and wide to seek her hand\nin marriage. But she treated them one and all with scorn, and vowed\nthat she would never wed. At first her father smiled upon her, and\nlooked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was\nnot to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. So he\ngathered about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that\namong them all there would be one who could win her heart. But the\nmonths passed by, and still she vowed that she would never wed. All\nher delight was in running and hunting, and to ride by her father's\nside. As for the young princes, she liked them full well for\ncompanions in sport, but as soon as they spoke of love and marriage\nshe would turn her back upon them. At length the king grew anxious.\n\n\"Surely, my child,\" he said, \"among all these princes there is one\nwhom thou couldst love?\"\n\n\"I shall never love any man but thee, my father,\" she replied.\n\n\"Yet all the hope of our race lies upon thee, Atalanta,\" he said. \"If\nthou wilt not wed, our race will die.\"\n\n\"Our race died on the day on which thou didst cast me forth on the\nmountains,\" she answered. \"If I have lived, it is no thanks to thee or\nto any of my people, but my life is hers who saved me on that day.\"\n\n\"What meanest thou?\" said the king.\n\n\"When I left the forest and came back to thee I vowed a vow to\nArtemis, who saved me in the beginning. I said, 'I will be thy servant\nfor ever, and dwell a maiden all my days and a lover of the hunt.' My\nlife belongs to her, and not to my race, not to any son of man.\"\n\n\"We vow rash vows in ignorance, Atalanta,\" said the king, as he\nremembered the oath he had sworn on his wedding-day, \"and Fate makes a\nmock of us, and turns our nay to yea.\"\n\nBut Atalanta laughed at his words.\n\n\"When Fate mocks at me,\" she said, \"it will be time enough for me to\nwed and turn my nay to yea.\"\n\nNothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her\nresolve. But still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length\nshe grew so wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that\nwould rid her of all her suitors.\n\n\"My father,\" she said, \"I will wed any man who shall ask for my hand,\nif he will fulfil one condition.\"\n\n\"My child,\" cried her father, \"I knew that in the end thou wouldst\nlisten to reason. Tell me thy condition, that I may spread it abroad\namong those who are suing for thy hand.\"\n\n\"Tell them,\" she said, \"that I will wed the first man among them who\nwill run a race with me. If he win, I will be his bride, but if he\nlose, he must die.\"\n\nThe king's face fell when he heard her words.\n\n\"Surely thou speakest in mockery, Atalanta,\" he said. \"No man in all\nthe world can run as swiftly as thou canst, and they know it. Thou\nwilt drive thy suitors from thee; or if any be foolhardy enough to run\nwith thee, they will run to a certain death.\"\n\n\"No man will run to a certain death, my father,\" she answered. \"When\nthey know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back\nto their own folk, and I shall be troubled with suitors no more.\"\n\nHerein she spoke in ignorance, and knew not the fatal power of her\nbeauty upon the hearts of men. And her father sighed at her words. Yet\nhe thought within himself,\n\n\"Perchance there is more in her words than meets the ear. The deep\nsea is easier to fathom than the mind of a woman. Either there is one\namong her suitors whom she favours above the rest, and she will see to\nit that he is the first to run with her, and will bridle her speed and\nlet him win; or else, Heaven knows, some god has put this whim in her\nheart, and will send a champion we know not, who can run faster than\nthe fastest, and he will outspeed her and make her his bride. She will\nnever let men die because of her.\"\n\nBut herein he too thought in ignorance, and knew not how his own pride\nand stubbornness lived again in Atalanta, so that she would abide by\nher word, though it brought grief to herself and death to others. So\nhe published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made. When\nthey heard it there was great consternation among them, and they\nconsulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a\ndeputation to her to find out the meaning of her words.\n\n\"Lady,\" they asked, \"when thou speakest of death thou speakest\nperchance in parables. Those who run in the race with thee and are\noutstripped must give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no\nmore. And this would be death indeed to them that love thee.\"\n\nBut she laughed in their faces.\n\n\"If you would hear parables,\" she said, \"go to the oracle at Delphi. I\nam no raving priestess to utter words that walk two ways at once. He\nwho courts death may race with me at daybreak, and at sunset he shall\ndrink the poison-cup without fail, and look neither on my face again\nnor the face of any living thing. Have I spoken plainly now?\"\n\nThe next day there was great confusion in the halls of King\nSchoenus. There was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this\nway and that. Chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in\nthe court, and baggage was piled high behind the horses. And Atalanta\nlaughed aloud at the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor\ncame and kissed her hand and bade her farewell. They loved her much,\nbut they loved life better, and were content to go home and find mates\nwho, though less fair, were less ferocious, and were like to look upon\ntheir lords with eyes more lowly and obedient than Atalanta.\n\nThat night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been\nfor many a long day. Yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in\nno haste to be gone. Day after day passed by, and each night Atalanta\nsaid within herself,\n\n\"To-morrow they will surely go. They dwell in distant towns, and they\nare waiting for a favourable day for their journey.\"\n\nBut favourable days came and went, and still they stayed in the halls\nof King Schoenus. At last Atalanta could hide the dread in her heart\nno longer.\n\n\"How long will it be, my father,\" she asked, \"ere we are troubled no\nmore with strangers in our halls?\"\n\n\"If thou wilt wed one of them, we shall be troubled with the rest no\nmore,\" he replied.\n\n\"They know full well I can wed no man of them, because of the\ncondition I have made,\" she said.\n\n\"They are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition,\" said the king.\n\nThen Atalanta herself went and pleaded with them,\n\n\"My friends,\" she said, \"I pray you to be guided by me. The gods have\nnot fashioned me after the manner of womenkind, and I cannot give\nmyself nor my love to any man. Look upon me as one of yourselves, I\npray you, and think not to win me in marriage.\"\n\nBut they replied, \"Lady, thou hast given the condition of thy\nmarrying, and we are waiting to fulfil it.\"\n\n\"But my condition means certain death,\" she cried.\n\n\"Nothing in this life is certain,\" they said, \"save death in the end.\nIf it come soon or late, what matter? For thy sake we are willing to\nface it now.\"\n\nThus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready\nfor the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of\nthem should be the first to run against her. In the early morning,\nbefore the sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded\nto the course to watch it. The man ran well and bravely, but his speed\nwas as child's play to Atalanta. She put forth her strength like a\ngreyhound that is content to run for a while before the horses, but\nwhen he scents a hare, can leave them far behind. Even so did Atalanta\nrun, and came in cool and fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in\nhot and panting behind her.\n\nThus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison-cup\nbecause of his love for Atalanta. With a smiling face did he drink it,\nas a man drinks at a feast.\n\n\"Farewell, lady,\" he said; \"grieve not for me. With open eyes I chose\nmy fate. I ran for the sake of love and beauty, and I have won death.\nSuch is ever the lot of the nameless many. They fight for the glory\nof the man whose name shall live. Good luck to my rival!\"\n\nAnd now a time of darkness and mourning fell upon the land, and many a\nday in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some\nnoble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without Atalanta.\nAnd Atalanta's heart was sore within her, because of the rash\ncondition she had made in her ignorance. When she would fain have\nrecalled her words it was too late, for the suitors bound her to her\npromise.\n\n\"Either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let\nus take our chance of winning thee or death,\" they said.\n\nAnd so she was forced to run with them. For in her heart she knew that\neven death was happier for a man than to win her without her love.\n\nThus were the words of Artemis fulfilled when she said, \"In time she\nshall return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their\nhearts.\"\n\nOne day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that\na race was to be run. The night before he had slept in a village near\nby, and the people had told him the tale of Atalanta, and how on the\nmorrow another suitor was to run to his death. But he scoffed at their\nwords.\n\n\"No man would run to certain death,\" he said, \"were the maid as fair\nas Aphrodite.\"\n\n\"Go and see for thyself,\" they replied. \"Soon we shall hear that thou\ntoo wilt run in the race.\"\n\n\"Never,\" he said; \"no woman can cheat my life from me.\"\n\nBut they shook their heads unconvinced.\n\n\"Many before thee have spoken likewise,\" said they, \"and yet they have\nrun.\"\n\n\"If I run, I will run to win,\" he answered.\n\n\"Can a snail outstrip a deer?\" they asked.\n\n\"It might so chance,\" said he.\n\n\"Thou art mad,\" they cried.\n\n\"Better to be mad on earth than sane in Hades,\" he replied.\n\nBut they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their\nfingers on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at\nrandom.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said, with a laugh, \"we shall see what we shall see.\"\n\nThe next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with\nthe crowd, he made his way to the racecourse, and found for himself a\nplace where he could watch the whole sight with ease. The race was\nrun, and ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung\nwith black. But in the mind of the stranger an image remained which\nhad not been there before--the image of a maid whose white feet\nflashed in the sunlight and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag\nswings in the breeze.\n\n\"Great Heracles!\" he thought within himself, \"to run shoulder to\nshoulder with her for a moment, even in a race for death, might be\nworth the while after all. I will make myself known at the palace, and\nsee what the gods will give me.\"\n\nFor some days he lay hid in the city, till he thought the time was\nripe for him to go up to the palace of the king. Then he went for a\nwalk along the highway, and when he was covered with dust and grime,\nhe returned to the city and made his way at once to the palace. At the\ndoor of the gateway he knocked, and the old porter came out to ask his\nwill.\n\n\"I am come from a distant land,\" he said, \"and to-morrow I would\njourney yet further on my way. I pray thee to crave hospitality for\none night for me from the steward of this house, whoe'er he be. I am a\nking's son, and worthy to sit at any man's table.\"\n\nThe porter cast a doubtful eye on the travel-worn clothes of the\nstranger. It seemed unlikely that a king's son would go on a distant\njourney with no body-servant and no horse or baggage. Then he looked\nin his clear blue eyes, which gazed back at him as innocent as a\nchild's, and he saw that for all his sorry raiment he was by no means\nill-favoured, but held himself well and proudly. So he opened the door\nand led him across the court.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he muttered in his beard, \"great folk have strange whims\nin these days. Our king must needs slay his daughter, because she is a\nmaid, and she must needs slay her suitors, because they are men. After\nthat this fellow may well be, as he says, a king's son, who, because\nhe has a palace and plenty, must needs tramp over the face of the\nearth and beg his bread. Praise be to the gods who put lowly blood in\nmy veins and sense in my head, else had it been better for the gate to\nkeep itself than to have me for a guardian.\"\n\nThen he cast another look over his shoulder at the young man behind.\n\n\"At any rate, for one night he can do no harm,\" he muttered.\n\n\"What didst thou say, father?\" asked the stranger.\n\n\"I said that for one night thou couldst do no harm,\" replied the old\nman.\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said the stranger with a laugh, \"in one night I\nhope to do more good to this house than thou hast done in all thy\nlife.\"\n\n\"The young have ever a good conceit of themselves,\" said the porter.\n\"Thou art not like to keep this gate, winter and summer, day and\nnight, for close on three-score years, as I have done, young man.\"\n\n\"On the other hand,\" said the stranger, \"thou art not like to marry\nthe king's daughter within the year, and have the city hung with red\ninstead of black in thine honour, as I am like to do.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the old man, \"I know my place too well----\"\n\n\"--and love thy life too much to aspire to the hand of the princess.\nIs that not so?\"\n\n\"Mayhap,\" said the old man, and shut his mouth with a snap. To all\nfurther remarks which the stranger made he answered with a grunt. He\ntook him into the palace and delivered him into the hands of the\nsteward. As he turned to go back to his post, the young man clapped\nhis hand upon his shoulder.\n\n\"Good luck to thee and thy gate,\" he said. \"When I come through with\nthe hand of the princess in mine, perchance thou wilt look upon me\nwith greater favour than now.\"\n\n\"Be warned in time, young man,\" said the porter, \"and tarry not over\nlong in this palace, but go forth on thy journey in the morning, as\nthou hadst a mind to do in the beginning. Those who tarry too long are\napt to go through the gate with nought but a cake in their hand.\"\n\nThis he said, meaning the cake which was put in the hands of the dead\nfor them to give to Cerberus, the watch-dog of Hades.\n\n\"Fear not for that,\" said the stranger: \"I had as lief go\nempty-handed.\"\n\nThereupon he turned to the steward, who welcomed him sadly to the\nhalls of King Schoenus. All strangers were looked upon askance in\nthose days, lest they came as suitors for the hand of Atalanta, and\nwished to add to those who had run in the fatal race. When he heard\nthat the young man would depart on the morrow on his journey he was\nglad, and gave him water to wash with and a change of raiment, and\nshowed him his place at the board, without so much as asking his name.\nWhen Atalanta saw a stranger at the board her heart sank within her,\nand she kept her eyes turned away, as though she had not seen him, for\nshe made sure that he too had come to run in the race with her. It\nchanced that night that the company was scanty, and no man talked in\nprivate to his neighbour, but the conversation leapt from one end of\nthe board to the other, as each one took his share in it and said his\nsay. The stranger, too, took his part with the rest of them, in nowise\nabashed; and so shrewd were his words, and so full of wit, that soon\nhe had a smile upon the face of each one at the table. For many a long\nday the talk had not been so merry nor the laughter so loud at the\ntable of King Schoenus. Atalanta, too, forgot her constraint, and\ntalked and laughed freely with the stranger; and he answered her back,\nas though it had been man to man, and showed no more deference to her\nthan to the others of the company.\n\nWhen the meal was over, the king approached the stranger, and Atalanta\nstood beside him.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the king, \"thy name and country are still hid from us, but\nwe are grateful for thy coming, and would be fain for thee to stay as\nlong as it shall please thee.\"\n\n\"I thank thee, sire,\" said the stranger, \"but I am bound by a strange\nvow. I may not reveal my name, nor accept hospitality for more than\none night from any man, till I come to a house where none other than\nthe king's daughter shall promise me her hand in marriage. From the\ntales I have heard in the neighbouring country, I have learnt that I\nmay not hope to end my vow beneath this roof--though indeed,\" he said,\nturning to Atalanta, \"I would fain press my suit if there were any\nchance of success.\"\n\nBut Atalanta threw back her head at his words.\n\n\"Thou hast doubtless heard the condition,\" she said, \"by the\nfulfilment of which alone a man may win my hand.\"\n\n\"Alas, sir!\" said the king, \"I would press no man to try his luck in\nthat venture.\"\n\n\"Since that is so,\" said the stranger, \"I will go forth once more upon\nmy journey at break of day, and see what luck the gods will give me. I\nthank thee for thy kindly hospitality this night, and beg thee to\nexcuse me. I have travelled far, and would fain rest now, as I must go\na long distance ere I can rest again.\"\n\nThereupon he took his leave of King Schoenus and his daughter. But\nshe, for all her pride, could not forget the man who seemed to bid her\nfarewell with so light a heart. He was well favoured, but it was not\nbecause he was well favoured, or because he had a ready tongue, that\nshe thought on him. Indeed, when she asked herself why she should\nremember one who by now had doubtless lost all memory of her, she\ncould find no answer. As she tossed on her couch with a troubled mind,\nshe determined that before he left the palace on the morrow she would\nhave some speech with him.\n\n\"He thinks no more of me than of a stone upon the wayside,\" she said\nwithin herself, \"wherefore I can do him no wrong by letting him speak\nwith me again before he goes.\"\n\nIt was her custom to rise early in the morning, before the rest of the\nhousehold was stirring, and to go forth alone into the woods; and it\nwas the lot of one of the slaves to rouse himself betimes to give her\nfood ere she went, so that when she appeared, as was her wont, he\nthought nothing of it. The stranger had risen even earlier than she,\nand the slave was waiting upon him. When Atalanta saw him, her heart\ngave a sudden thrill, for she had not looked to see him so soon.\n\n\"Good-morrow, sir,\" she said. \"It is not often I have a companion when\nI break my fast.\"\n\nThen she turned to the slave.\n\n\"Thou mayest get thee back to thy bed,\" she said, \"and sleep out thy\nsleep in peace. I will see to the wants of our guest and speed him on\nhis way.\"\n\nThe slave, nothing loth, departed. He was well used to strange\ncommands from his mistress; and, moreover, there was no need to invite\nhim twice to return to his couch.\n\nThereupon Atalanta sat down at the board beside the stranger, and they\nfell to with all the appetite of youth and health; and as they ate\nthey laughed and joked, and talked of strange lands they both had seen\nand adventures that had befallen them. In the space of one half-hour\nthey were as good friends as though they had known each other all\ntheir lives, and suitors who had sat at her father's board day after\nday were much more strangers to Atalanta than this man, who had craved\nbut one night's hospitality.\n\nWhen they had finished their meal the stranger rose.\n\n\"I must bid thee farewell, lady,\" he said.\n\n\"Nay, not yet,\" she replied; \"I will set thee on thy way, and show\nthee a road through the forest that will bring thee to the city thou\nseekest. I know every track and path as well as the wild deer know\nthem.\"\n\nHe tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen, and led him out\nfrom the palace by a side-gate, which she unbarred with her own hands.\nDown through the sleeping streets they went, where the shadows of the\nhouses lay long upon the ground, and out across the open downs into\nthe shade of the forest. The dew gleamed like jewels on the leaves, as\nhere and there the slanting rays of the sun shone through the trees,\nand above their heads the lark sang gaily in the bright summer sky.\nYet they walked silently side by side, as though, in spite of the\nbrightness of the day, sorrow and not joy were sitting in their\nhearts; and all their gay talk and laughter of the early morning was\ndead. At length they came to a broad track that crossed the path they\nwere in, and Atalanta stopped short and pointed to the right.\n\n\"From here,\" she said, \"thou canst not miss thy way. Follow the track\ntill it lead thee to the high-road, and when thou strikest the\nhigh-road, turn to the left, and thou wilt come to the city thou\nseekest.\"\n\nThen she held out her hand to him.\n\n\"I must bid thee farewell,\" she said, \"and good luck to the ending of\nthy vow.\"\n\n\"Lady,\" he said, and took her hand in his, \"if thou wilt, thou canst\nrelease me now from my vow.\"\n\nBut she drew her hand away sharply and tossed back her head.\n\n\"Many kings have daughters besides King Schoenus,\" she said, \"and\nany one of them could release thee from thy vow as well as I.\"\n\n\"Atalanta,\" he said, \"no king's daughter save thee shall ever release\nme from my vow. That which all our laughter and our converse last\nnight and this morning strove to hide, our silence, as we walked side\nby side, has revealed far better than I can tell thee. Thou knowest\nthat I love thee. From the first moment that I saw thee I have loved\nthee.\"\n\nHis words made her heart thrill with a strange joy. But she showed no\nsign of it, and answered him coldly. She was proud and wished to test\nhim.\n\n\"Doubtless the flood-gates of love are easily thrown open where a man\nwould be released from a vow. Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art\nthou willing to run in the race?\"\n\nAt this all his mirth returned to him, and his eyes shone with\nmerriment as he answered:\n\n\"Much good would my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup\nperforce. Nay, nay,\" he said; \"I love thee too well to put my death at\nthy door. When I have some chance of winning the race, I will come\nback and claim thee. In the meantime, lady, farewell.\"\n\nAnd, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as\nlooking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and\nanger. It was not thus her other lovers had spoken. When he had gone\nfrom sight, she turned suddenly and went back by the path they had\ncome. Her hands were clenched, and the tears sprang unbidden to her\neyes, as she strode forward with long, angry strides that took no heed\nof where they went.\n\n\"He has made a mock of me!\" she cried to herself--\"he has made a mock\nof me! He is a base adventurer who seeks release from his vow. He has\nno heart and no honour. Fool that I was to treat him as a friend!\"\n\nThus did she stride along in her wrath, till it had cooled somewhat,\nand she was able to think more calmly of the stranger. Then his form\ncame back to her mind, as he had looked when they stood face to face\nat the parting of the ways, when the sun had glinted down upon them\nthrough the trees, and he had looked her straight in the face with his\nclear blue eyes, and said: \"Thou knowest that I love thee. From the\nfirst moment I saw thee I have loved thee.\"\n\nA great sob rose in her throat as she remembered.\n\n\"Ah, he spoke the truth!\" she said; \"I know that he spoke the truth.\"\n\nMoreover, her heart told her that long before he had spoken the words\nshe had known that he loved her. Yet strange is the bond of love. Its\nstrands are certainty and doubt interwoven. Wherefore Atalanta, though\nshe had heard the words which were but the echo of the silent speech\nof their hearts, had put him yet further to the test, and had driven\nhim from her side by asking of him a sacrifice she had no wish for him\nto make.\n\n\"If he would come back and run with me,\" she sighed, \"my feet would be\nas heavy as lead against him.\"\n\nBut she sighed in vain. Day after day passed by, and he came not.\n\n\"He is a man of his word,\" she thought at last. \"Till he has some\nchance of winning he will not come back. And he is no fool. He knows\nhe can never run as I can run. He will never come back.\"\n\nYet for all this she watched for him night and day. When she went\nforth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at\nevery turn of the way. When she entered the great hall of the palace,\nshe looked to see his face at the board. But always she looked in\nvain, and sometimes her heart grew bitter against him.\n\n\"If he were to come now,\" she would say to herself, \"I would show him\nno mercy. He who takes so much thought before he will risk his life\nfor my sake is not worthy to win me.\"\n\nThen again she would grow tender, and stand looking down the path by\nwhich he had gone, and sigh for him.\n\n\"Oh, my love, come back, come back! My pride is melted away like the\nsnow, and without any race I will give myself to thee.\"\n\nThus would she long for him, and grow near to hating him, because she\nknew that she loved him. The weeks and months passed by, and still he\nreturned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone\nin the summer sunlight as Atalanta walked in the forest at break of\nday. She walked with her eyes upon the ground, thinking of the summer\nmorning a long year ago when he had walked by her side in silence\nalong that very path. When by chance she raised her eyes, there, at\nthe parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her\nthoughts. With a cry she stopped short and gazed at him, and he came\nforward and bowed to her.\n\n\"I have come back, lady,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried from her heart, \"I am glad thou hast come back.\"\n\nThen he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence\nside by side along the path they had walked before; and once again the\nbond of love was knit strong between them, with its strands of\ncertainty and doubt. As they drew near to the edge of the forest,\nAtalanta was the first to speak.\n\n\"And thy vow,\" she asked--\"hast thou found release from it?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" he answered. \"I am come back to run the race, that I may\nwin release.\"\n\nOnce again the spirit of perversity came upon her.\n\n\"Where hast thou learnt to run like the wind?\" she asked.\n\n\"I have not learnt to run like the wind,\" he replied. \"I have learnt\nsomething better than that.\"\n\n\"Few things are better in a race than swiftness,\" she said.\n\n\"True,\" he answered; \"yet I have found the one thing better.\"\n\n\"What is this strange thing?\" she asked.\n\n\"When we have run the race, thou wilt know,\" he said.\n\n\"I have grown no sluggard,\" she said, with a toss of her head, as\nthough to warn him that her speed was not a thing to be despised.\n\n\"That I can see,\" he said, as he cast a glance at her straight white\nlimbs and the easy grace of her bearing as she walked beside him. Then\nthey talked of indifferent matters, and each one knew that what they\nhad nearest their hearts they were hiding from each other.\n\nSo they came to the palace, and from the lowest to the highest the\ninmates greeted the stranger with joy. For he had won the hearts of\nthem all by his wit and his genial smile. But they sighed when they\nheard that he too had come to run in the fatal race.\n\n\"Alas!\" said the old king, shaking his head, \"I had rather not have\nlooked upon thy face again than see thee back on such an errand.\"\n\nThe young man laughed. \"He who runs with a fair hope of winning runs\nswiftly,\" he said. \"The others were dragged down by the shackels of\ntheir own despair.\"\n\n\"Thou dost not know my daughter,\" said the king.\n\n\"Mayhap I know her better than thou thinkest, and better than thou\nknowest her thyself,\" said the stranger.\n\nNo arguments or entreaties would turn him from his purpose.\n\n\"I must win release from my vow,\" he said. \"I cannot live all my life\na nameless wanderer. Yet will I not wed any woman I love not, for the\nsake of my release. Atalanta alone can save me, for I love none\nother.\"\n\nSo the lists once again were prepared, and the course made smooth for\nthe race. With trembling fingers Atalanta tied her girdle about her,\nand bound her sandals to her feet. Though her heart was crying out for\nthe stranger to win, and praying that her feet might fail her at the\nlast, yet her pride, too, lifted up its head.\n\n\"He makes so sure of winning,\" she thought, \"he despises my swiftness.\nHe shall see that nothing he has learnt can teach him to run as I can\nrun. And yet--oh, cursed be the condition I thought so cunning in mine\nignorance! Oh, would that he could win me without first outspeeding\nme!\"\n\nThus did her pride and her desire pull two ways at once.\n\nAnd now the folk were gathered together round the course, and Atalanta\nand the stranger stood ready and waiting for the word to be given. She\nhad made it a condition of the race that her rivals should have a good\nstart of her, and she stood with her eyes upon the stranger's back, as\nhe waited many paces before her. All too soon the word was given, and\nhe sprang forward from his place, like a dog which has been straining\nat his leash springs forward when the hook is unloosed. And Atlanta,\ntoo, sprang forward; but whereas the man ran like a hunted thing that\nstrains every muscle to save its life, she ran with the swinging\ngrace of the wild deer that, far away from the hunters and hounds,\ncrosses the springing turf of the lonely moor, fearless and proud, as\nhe throws back his antlers in the breeze. Thus did Atalanta run, as\nthough she had no thought of the race, or of the man who ran for his\nlife. Yet, though she seemed to make no effort, she gained upon her\nrival at every step, and now she was running close behind him, and now\nshe was almost shoulder to shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye\nhe could see the gleam of her tunic. Then for a moment he slackened\nhis pace, and it seemed that she would pass him, and on every side the\npeople shouted out to him, \"Run, run! Faster, faster! She will pass\nthee.\"\n\n[Illustration: Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of\nher tunic.]\n\nBut he put his hand into the opening of his tunic, and drew forth\nsomething from his breast. Then his hand swung up above his head, and\nfrom it there flashed a dazzling fiery apple. Up and down through the\nair it flashed like a meteor, and rolled along the grass, till it\nstopped far away in the centre of the course, and lay shining like a\njewel in the rays of the sun. Every eye was turned from the race to\nwatch its gleaming flight, and Atalanta stopped short and watched it\ntoo. When she saw it stop still in the middle of the course, flashing\nand sparkling in the grass, a great desire sprang up in her heart to\nhave it--a mad, unreasoning desire that she could not resist. And she\ndarted aside out of the path of the race, and went and picked up the\nshining golden apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic. Meanwhile\nthe stranger had lost no time, and when Atalanta came back to the spot\nshe had left, he was far ahead upon the course, and she had to run\nwith a will if she wished to overtake him. But once again she gained\nupon him, and the space between them grew less and less, till they\nwere running wellnigh shoulder to shoulder. And once again he saw the\ngleam of her tunic beside him; and again he slackened his speed for a\nmoment, and sent a second gleaming apple into the air. Once more the\nmad, unreasoning desire sprang up in Atalanta's heart, and, leaving\nthe course, she picked up the second apple and put it in the bosom of\nher tunic beside the first. By the time she had returned to the path\nthe stranger had rounded the turning-point, and was well on his way\ntowards the goal, and she put forth all her strength to overtake him.\nBut the ease of her running was gone. She ran as one who runs bearing\na burden, yet she would not cast away the golden apples in her bosom;\nfor though they hampered her, she gained upon her rival, and for the\nthird time they were running almost shoulder to shoulder. And again,\nthe third time, the same thing happened, and Atalanta left the course\nto pick up the shining fruit. This time when she returned to her place\nthe stranger was close upon the goal, and all around the people were\nshouting and waving their hands. Blindly she pulled herself together,\nand with all the strength that was left in her she made a great spurt\nto overtake him. If she would cast away the golden apples, she might\nyet win the race; but the same mad desire which had spurred her to\npick them up forbad her now to let them go. As she ran they seemed to\ngrow heavier and heavier in her bosom; yet she struggled and panted\non, and step by step did she gain upon him, though her eyes were\ndarkened to all but his form and the goal ahead. On every side the\npeople shouted louder than before, for they knew not now which of them\nwould win. As they drew near to the goal they were again almost\nshoulder to shoulder, and the stranger saw once more the flash of\nAtalanta's tunic beside him, while there were yet some paces to run.\nThen he gave a great spurt forward, and leapt away from her side. She\ntried to do likewise, but her strength was gone. She had made her last\neffort before. Thus did it come to pass that the stranger ran in first\nto the goal, and, running close upon his heels, Atalanta fell\nbreathless into his arms as he turned to catch her. She had run twice\nas far as he, but what matter if he had not outsped her? He had won\nthe race, and held the woman he loved in his arms. The tears shone in\nher eyes, but he knew they were not tears of grief; and in the face of\nall the people he kissed her.\n\nThus was Atalanta, the swiftest of all mortals, beaten in the race by\nthe stranger, and learnt from his lips what it was that he had found\non his travels that had made speed of no avail in the race.\n\nFor after they had come back to the city, surrounded by the joyous\nfolk, and had passed hand in hand beneath the gateway, and the\nstranger had nodded with a smile at the old porter, who stood bowing\nbefore them; after he had revealed to them all that he was Meilanion,\nthe son of Amphidamas, and the old king had fallen on his neck and\ngiven him his blessing, because he proved to be the son of his own\nboyhood's friend, and the man of all others he would have chosen for\nhis son-in-law--after all this, when the speeches and the merrymaking\nwere over, they two walked alone in the moonlit court of the palace.\nAt last Atalanta had decked herself in the long saffron robes of a\nbride, and in her hands she bore the three shining apples. Meilanion's\narm was about her, as they walked for a while in silence, but at\nlength she spoke and held out the fruit in her hands.\n\n\"Tell me their secret,\" she said.\n\n\"Their secret lies in thy heart, Atalanta,\" he answered.\n\n\"What meanest thou?\" she asked.\n\n\"I mean that if thou hadst not loved me, they would never have filled\nthy soul with longing to have them, and thou wouldst never have turned\naside from the race.\"\n\n\"And, knowing this, thou didst stake thy life on my love?\" she said.\n\n\"Knowing that, I staked my life on thy love,\" he answered.\n\n\"Then that was the one thing better than speed in the race?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, \"I learnt to trust in thy love.\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment between them, and then again Atalanta\nspoke.\n\n\"And whence came the apples?\" she asked him.\n\n\"When I left thee at the parting of the ways,\" he said, \"I travelled\nmany a weary league by land, and on the road I passed many a shrine of\nAphrodite. But I never passed them by without lifting up my hands in\nprayer to the goddess, for I knew that she could help me if she would,\nand I knew that to them that love truly she is ever kind in the end.\nBut I wandered till I was footsore and weary, and yet I had no sign.\nAt length I came to the seashore, and took ship for the pleasant isle\nof Cyprus, which is her own dear home. There at last she came to me,\nwalking on the waves of the sea, As I lay on the shore in the\nnight-time, I saw her as a great light afar, and she drew near to me\nwith the foam playing white about her feet. In her hand she bore three\nshining golden apples. And she came and stood beside me, and I hid my\neyes at the sight of her beauty. But she spoke to me in a voice that\nwas soft and kind, and the melody of it touched my heart like the\nmelody of music.\n\n\"'Fear not, Meilanion,' she said; 'I have heard the cry of thy heart.\nHere are three apples from mine own apple-tree. If she whom thou\nlovest loves thee in return, she cannot resist the spell of their\ngolden brightness. When thou runnest against her, cast them one by one\ninto the middle of the course. If she love thee she will turn aside to\npick them up. For her they will be heavy as the gold they seem made\nof. For thee they will be light as the fruit whose form they wear.\nFarewell, and good luck to thy race.'\n\n\"Thereupon darkness came over my eyes, and I could find no words to\nthank her. When I awoke I thought it had been a dream, but lo! by my\nside upon the sand lay the apples, shining in the sunlight.\"\n\n\"And thy vow?\" asked Atalanta. \"How camest thou to make such a vow?\"\n\nHe laughed at her words.\n\n\"When a hare is hunted,\" he said, \"thou knowest how he will double and\nturn, and take a line he has no mind to pursue to the end. So was it\nwith me. Long ago in my father's house I heard of thee and of thy\nbeauty, and how thou couldst cast such a spell upon the hearts of men\nthat for thy sake they would fling away their lives. And a great\ndesire came upon me to see this thing for myself, for I could scarce\nbelieve it. So I set forth alone to find thee, and hid my name from\nall men as I journeyed, for thus could I be more free to act as seemed\nbest in mine own eyes. And I saw thee run in a race, and that glimpse\nwas enough to tell me that I too one day must run with thee. Yet was I\nmore wary than my rivals. I knew that to come as a suitor was the way\nto turn thy heart to stone. Wherefore I pretended to be bound by a\nvow, which would bring me as a passing stranger before thee. Canst\nthou forgive the lie?\"\n\nShe smiled into his face.\n\n\"It was a daring venture,\" she said.\n\n\"I knew I was as one who treads unknown paths on a moonless night,\" he\nanswered. \"Yet deep in my heart I felt that when a man desires one\nthing on earth above every other--when he loves that thing better than\nlife itself, he is like to win it in the end, if he walk patiently\nstep by step in faith. He will win that thing, or death in his\nstruggle for it; and he is content that so it should be.\"\n\nSuch was the winning of Atalanta. As for the golden apples, she placed\nthem in a precious casket, and guarded them jealously all her days,\nfor a memorial of the race that she had failed to win.\n\n\n\n\nParis and OEnone\n\n\nWhen Peleus the mortal married silver-footed Thetis, the fair nymph of\nthe sea, great was the rejoicing among gods and men; for Peleus was a\nbrave warrior and a mighty man, and well deserved to have for wife a\nchild of the Immortals. To his marriage-feast he bade all the gods and\ngoddesses, and they left their seats on calm Olympus, and came down to\nPelion where he dwelt, a band of shining ones, to do honour to the\nmortal whom they loved. One alone of them all he had not asked--Eris,\nthe black-browed Goddess of Strife, for at his wedding-feast he wished\nto have happiness and joy, and no dark looks to mar the gladness of\nhis board. But he looked to find shame in the heart of one who knew\nnot shame. As it was, she came unasked, and great was the sorrow that\nher coming brought, both to him and to his wife and all the fair land\nof Hellas. For she sowed the seed of discord which blossomed to the\nblood-red flower of war, in which the mightiest and the best of two\ngreat nations fell through ten long years of strife, and among them\nwas Achilles, the swiftest and bravest of mortal men, the son whom\nThetis bore to Peleus to be a comfort to him in his old age, and to\nsucceed him when he died. But as it was, Achilles died in battle far\nfrom his native land, in the prime and flower of his manhood.\n\nNow the manner in which Eris wreaked her vengeance was in this wise.\n\nWhen the marriage-feast was drawing to its close, and the gladdening\nwine had unlocked the lips and opened the hearts of the revellers,\nabove all the din and clatter there rang through the hall a harsh,\ndiscordant laugh like the rattle of thunder before a storm. A dead\nsilence fell upon them all, and every eye was turned towards the place\nfrom whence that fearful laugh had come. In the shade of the doorway\nstood a tall gaunt figure wrapped all about in black. Above her head\nshe held a blood-red torch that flickered madly in the breeze, and\ncast upon her face the shadow of her wild elf-locks. Her cheeks were\npale as ashes and her lips were thin and blue, but her eyes shone\nbright as red-hot coals. When she saw the hall silent and trembling\nbefore her, she laughed aloud once more and waved the torch above her.\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" she cried. \"You give me a cold welcome, my masters. But I am\nkinder than you. I give, and take nothing in return. See here, I bring\na seasoning to your feast, and much joy may you have of it.\"\n\nThereupon she drew from her bosom an apple all of gold, and hurled it\nin their faces on the board. It rolled along the table like a ball of\nlight, and stopped in the centre before Peleus, the king of the feast.\nThe eyes of all the guests followed it full of amazement and delight,\nfor it was wondrous fair to look upon.\n\n\"I see you like my gift,\" cried Eris. \"Let her keep it who deserves it\nbest. Farewell. I stay not where I came unbidden.\"\n\nThen she turned upon her heel, and strode away into the blackness of\nthe night.\n\nWhen she had gone, Peleus put forth his hand and took the apple. It\nwas all of pure gold, the outermost parts of white gold pale as straw,\nand the cheeks of red gold bright as poppies, and across it was\nwritten in shining letters, \"For the Fairest.\"\n\nAs Peleus read the words aloud he looked slowly round the board.\n\n\"O lady goddesses,\" he asked, \"to which of you shall I give it?\"\n\nThereupon arose a strife of tongues, and all the harmony and\ngood-fellowship of the feast was gone, for one said one thing and one\nanother, and each one in her heart wished to have it for her own. But\nthe claim of three stood out above that of all the rest.\n\n\"I am the Queen of Heaven,\" said Hera, \"and the mother of gods and\nman. The apple is mine by right.\"\n\n\"I am the giver of knowledge and wisdom,\" said Pallas Athene, \"and\nthrough me all things are perfected, and the wrong is put to right.\nThe apple should be mine.\"\n\n\"I am the Goddess of Love,\" said Aphrodite, \"I am life itself. My\nclaim is the best of all.\"\n\nAs Peleus looked on them he knew not to which of them he should give\nit, for each in turn seemed fairest. And he was wily withal, and knew\nhe could not give it to one without angering the other two against\nhim. So he said,\n\n\"O lady goddesses, who am I that I should judge between you? Choose\nyou your own judge from among the sons of men, and he shall give the\napple to her he deems the fairest.\"\n\nThen they consulted together, and chose Paris, the son of Priam, King\nof Troy; for he was the fairest of all mortal men, and would know how\nto judge between them. And they left the halls of Peleus with a smile\nupon their lips, but in their hearts was envy and hatred where there\nhad once been sympathy and love; for the apple of discord had\nfulfilled the purpose of her who gave it.\n\nNow Paris was the second son of Priam and Hecuba, and brother of\nHector, the pride of Troy. The night before he was born his mother\ndreamed a dreadful dream--that she had given birth to a firebrand\nwhich set all Troy aflame. In terror she sent for her child Cassandra,\nthe priestess of Apollo, whose word came always true. And she told her\ndream, and asked what it could mean. Then Apollo raised from\nCassandra's eyes the veil that hides the future, and she told her\nmother the meaning of that dream.\n\n\"In mine ears,\" she cried, \"there sounds the din of battle and the\nclash of arms. I see round Troy the foe-men's tents, and their ships\ndrawn up upon the shore. I see Scamander's stream run red with blood.\nThrough the desolate streets slinks one whose manhood has departed,\nand who shuns the eyes of his fellow-men, for he prized a woman's arms\nabove his country's honour. That man is the son that thou shalt bear,\nand he shall be the curse of Troy.\"\n\nWhen Priam the king heard these words his heart was filled with anger.\n\n\"No son of mine,\" he cried, \"shall bring shame and destruction on my\ncity. When the child is born he shall be cast out upon the mountains\nto die ere his eyes can see the light.\"\n\nSo, notwithstanding his mother's entreaties, as soon as the child was\nborn he was given to Agelaus the herdsman to cast out upon the hills.\nAnd he took him up to Gargarus, the topmost peak of Ida, and there he\nleft him to die of cold and hunger, or to be torn in pieces by the\nbeasts of prey.\n\nBut when the Fates have spoken, their word shall surely come to pass,\nwhatever man may do. And so it fell out now. A she-bear, whose cubs\nthe hunters had killed, found the child, and for five days and five\nnights she suckled him, and kept him safe and warm. On the sixth day\nAgelaus passed that way once more, looking to find the child dead, if\nany trace of him remained. But lo! nestled in the moss and fallen\nleaves, the babe lay sweetly sleeping. Then he marvelled greatly in\nhis heart.\n\n\"Surely,\" he thought, \"this can be no common babe, and it is the will\nof Heaven that he should live.\"\n\nSo he picked him up in his arms, and carried him home to his wife, for\nlong had they prayed the gods in vain for children. And they brought\nhim up as their own son, and called his name Paris. As soon as he\ncould walk, he would go out with his foster-father on the mountains,\nand keep watch over the flocks and herds, and he grew to be a tall and\ncomely lad. For he breathed the pure sweet air of heaven, and bathed\nin Ida's rippling streams. Nor did he lack courage and strength\nwithal. If ever a mountain lion, made bold by hunger, came down upon\nthe flocks and carried off a sheep or a goat, whilst the herdsmen fled\nin terror for their lives, he would up and fight him single-handed\nwith his knife and his shepherd's staff, and it was not the lion that\ncame off best in that fight. So famous did he become for his strength\nand prowess that all about the countryside men called him Alexander,\ndefender of men.\n\nNow it came to pass one summer's day that he had walked for many a\nlong mile across the treeless downs, and at length he turned, hot and\nthirsty, into the shade of the forest. Soon he came upon a mountain\nstream that danced foaming over the stones, and he drank of its waters\ngladly, and bathed in a clear brown pool; then, tired out, he cast\nhimself upon the bank and fell asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke, the trunks of the pine-trees stood out purple against\nthe sunset, and the evening light cast over all things a glamour of\nmystery. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must still be dreaming; for\nout of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a maiden\nclad all in misty white. Her hair was like fallen beech-leaves when\nthe sun shines on them through the trees, and her eyes were like the\nchanging river that reflects the light of heaven. She stood before him\nmotionless, and gazed down upon him where he lay.\n\n\"O most wonderful,\" he whispered, \"who art thou?\"\n\n\"I am OEnone,\" she answered, and her voice was like the music of the\nbrook--\"OEnone, the daughter of Cebren, the river god, whose stream\nruns dancing at your feet from the side of wooded Ida. O fairest of\nmortals, I am lonely in these mountain glades; let me watch thy flocks\nwith thee.\"\n\nThen she came towards him with both her hands outstretched. And\nParis took her cool white hands in his. Fair as the crescent moon, she\nbent over him and raised him from his knees, and they looked deep into\neach other's eyes and loved, as the young and pure alone can love.\nFrom that day forth they watched his flocks together on the wooded\nslopes, and wandered hand in hand through the forests and across the\nsmooth green lawns of Ida.\n\n[Illustration: Out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form\nof a maiden clad all in misty white.]\n\nMeanwhile, since the day when Priam had given his child to be exposed\nupon the mountains, many a circling year had passed, and the day drew\nnear on which, if his son had lived, he would have held great games\nand feasted in honour of his reaching years of manhood. And Priam's\nheart within him smote him when he thought of the innocent babe, and\nhe cast about in his mind how he yet might do him honour.\n\n\"Perchance I acted hastily,\" he thought, \"and by care and good example\nmy son might after all have been a blessing to his city and to me. But\nthe dead are dead, and I cannot call him back to life. Yet will I\nhonour him as best I may, that in the world below they may know he is\na king's son and not utterly forgotten.\"\n\nSo he ordered great funeral games to be held in honour of his son, who\nhad died without a name upon the mountains. Far and wide throughout\nthe land the tidings went, and the lists were made ready, and rich\nprizes brought together for the victors. Among them was to be a bull,\nthe strongest and finest from all the herds of Priam. The herdsmen\ndrove down their finest cattle to the city for the king himself to\nchose, and he choose out a mighty beast which Agelaus had bred and\nreared. Now it chanced that this bull was the favourite of Paris out\nof all the cattle under his charge, and he loved him as some men love\na dog. When he heard that Agelaus had given him to be a prize in the\ngames, he waxed exceeding wrath.\n\n\"If he is to be any man's prize,\" he cried, \"I shall be that man.\"\n\nBut Agelaus laughed at him.\n\n\"Who art thou,\" he said, \"a foundling and a shepherd's foster-son, to\nenter in the lists against the sons of kings?\"\n\n\"Sons of kings or sons of crows, I care not,\" he answered. \"My arms\nare as strong and my feet are as swift as theirs any day. I shall\nenter for the lists.\"\n\nThe old man chuckled at his words, for he loved the lad, and was proud\nof his strength and beauty.\n\n\"The gods be praised!\" he muttered. \"The mountain air has not dulled\nhis spirit, nor dried up the royal blood in his veins.\"\n\nBut OEnone was sad when she heard of his resolve.\n\n\"Ah, Paris,\" she begged, \"as thou lovest me, leave me not to enter for\nthese games.\"\n\n\"But I will come back to thee, beloved. What difference can it make?\"\nhe asked.\n\n\"In my heart pale fear is sitting,\" she replied. \"I know that if thou\ngoest, it will be the beginning of woes for thee, and for me, and for\nall thy native land.\"\n\n\"Nay, thou art over fearful. Thou shalt see, I will come back with my\nbull, and thou and I will be happy together, as we have always been.\"\n\n\"Paris,\" she said, \"that I know will never be, if once thou joinest in\nthe games. I can see but dimly into the future, but this much at least\nI know: that if thou goest, war shall beat about the walls of Troy\nlike a wave of the sea, and from the midst of the battle I see thee\nearned forth wounded unto death. Ah, Paris, leave the bull for a\nweaker man, and go not down!\"\n\n\"Nay, I cannot hearken to such foolishness. What war can come if I go\nto Troy for the sake of a bull?\"\n\n\"The cause of the war I know not, but come it surely will. O Paris, in\nthat day come back to me, and I will heal thee of thy hurt! I know the\nuse of herbs, for many a strange charm has my father taught me, and if\nany life is left in thee, I will call it back. But best of all, stay\nwith me now, and go not down to the games.\"\n\nAnd, weeping, she threw her arms about his neck; but nothing she could\nsay would stop him.\n\nSo when the day came he went down into the city, and entered for the\nlists with the flower of the land, and all the folk marvelled who he\nmight be. For he was tall and exceeding fair, and they had never seen\nhis face before. When the turn came for his match, he set his teeth\nand wrestled like a young lion, for the bull that was the pride of his\nflock; and the strength of his adversaries was turned to weakness.\nWith joy in his heart, he came forward to take his prize; and a loud\ncheer rose to heaven, for the people were glad that he had won. And\nthe king's heart went out to him as he gave the prize, for he was the\nage his son would have been had he lived.\n\n\"Young man,\" he said, \"who art thou, and who is thy father?\"\n\n\"I am Paris, the foster-son of Agelaus the herdsman,\" he answered.\n\n\"Is thine own sire dead, then?\" asked Priam.\n\n\"O king, thou askest me riddles I cannot answer,\" said Paris, \"seeing\nI know not even who mine own sire may be.\"\n\n\"This is a strange matter,\" said the king, and in spite of himself his\nheart beat fast within him.\n\nNow Cassandra the prophetess, his daughter, was standing by his side,\nand the time had come for her to speak.\n\n\"O king,\" she said, \"thou hast not far to seek for the father of this\nlad.\"\n\n\"What meanest thou?\" said Priam.\n\n\"Put thy hands upon the lad's shoulders, and look into his eyes, and\nthou shalt see the image of his father,\" she answered.\n\nTrembling between hope and fear, the old king bent forward from his\nseat and put his hands upon the young man's shoulders.\n\n\"Can it be--can it really be my son?\" he asked.\n\n\"Thy son he is,\" replied Cassandra, \"and no other man's. The Fates\ndecreed that he should live, and he has lived.\"\n\n\"My son, my son!\" cried the king, and fell upon his neck. \"How I have\nlonged for thee, and my soul has been weighed down with the burden of\nthy death! Now in mine old age the gods have given thee back to me,\nand my heart is glad. For thou art brave and fair, my son, and any\nfather would be proud of thee, nor fear that ever thou shouldst bring\ndishonour on the land.\"\n\nOnce again the old man fell upon his neck and kissed him; and Hecuba,\nhis mother, held him in her arms, and wept tears of joy over the\nchild she had given up for dead. His brothers and his sisters crowded\nround, and all the people; and some raised him on their shoulders, and\nwith songs and shouts of joy they took him to the palace of Priam.\nThere they clothed him in rich raiment, as befitted a king's son, and\nheld a great feast in his honour; for every man was glad that one so\nfair and noble had been spared to bring honour to the land of Troy.\nCassandra alone sat silent amidst the revelry, for her heart was cut\nin two. When she looked upon her brother's fair young face, she was\nglad that he had lived; yet ever before her eyes there floated the\nvision she had seen the night before he was born--a vision of war,\nunmanliness and death--and she knew that vision would come true. When\nshe thought of it she shuddered and almost wished him dead, and in her\nheart she cursed that fatal gift of prophecy which brought her nought\nbut grief. Verily in her case knowledge was not a thing of joy.\n\nWhen the guests had departed, the old king took his son aside.\n\n\"I have set a place apart for thee, my son,\" he said, \"and from this\nday forth thou must live with thy kinsfolk in the palace.\"\n\n\"I will live with thee right gladly, my father,\" he answered, \"but my\ndays I will spend upon the mountains as of yore, and keep watch over\nthy flocks and herds. For I love the beasts and the mountain air, and\nmethinks in a city I should pine for want of my old free life.\"\n\nThe form of OEnone rose up before his eyes; but that he hid from his\nfather.\n\n\"Thou mayest live as best pleases thee, my son,\" said Priam, \"and I\nwill give thee many goodly flocks and herds of cattle for thine own.\"\n\nSo it came to pass that, though Paris was a prince and son of the King\nof Troy, there was small change in his manner of life, save that now\nhe lived in his father's palace instead of the herdsman's hut. For in\nthose days it was thought no shame even for a prince to be a shepherd,\nand keep watch over his own flocks and herds.\n\nIt was soon after this that the strife arose among the goddesses about\nthe apple that Eris had cast in their midst at the marriage-feast of\nPeleus. And Zeus sent down Iris, the swift-footed messenger of Heaven,\nto tell Paris of the charge that was laid on him, and to bear him the\ngolden apple. Down the path of the rainbow she sped, the road whereby\nshe always went to and fro betwixt gods and men. Her shining robes\nflew out behind her, and the wings upon her feet and shoulders glanced\nlike lightning in the sky. At early dawn, while the dew lay bright\nupon the ground, she came and stood in the path as Paris was driving\nhis flocks to pasture. In one hand she held the staff that Zeus had\ngiven her, to show she was the messenger of Heaven, and in the other\nshe held the golden apple.\n\n\"O fairest of mortals,\" she said, \"I have been sent to thee by Zeus,\nwho rules on high. In heaven there is war between the three great\ngoddesses as to which of them shall have the prize for beauty, this\napple thou seest in mine hand. And they have appointed thee to be the\njudge between them. Hold thyself ready, then, for this day at noon\nthey will come to thee here on the lonely heights of Ida.\"\n\nShe spoke, and threw the apple to him, and he caught it deftly, as a\nplayer catches a ball. And wind-footed Iris sped back by the rainbow\npath as swift as she had come.\n\n\"This is passing strange,\" thought Paris, as he gazed at the apple in\nhis hand, and read the words inscribed upon it--\"For the Fairest.\"\nThere it lay, smooth and shining, a sure token that he had not been\ndreaming. So he took it and showed it to OEnone, and told her what\nIris, the messenger of the gods, had said to him. When OEnone heard\nit she was filled with fear.\n\n\"Cast it at their feet, Paris, when they come to thee,\" she begged,\n\"and say thou canst not set thyself up to be a judge of the\nImmortals.\"\n\n\"Nay, that would anger them against me,\" he said; for in his heart he\nwas proud to have been chosen out of all the sons of men.\n\n\"I tell thee it will bring thee trouble if thou doest it, and to me\nsorrow unspeakable,\" said she.\n\n\"Did the winning of the bull bring sorrow either to thee or to me?\" he\nasked scornfully.\n\nOEnone was silent under his rebuke, though she knew her foreboding\nwould come true. When the sun was almost high in the heavens, she came\nto him softly where he lay on the grass and kissed his hand.\n\n\"Zeus grant thee wisdom in thy judgment, Paris,\" she said, and glided\naway swiftly through the trees, that he might not see the tears in her\neyes.\n\nThen his heart smote him for his scornful words, and he rose up\nhastily from the ground and called to her,\n\n\"OEnone, OEnone!\"\n\nBut she answered him not, and when he looked for her among the trees,\nhe could find no trace of her. Now it was close upon noon, and he\nhastened back to the glade, where Iris had bidden him stay, and waited\nfor the coming of the goddesses. In the clear bright light of noontide\nthey came and stood before him in the shade of the forest trees; and\nhe fell on his knees before them, filled with wonder and awe, and cast\nhis eyes upon the ground, for he was afraid to look upon such majesty\nand beauty. Thereupon they drew near to him and bade him not be\nafraid, but rise and give his judgment. So he rose from his knees and\nlooked upon them; and minute after minute passed, while still he\ngazed, for he could not make up his mind, so passing fair was each.\n\n\"Ah, lady goddesses,\" he said at last, \"take the apple and divide it\ninto three, for I cannot say who is the fairest among you.\"\n\n\"Nay, that may not be,\" they said; \"thou must give it to one, and one\nalone.\"\n\nAs he still hesitated, Hera spoke.\n\n\"Look well upon me, Paris,\" she said. \"I am the Queen of Heaven, and\nwife of Zeus almighty, and all power and might is in my hands. I can\ngive thee kingship and sovereignty, and dominion over many peoples.\nSee to it that my might is for thee, and not against.\"\n\nAs she spoke his heart turned cold with fear, and from terror he would\nhave given her the apple. But as he was about to stretch forth his\nhand, Pallas Athene spoke.\n\n\"O Paris, what is power without wisdom? Purple and gold, and to sit\nwhere others kneel--all these things make not a king. But to walk by\nthe light of knowledge where others grope in darkness--this can make\na slave a ruler of kings. This can I give thee.\"\n\nThen the voice of reason within him prompted him to give the apple to\nher; but once again he was withheld, as Aphrodite spoke.\n\n\"Power and wisdom, Paris? What are these but empty words at which men\nvainly grasp? I can give thee that which all men covet--the fairest of\nwomen for thine own.\"\n\nThe music of her voice made the blood rush like fire through his\nveins, and his heart was melted within him.\n\n\"O Aphrodite,\" he cried, and fell at her feet, \"thou art fairest.\nBeside love, what is power, what is wisdom? I give thee the apple, O\nthou fairest among the fair!\"\n\nAs she stretched forth her hand towards him to take the apple, a mist\nfell over his eyes, and he knew no more. When he awoke the apple and\nthe goddesses had vanished away, and OEnone was bending over him\nweeping.\n\n\"Alas,\" she said, \"my father, whose stream runs at thy feet, has told\nme thy choice, Paris, and I am come to bid thee farewell.\"\n\n\"Farewell, OEnone? Why farewell?\" he cried, and stretched out his\narms to her. The flame of Aphrodite still burned in his heart, and to\nhis eyes OEnone had never looked more fair than now.\n\n\"Because of Aphrodite's promise,\" she answered.\n\n\"Ah, OEnone!\" he cried, and took her in his arms, \"now I know what\nthat promise meant. Thou art the fairest of women, and thou art mine,\nbeloved, and Aphrodite's promise was fulfilled ere she made it.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, that is not what she meant. I may be fair, Paris, yet I am\nno woman, but a child of the mountain waters. One day thou wilt forget\nme, and thy heart will turn to thine own kind. In that day Aphrodite\nhas promised that the fairest of women shall be thine, and she will\nsurely keep her word.\"\n\n\"Thou art woman enough for me,\" he said, \"and I shall never want any\nother than thee.\" He kissed her, and comforted her as best he could.\nThe hours fled by like minutes, the moon rose high in heaven, and one\nby one the stars came out, yet still they sat and talked of love, and\nof how they would be faithful to each other always. In like manner day\nafter day passed by, and no two lovers in all the land were happier\nthan Paris and OEnone.\n\nNow it chanced that about this time Menelaus, King of Sparta, came to\nTroy, at the command of the oracle at Delphi. For a year past his land\nhad been laid waste by a grievous famine, and when he inquired the\ncause of it, the oracle bade him go to Troy and offer sacrifices at\nthe tomb of Lycus and Chim\u00e6reus, the sons of Prometheus, for until\ntheir spirits were appeased the land of Sparta would be barren, and\nher sons would die of hunger in her streets. So Menelaus set sail for\nTroy, and Priam and all his house received him with joy. They held\ngreat feasts in his honour, and treated him hospitably, as befitted\nthe king of a mighty people. When he had performed his task, and the\ntime had come for him to return, he said to Priam,\n\n\"My friend, thou hast treated me right royally, and I in my turn would\nfain do thee some service. Say, wilt thou not sail with me to Sparta,\nand see my palace, which shineth as the sun for splendour, and Helen,\nmy wife, who is the fairest in a land where the women are fairer than\nall other women?\"\n\nBut Priam shook his head.\n\n\"I am an old man, Menelaus, and my travelling days are done. But if\nthou wouldst truly do me a service, thou wilt take with thee my son\nParis as thy guest. He is of an age now to travel and see strange\nlands, and I could not entrust him to better hands than thine. Say,\nwilt thou take him or no?\"\n\n\"I will take him right gladly,\" answered Menelaus, \"seeing that since\nI cannot have thyself, no other man would please me so well as thy\nson. Bid the young man be ready, and he shall sail with me and my\nfolk.\"\n\nWhen Paris heard the news, he was glad; for never in his life had he\nset foot outside the land of Troy, and he longed to see the riches of\nMenelaus and all the wonders of his palace in Sparta. Ere the sun had\nrisen he was in the woods of Ida telling OEnone of the voyage he\nmust take.\n\n\"Nay, grieve not, beloved,\" he said, as she turned her face sadly\naway; \"for a few short months I must leave thee, but I will come back\nto thee with many a long tale of the wonders I have seen. There is\nnought like travel to make a man hold up his head among his fellows,\nand the seeing of strange things that others have not seen.\"\n\n\"There is nought like travel,\" she said, \"to make a man forget his\nhome, and love the new things better than the old.\"\n\n\"Dost thou think me so faithless, OEnone?\"\n\n\"Many men are faithful till they meet temptation,\" she replied.\n\n\"Had I listened to thee, I should still have been a shepherd on the\nmountains, knowing neither kith nor kin.\"\n\n\"It would have been happier so,\" said she.\n\n\"OEnone, I must not heed thy fears. Remember, I am a king's son, and\nI must live my life as befits a man, and not be ever held back by a\nwoman's arms.\"\n\n\"The gods grant thou mayest always think so, Paris. Fare thee well,\nthen; I will stay thee no longer, but I will watch for thy coming as\nnever woman watched before. If evil fortune befall thee, Paris, come\nback to me, and I will save thee.\"\n\nSo, with many a promise not to forget her, but to come back to her as\nsoon as might be, he left her and set sail with Menelaus.\n\nAnd they crossed the blue \u00c6g\u00e6an and came to glorious Sparta, lying low\namong the circling hills. And Menelaus made his guest welcome, and\nshowed him all the splendours of his palace, with its inlaid columns\nand its frieze of gold and blue. His stable and horses did he show\nhim, and the stadium where the races were run and his treasure-house\nbeneath the ground. Last of all he took him to Helen, his wife.\n\nNow Helen, fairer than the sun in heaven, was sitting among her\nmaidens, and when her lord and Paris entered, she rose from her chair\nand came forward with a smile to greet them. In the curve of her neck,\nin the gleam of her hair, there was magic, and a witchery about her\nface and form that no man could withstand; for she was the fairest of\nall women under the sun, that ever had been or ever should be in time\nto come. Many a man in his day loved Helen of Sparta, and many a man\ndid she love in return; for so the gods had made her, exceeding fair\nand exceeding fickle, a joy and a curse among men.\n\nAs Paris looked upon her, her beauty reached his heart like the fumes\nof wine, and he forgot himself and his native land and OEnone; he\nforgot all pride and manliness, and the ties of honour that bound him\nto his host--all but his passion for Helen. Day and night he thought\nof her and of her alone, and of how he might make her his own; and day\nand night he plotted and planned, and at last he gained his end. For\nAphrodite, true to her word, helped him, as she alone could do, and\nkindled in the heart of Helen an answering flame, making her for the\ntime being love Paris more than Menelaus, her lord, or any other man.\nAnd she cast dust in the eyes of Menelaus, so that he saw not how the\ntwo lived only for each other, nor suspected his guest of any\ntreachery. So one dark night they fled away together to Gythium, and\nfrom thence they sailed to Crana\u00eb, and were wedded, and had joy of\ntheir love, forgetful of all else.\n\nOEnone, meanwhile, wandered lonely about the woods and groves of\nIda. With a heavy heart she had watched the ships of Menelaus sail\naway, and now, day by day, she would go down to the shore and look out\nacross the sea towards Hellas. High up upon a rock she would sit and\nsigh for him.\n\n\"Ah, Paris, between thee and me lies many a weary league of barren\nwaters and many a misty mountain chain. But my heart is with thee in\nthat strange new land. Oh, Paris, forget me not, but come back to me\nsoon, beloved.\"\n\nThus would she sigh day by day; but he came not. Month after month\npassed by, and still he came not, nor any news of him, and his father\nand all the city were troubled to know what might have befallen him.\nSo they manned a ship, and sent it out to Sparta to get news, and in\ntime it returned home to tell how Paris and Helen had fled from\nMenelaus, and how Menelaus had set out in pursuit, and had followed\nthem to the land of Egypt. After that no man knew where they had gone,\nor whether, perchance, Paris and Menelaus had met in deadly battle and\nfallen each by the other's hand, or what might have chanced. All the\nland was plunged in woe to think that Paris had so far forgotten his\nhonour as to steal away the wife of his host. But still they kept\nwatch by day and by night, in case he should come back and be\npersuaded to give her up and make what amends he could.\n\nParis, meanwhile, with Helen, had fled before Menelaus from Egypt, and\nhad taken refuge in Phoenicia; and when he traced them there, they\nfled once more and took ship to return to Troy; for they could not\nlive for ever as wanderers on the face of the earth. With the silence\nof shame the folk received them at the harbour, and amid silence, that\nspoke more than words, they made their way through the city and came\nand stood before Priam in his halls, with eyes downcast upon the\nground. Now Priam had heard of their coming, and had prepared in his\nmind a wrathful speech wherewith to greet his son and the woman who\nhad led him astray. But when he looked upon Helen his wrath melted\naway like frost before the sun; for she stood like a fair lily that\nsome careless hand has half plucked from its stem, so that its head\nhangs drooping towards the dust. Even so did she stand, with the\ntear-drops falling from her eyes. And all the wrathful words faded\nfrom his mind, so that he spoke quite otherwise than he had planned.\n\n\"My children,\" he said gently, \"come hither to me.\"\n\nThey came and knelt before him, and he laid his hands upon their young\nshoulders, as they bowed their heads and wept upon his knees.\n\n\"Ye have grievously sinned, my children,\" he said, \"and ye are\nlearning, all too late, how bitter is the fruit of sin. There is but\none course before you. Paris, give back the woman thou hast stolen,\nand make what honourable amends thou canst. And thou, Helen, go home\nwith thy lord when he comes for thee, and be a faithful wife to him\nalways, and make him forget that ever thou didst play him false.\"\n\n\"O King,\" she said, \"thou knowest not what thou askest. If thou givest\nme up to Menelaus he will slay me, or else my life will be a dog's\nlife in his halls; for his heart is no softer than a flint, though his\ntongue be smooth. O my father, cast me not out from thy halls. If I\nhave sinned in leaving Menelaus, shall I not sin again in leaving\nParis? Or shall my sin be less if I flee from the man I love, to go\nwith him I love not? Who maketh two hearts to cleave together? Who but\nAphrodite all-powerful? Must we set at nought the will of Heaven for\nthe sake of laws that man has made? O Priam, my father, forsake me\nnot, but keep me in thy halls.\"\n\nAnd she clasped her hands about his knees and looked up into his face.\nBeneath her gaze all his resolve gave way, and he took her face\nbetween his hands and kissed her.\n\n\"My daughter,\" he said, \"thou shalt stay with me as long as it shall\nplease thee.\"\n\nThus did it come to pass that she made her home in Troy, and Priam,\nthe king, became an accomplice in her sin; for the gods had so made\nher that the hearts of men were as wax between the fingers of Helen of\nSparta.\n\nIn time came Menelaus, and stood in the halls of Priam, and demanded\nback his wife. And they offered him a ransom--gold and precious\nstones--but he flung it back in their faces.\n\n\"Think you that gold can pay for a living soul?\" he cried. \"Only a\nlife can pay for a life, and many a life shall you pay for the sake of\nHelen. Look to your battlements and towers, O Priam; they must be\nstrong indeed to stand against the host that I shall bring behind me\nfrom Hellas. Farewell, till we meet again in battle.\"\n\nAnd he strode from the hall in anger, and sailed away to Sparta, to\nrouse up all the heroes of Hellas to take part in his quarrel with\nTroy.\n\nMeanwhile in Troyland the forge fires burnt night and day, and the\nhammer rang loud upon the anvil. The red-hot iron was drawn from the\nfurnace and bound hissing about the chariot-wheel; shields were\nstretched and swords were fashioned, and the ash-tree was felled upon\nthe mountain for the handle of the tapering spear. Among the men many\na heart beat high with hope; for what is there like war, if a man is\nbrave and strong, to bring him renown, and make his name live among\nhis fellows? But in the women's hall many a silent tear was shed; for\nwhat is there like war to bring sorrow to a woman's heart, when she\nsees her dear ones going forth to battle and knows not whether she\nshall ever look on their faces again, or, perchance, see them carried\nhome with a gaping spear-wound in the side? And when the battle is\nraging she can do nought but pray. So they cursed Helen and her beauty\nin their hearts, and wished that even now King Priam would send her\nback and stave off the war from Troy.\n\nBut Paris and Helen cared for none of these things; while others\nworked and wept, they dallied in each other's arms and forgot all\nelse, or hoped that when Menelaus reached home his anger would cool,\nand that he would find the kings of Hellas none too willing to leave\ntheir lands for the sake of another's wife. But in this they hoped in\nvain, and reckoned not how dear a man may hold his country's honour.\nFor one dark night the hosts of Hellas pulled in to shore, and drew up\ntheir boats upon the beach and pitched their camp, and when the\nmorning dawned their men were thick as flies about the walls of Troy.\n\nSo did it come to pass that Cassandra's words came true, and for many\na weary year the tide of war surged about the city like a wave of the\nsea, and Paris slunk through the streets like a beaten cur, not daring\nto look his fellows in the face. For they hated him because he had\nbrought war upon his country, and yet, though the quarrel was of his\nown making, he was ever the last to take the field and ever the first\nto retreat. So low had his manhood sunk that he thought far more of\nreaching Helen with an unbroken skin than of winning fame upon the\nfield of battle.\n\nBut one day matters reached a pass when Menelaus met him face to face\nupon the field, and challenged him to single combat beneath the walls\nof Troy. He who should kill his man should have Helen for wife, and\nthe war should end, and no more lives be spent in vain for the sake of\na quarrel that concerned but two. But Paris thought of Helen waiting\nin her chamber, and looked upon Menelaus, standing sword in hand\nbefore him, strong as a lion in his wrath. Then his heart gave way\nwithin him, and he turned and fled from the face of his foe back into\nthe ranks of the Trojans. He would have fled from the fight\naltogether, but that in the path of his retreat stood Hector; the\nnodding plumes waved terrible upon his helmet, and he leant on his\ntwo-handed sword and frowned upon his brother, for he had seen how he\nfled from Menelaus. When Paris saw him he fell back ashamed, but\nHector stood aside to let him pass.\n\n\"Thou chicken-hearted mannikin,\" he cried, \"get thee gone, and let\nothers fight thy battle, that the courage of the Trojans be not a\nby-word among the nations.\"\n\nAnd Paris slunk past him with his eyes upon the ground, and went home\nto Helen in her chamber.\n\nBut when the fight was over Hector came and dragged him from his\nhiding-place as a dog drags out a rat into the light.\n\n\"Thou smooth-faced deceiver,\" he said, \"is this the way a man should\nfight when he has sailed across the high seas, and stolen away the\nfairest of women from a man mighty in battle? Are we to make the name\nof Troy a laughing-stock among our foes, and hang our heads in shame\nwhen men shall say, 'In strength and might they are like the immortal\ngods, these Trojans, but their courage is the courage of the deer,\nthat flees swiftly through the forest when he hears the bark of the\nhounds? Thou coward, would thou hadst never been born, or hadst died\nupon the mountains ere there was time to bring dishonour on thy\ncountry.\"\n\nAnd Paris trembled before his brother's wrath, but some of his old\nmanhood returned to him.\n\n\"Thou speakest as all men speak who know not Aphrodite's power,\" he\nsaid. \"Nevertheless, if thou wilt have it so, send forth a herald to\nMenelaus, and tell him I accept his challenge, and will fight him for\nthe sake of Helen, his wife. And let the hosts of the Ach\u00e6ans and the\nhosts of Troy lay down their arms, and we two will stand up alone\nbetween them, and whichsoever of us shall fall in death, his side\nshall give up Helen to the victor; and the war shall cease, and peace\nbe made between the nations.\"\n\nSo Hector sent forth a herald to Menelaus, and the two hosts drew\nclose together on the plain till there was but a narrow space between\nthem, and they laid aside their arms, and some lay upon the ground or\nsat, and others stood behind to watch the fight in the midst. And\nParis put on his shining armour and his helmet with the nodding\nplumes, and went and stood face to face with Menelaus. In the sight of\nall the people Hector prayed,\n\n\"O Zeus, who rulest from on high, grant that he who is the offender\nmay fall in the fight, and his spirit flee away to Hades, that the\nland may have peace and the people rest from war.\"\n\nAnd every man in his heart prayed likewise, for all were sickened at\nthe long years of fruitless strife.\n\nThen Hector shook the lots in his helmet, to see who should be the\nfirst to hurl his brazen spear, and the lot of Paris fell forth upon\nthe ground. And he brandished his spear above his head, and hurled it\nwith all his might, and it crashed against the shield of Menelaus; but\nthe stout shield turned it aside, and it fell powerless upon the\nground. Thereupon Menelaus in his turn hurled his spear, and it\npierced through the shield of his foe, and would have brought black\ndeath to his heart had he not swerved aside, so that the point but\ngrazed his corselet. But Menelaus, seeing his advantage, drew forth\nhis sword and rushed upon him, and felled him a mighty blow upon his\nhelmet, hoping to cleave it in two. But the sword shivered to pieces\nin his hand as he struck. Then, with an oath, he cast aside the hilt\nand leapt upon Paris, and seized him by the horsehair plume upon his\nhelmet, and dragged him down. And the leathern thong that held the\nhelmet was drawn tight about his throat, so that the breath was\nwellnigh squeezed out of him, and Menelaus was bearing him in triumph\ntowards the Ach\u00e6an host. But Aphrodite was mindful of her favourite,\nand, ere it was too late, she made the stout ox-hide give way beneath\nthe weight of his body, and the helmet slipped off his head. Then she\nwrapped a mist about his body, so that no man should see him, and bore\nhim away through the midst of the Trojan host, and laid him upon his\nbed. In the likeness of an aged dame she went and stood beside Helen\non the battlements, where she leant with the other Trojan women\nlooking down upon the plain, and she told her how she had borne forth\nParis from the fight and saved him, and that now he lay upon his bed\nand longed for her. So straightway Helen left the others, and went and\nsat down by Paris. When she saw him lying there, without so much as\na scratch upon his body, she was ashamed for him, and began to upbraid\nhim.\n\n[Illustration: Menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the Achaean\nhost.]\n\n\"So thou hast come back from the battle, Paris, and couldst not endure\nto stand up to god-like Menelaus. Would that he had taken thee, for he\nis a better man than thou art! Go forth now, thou craven, and\nchallenge him once more to battle, and stay thy ground like a man. Lo!\nthou art vanished away like smoke from the field, and both the hosts\nare making mock of thee.\"\n\nThen her heart smote her for fear he should take her at her word and\ngo back, and she fell upon her knees beside him, and took his hand in\nhers and wept.\n\n\"Ah, Paris,\" she cried, \"go not forth, I pray thee, but stay with me.\nI, even I, do bid thee stay, lest thou fall by the hand of Menelaus,\nand I be left all desolate without thee.\"\n\n\"Ah, Helen,\" he said, \"upbraid me not, for I love thee above all else.\nSome other day I will return and fight with Menelaus, but now I will\nstay with thee, and we will have joy of each other and forget all\nelse,\"\n\nSo whilst Menelaus searched raging through all the host, like a lion\nseeking for his prey, Paris and Helen dallied in each other's arms,\nhidden from the eyes of men. An ill reckoning would it have been for\nParis had the men of Troy known where to find him, for they hated him\nlike black death, and would have given him up to the hands of\nMenelaus, to do by him as he would.\n\nFrom that day forth Paris scarce dared to show his face among his\nfellows; but when Hector urged him, and he could stand out against his\ntaunts no longer, he would go forth into the battle, but disguised as\na common soldier, with no mark upon him of his rank and birth. So did\nhe hope to escape death and flee home as swift as might be to the arms\nof Helen. In this he succeeded full well for a time, but a day came\nwhen no disguise could save him and he could not flee away. For in the\nranks against him stood mighty Philoctetes, with his bow and his\npoisoned arrows. And he drew his bow and prayed to Zeus in his heart,\n\n\"O Zeus almighty, that drivest the black thundercloud before thee, do\nthou guide mine arrow aright, that it may work havoc among our foes\nand bring glory to the host of the Ach\u00e6ans. In thy hands I leave it.\"\n\nThen he drew back the string, so that the mighty bow was wellnigh bent\nin two, and the arrow sped with a whirr far over the foremost ranks of\nthe Trojans to the rear part of the host. And it fell upon Paris, and\npierced between the joints of his armour right through into his side.\nWith a groan he fell, and black night came over his eyes, and he lay\nas one dead upon the field. When the fight was over, and either side\nwas gathering up the dead and wounded from the plain, they came upon\nParis among the rest; but till they had drawn off his helmet they knew\nhim not, for he was dressed as a common soldier. When they saw who it\nwas, they put him reverently on a bier apart, for he was a king's son,\nand had been a brave man once, and death can wipe out many an old\nscore of bitterness and hatred. So they bore him upon their shoulders\nsilently to the palace of Priam his father, and laid him upon his\ncouch. And they brought him wine and cordials, for his heart beat\nfaintly still within his breast. For a moment he revived, and spoke in\nbroken whispers.\n\n\"My friends, I am dying,\" he said, \"and I would die in the pure free\nair of heaven, away from cities and from men and from my shame. O my\nfather, bid them carry me forth upon Ida, and there let them leave me,\nand return no more till they know the last breath must have gone from\nmy body. Then let them burn me there, where once I was brave and free;\nand as the fire of my burning shall die out, so let my name die out\nfrom among you--my name and my dishonour.\"\n\nSo did he speak, and fell back exhausted, with the vision before his\neyes of the groves of Ida and of OEnone, and of how she rose from\nthe waters and loved him in the days of his innocent youth. And he\nremembered her words:\n\n\"O Paris, in that day come back to me, and I will heal thee of thy\nhurt.\"\n\nAnd he wondered whether she would keep her word and forgive him and\nheal him, so that they could go back to their old life upon the\nmountains. But even if she would not, he felt that he would rather die\nthere than in the airless city.\n\nSo they wrapped him about in warm coverings--for it was winter-time,\nand the snow lay white upon the ground--and carried him forth upon\nIda. And they placed a blazing torch above his head and left him on\nthe lonely heights, and the whispering pine-trees kept watch above him\nas they tossed their arms in the cold north wind.\n\nFrom the shadow of a boulder OEnone watched the procession wind back\ndown the mountain-track, and when they had passed out of sight she\ncame forth from her hiding-place. The tale of Paris and Helen she\nknew full well, and the reason of the war, for she had listened to the\ntalk of the shepherds on the mountains. But still in her heart she\nloved Paris; and when she saw him carried forth to die, she remembered\nhow she had promised to heal him of his hurt, for she knew many a\nmagic charm, and she could heal him if she would. So now she drew near\nto him out of the forest, and bent over his couch, and her red-gold\nhair fell soft about his face. But the fire of fever burnt hot within\nhim, and he knew her not; but the face that came before his wandering\nmind was the face of Helen.\n\n\"Helen!\" he whispered, \"Helen!\"\n\nAt the sound of that hated name a great bitterness came into the heart\nof OEnone.\n\n\"Must I heal thee for the sake of Helen?\" she cried, and turned and\nfled through the darkened pines, on, on, she knew not where, and threw\nherself at last upon the grass and wept.\n\nAnd so the torch burned low above his head and cast a dim red glow\nupon the snow, and he died alone of his fever upon the mountains, and\nshe healed him not of his hurt.\n\nThe next morning came the young men from the city, and the sons of\nPriam, and the old king himself, to the place where Paris lay; for\nthey knew full well that he could not have lived out that night upon\nthe mountains. And they gathered together the pine-trunks which the\nwoodmen had left felled upon the ground, and heaped up a great pyre,\nhigh up upon the hills, so that the burning of Paris might shine like\na beacon fire in the sight of Troy and of the Ach\u00e6an host. When the\npyre was built they placed the body on it, and poured out wine and oil\nupon the wood, and the old king stood and lifted up his hands above\nhis son.\n\n[Illustration: Cast herself upon the body of Paris, and put her arms\nabout his neck.]\n\n\"O father Zeus,\" he prayed, \"who rulest upon Ida, before thee do I\nburn the body of my son, and before my friends and before my foes,\nthat they both may see it. May the wine which I pour forth upon his\nbody be a libation of peace, that by his death he may join together in\nfriendship those hands which by his sin he made to draw the sword upon\neach other. O Zeus almighty, grant my prayer!\"\n\nThe people bowed their heads as they heard, and the old man poured\nforth the last libation. The salt tears ran from his eyes and fell\nupon the body of his son, and washed away from his mind all memory of\nhis sin and cowardice, and only the image of him remained as he had\nbeen when he came in his youth and beauty for the winning of the bull.\nSo can the hand of death wipe out all ugliness and wrong.\n\nWhen the last libation had been poured, they set the pyre alight, and\nin time it burned up bravely, for the oil and the wine, and the breath\nof the north wind blowing bleak across the mountain, made the flame\nburn bright and clear; and the pyre of Paris shone like a flaming star\nagainst the dull grey sky and over the hills and plain lying silent\nbeneath their pall of snow. Far away across the valley OEnone saw\nthe light, and knew that the body of him she loved, and might have\nsaved, lay perishing within the flames. All too late, the bitterness\nin her heart died out, and only the love remained, and she would have\ngiven all she knew to have healed Paris of his hurt. With a wild cry\nshe rushed, on the wings of the storm-wind, down the valley and up the\nhillside, and her white robes flew out behind her and the long locks\nof her red-gold hair. Through the ranks of the mourners she rushed and\nover the melting snow, through the flames of the pyre, and cast\nherself upon the body of Paris and put her arms about his neck. There,\non his last resting-place, she lay with him, and the stifling smoke\nclosed about her, and her spirit fled away there, where his had gone\nbefore. The people heard her cry, and saw her as she flew through\ntheir midst; but they thought it was the shriek of the north wind\nrushing over the hills, and to their eyes her white robes and her\nflowing hair seemed but the snowdrift, and last year's dead leaves\nwhirled madly on the wings of the storm. And so they knew nought of\nthe love of Paris and OEnone, or of how she watched his flocks with\nhim when he was brave and free, or of how she forgave him, all too\nlate, and died with him in the pyre which burned for a beacon of peace\nupon the snow-clad hills.\n\n\n    THE END\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., Ltd._\n\nSelected List of their\n\n_Fine Art Series_\n\nSpecially adapted for Presents, Prizes, &c.\n\nIllustrated by Margaret Clayton\n\nA WONDER-BOOK _of_ BEASTS\n\n[Illustration]\n\nEdited by F. J. HARVEY DARTON\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBesides numerous Black and White Illustrations, the Title-page and\nFrontispiece are daintily coloured.\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\nIllustrated by F. D. Bedford\n\nCENTENARY EDITION.\n\nTHE 'ORIGINAL POEMS' AND OTHERS\n\nBy JANE and ANN TAYLOR And ADELAIDE O'KEEFE\n\nEdited\n\nBy E. V. LUCAS\n\n     _'The quality of the poetry of the Misses Taylor has been\n     praised by such great judges that any praise from ourselves\n     would be superfluous. No other writers of children's poetry\n     have written of childish incident with all the child's\n     simplicity._--SPECTATOR.\n\n     _'Mr. Bedford's illustrations are not only very well drawn, but\n     inspired by just the right feeling. It may be added that the\n     Taylors were really the founders of a school. They gave a form\n     and character to nursery verse which have become classic, and\n     have been followed more or less by a long line of later\n     writers.'_--STANDARD.\n\n     _'Thanks are due to that delicate lover of literature and of\n     children, Mr. E. V. Lucas, for reprinting this veritable\n     classic.'_ TIMES OF INDIA.\n\n[Illustration: 'Why should you fear to tell the truth?'--_p. 71_.]\n\nLarge Crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\nIllustrated by F. D. Bedford\n\nRUNAWAYS & CASTAWAYS\n\nEdited with Introduction by E. V. LUCAS\n\n[Illustration: \"Hands his lady out, and gives the guard something for\nhimself;\"]\n\nBesides profuse black and white illustrations, the frontispiece and\ntitle-page are daintily coloured.\n\n     _'Mr. E. V. Lucas has deliberately set himself to capture\n     hearts while young and tender.... In twenty years he will have\n     become such a power in the land as to be a national danger, and\n     his new work, \"Runaways and Castaways,\" is only another step\n     towards this enviable destiny.'_--TIMES.\n\n     _'A collection of the most exciting and delightful runaway\n     stories in the world.'_ NATION.\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\nIllustrated by F. D. Bedford\n\nANOTHER BOOK OF VERSES FOR CHILDREN\n\nSelected and Edited by E. V. LUCAS\n\n[Illustration: We know not who in olden time It was who first invented\nrhyme]\n\nBut few have done as much as he To brighten things for you and me.]\n\nProfusely Illustrated in Black and White, with Frontispiece and\nTitle-page beautifully printed in Colour.\n\n    '_A delightful compilation, and noticeably excellent in the\n    method of its arrangement._'\n\n    ATHEN\u00c6UM.\n\n    '_We may briefly and emphatically describe it as the most\n    charming anthology for children that we have seen, original in\n    choice and arrangement, beautifully bound, and owing no little\n    to Mr. F. D. Bedford's delightful and sympathetic\n    illustrations._'\n\n    GUARDIAN.\n\n    '_Most happily selected, Moreover, the light and humorous\n    verse--verse harmless without any obvious moral--is too much\n    neglected, for children like to be amused, and this need is\n    sometimes forgotten._'\n\n    SPECTATOR.\n\n    '_The volume is in itself a real gift-book, being admirably\n    bound, printed, and illustrated._'\n\n    THE WORLD.\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\nFAIRY TALES FROM GRIMM\n\n    '_Of new editions of old favourites the palm must be given, we\n    think, to this collection of Fairy Tales from Grimm.... We do\n    not think a better edition has appeared._'\n\n    REVIEW OF REVIEWS.\n\n    '_No more acceptable edition of some of Grimm's Stories has been\n    published._'--STANDARD.\n\n    '_Altogether delightful. The illustrations are full of charm and\n    sympathy._'--SATURDAY REVIEW.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    '_A fairy book beyond reproach._'--GRAPHIC.\n\n    '_We have nothing but praise for this collection._'--SKETCH.\n\n    '_Grimm is always delightful, but in his present new dress he is\n    more delightful than ever. Mr. Gordon Browne charms us always\n    with his dainty pictures._'--GUARDIAN.\n\n    '_All the illustrations are simply inimitable._'\n\n    QUEEN.\n\n[Illustration: 'The Prince who was afraid of Nothing.'--_p. 216._]\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, &. CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by A. G. Walker\n\nA BOOK OF BALLAD STORIES\n\nSelected and Edited by\n\nMARY MACLEOD\n\nWith Introduction by\n\nEDWARD DOWDEN\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    'Beyond it rose a castle fair\n      Y-built of marble stone;\n    The battlements were gilt with gold,\n      And glittered in the sun.'--_p. 129._\n]\n\n    '_Miss Mary Macleod has succeeded admirably in keeping much of\n    the spirit of the originals in her prose versions of the best of\n    the old ballads._'\n\n    TRUTH.\n\n    '_Should take a high place. In this work the famous ballads have\n    been done into prose so skilfully, and have been so artistically\n    illustrated, that it forms a volume to be highly\n    prized_.'--STANDARD.\n\n[Illustration: 'She stoutly steered the stots about.'--_p._ 110.]\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\nIllustrated by F. D. Bedford\n\n[Illustration: 'Sat him astride of the saddle of mutton.' _p. 126._]\n\nOLD-FASHIONED TALES OF LONG AGO\n\nEdited with Introduction by\n\nE. V. LUCAS\n\nBesides numerous black and white Illustrations, the Frontispiece and\nTitle-page are beautifully printed in Colours.\n\n    '_A charming book. The one ambition of Mr. Lucas' authors is to\n    be interesting, and they succeed very well._'--DAILY TELEGRAPH.\n\n    '_Beautifully printed, illustrated, and bound._'--SCHOOLMASTER.\n\nTales are given from the following Popular Authors:--Thomas Day, Maria\nEdgeworth, Mrs. Sherwood, Anne Letitia Barbauld, Charles and Mary\nLamb, Jacob Abbott, Alicia Catherine Mant, Caroline Barnard, Peter\nParley, Catherine Sinclair, Dr. Aiken. The authors of some of the best\ntales in the volume are unknown.\n\n[Illustration: 'A large hole burst open in the wall.' _p. 381._]\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\n[Illustration: 'And your experience makes you sad?'--_p._ 152.]\n\nTHE SHAKESPEARE STORY BOOK\n\nBy MARY MACLEOD\n\nWith Introduction\n\nBy SIDNEY LEE\n\n\n    '_Mr. Sidney Lee, a quite unimpeachable authority, strongly\n    recommends this new volume, for which indeed Miss Macleod's\n    literary reputation will commend a favourable hearing. This new\n    rendering has been very well done. Mr. Gordon Browne's\n    illustrations add another charm to a very attractive\n    book._'--SPECTATOR.\n\n    '_Miss Macleod has followed the plot more closely than Mary and\n    Charles Lamb, and a charming book of stories is the\n    result._'--TRUTH\n\n=Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n[Illustration: 'Some have greatness thrust upon them.'--_p._ xiv.]\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\nIllustrated by Hugh Thomson\n\nTALES OF THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS\n\nRETOLD FROM CHAUCER AND OTHER WRITERS\n\nBy\n\nF. J. HARVEY DARTON\n\nWith Introduction\n\nBy Dr. F. J. FURNIVALL\n\n[Illustration: 'The cow ran, the calf ran, and even the very hogs\ntrotted.'--_p._ 122.]\n\n=Large 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards,=\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\nFAIRY TALES FROM HANS ANDERSEN\n\nIntroduction By EDWARD CLODD\n\n=Large Crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, fancy cloth boards.=\n\n[Illustration: Reduced facsimile of cover.]\n\n    '_The illustrations leave nothing to be desired._'--STANDARD.\n\n    '_This is really a seasonable for all Christmases._'--PUNCH.\n\n    '_A delightful gift for children._'--TIMES OF INDIA.\n\n[Illustration: From 'The Ugly Duckling.' _p. 110._]\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\n_AN IMPROVING HISTORY FOR OLD BOYS, YOUNG BOYS, GOOD BOYS, BAD BOYS,\nBIG BOYS, LITTLE BOYS, COW BOYS, AND TOM BOYS_\n\n[Illustration: 'I create you General of the Commissariat.'--_p. 171._]\n\nTHE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF SIR TOADY LION\n\nWITH THOSE OF General Napoleon Smith\n\nBy S. R. CROCKETT\n\n    '_When we say it is one of the most delightful stories about\n    children we have ever read, we are still short of the mark._'\n\n    DAILY CHRONICLE.\n\n    '_It is distinctly the best Christmas book of the\n    season._'--DAILY MAIL.\n\n    '_In this excellent book for children, which the elders will\n    enjoy, Mr. Crockett comes right away from kailyard into a\n    kingdom of obstreperous fancy, and is purely, delightfully\n    funny, and not too Scotch.... Mr. Gordon Browne's illustrations\n    are as good a treat as the story; they realise every thought and\n    intention of the writer, and are full of a sly and\n    characteristic drollery all the artist's own._'--WORLD.\n\n[Illustration: 'How quaint.'--_p. 375._]\n\n=Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by A. G. Walker\n\n[Illustration: Reduced Cover Design.]\n\n    '_A very beautiful gift-book. Deeply interesting to any\n    intelligent child, and the beauty of the old romances will\n    appeal strongly to any imaginative mind, young or old._--THE\n    WORLD.\n\n    '_Very well re-told ... an excellent introduction to the\n    treasures of the old literature._'--DAILY MAIL.\n\nA WONDER BOOK OF OLD ROMANCE\n\nBy F. J. HARVEY DARTON\n\nCONTENTS\n\n    WILLIAM AND THE WEREWOLF.\n    KING ROBERT OF SICILY.\n    SIR CLEGES AND THE CHERRIES.\n    SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT.\n    THE FAIR UNKNOWN.\n    KING HORN.\n    THE SEVEN WISE MASTERS.\n    SIR DEGOR\u00c9 AND THE BROKEN SWORD.\n    GUY OF WARWICK.\n    THE ASH AND THE HAZEL.\n    FLORIS AND BLANCHEFLEUR.\n    AMYS AND AMYLION.\n    HAVELOR THE DANE.\n\n[Illustration: 'Alack, dear lion, who has done this wrong?'--_Guy of\nWarwick, p. 302._]\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\n[Illustration: 'Old King Cole was a merry old soul.'--_p. 1._]\n\nNATIONAL RHYMES OF THE NURSERY\n\n[Illustration: NATIONAL RHYMES OF THE NURSERY\n\nWITH DRAWINGS BY GORDON BROWNE]\n\nWith Introduction\n\nBy GEORGE SAINTSBURY\n\n    '_The prettiest and most complete collection of this kind that\n    we have seen._'--WESTMINSTER GAZETTE.\n\n    '_It is impossible to praise the volume too highly._'--BLACK AND\n    WHITE.\n\n    '_Every conceivable nursery rhyme is herein gathered together,\n    beautifully illustrated. The collection is certainly the most\n    perfect that has ever been made._'--SCHOOL GUARDIAN.\n\n    '_Standard authority._'--TIMES.\n\n    '_A very complete collection._'\n\n    PALL MALL GAZETTE.\n\n=Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, bound in art linen\nboards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\nSTORIES FROM FROISSART\n\nBy\n\nHENRY NEWBOLT,\n\n_Author of 'Admirals All,' &c._\n\n    '_A really fine book, and effectively illustrated. Mr. Newbolt\n    has done his work well, and Mr. Gordon Browne has illustrated\n    the book delightfully._'--OUTLOOK.\n\n[Illustration: '_There never was a better story-book than Froissart._'\n\n    ATHEN\u00c6UM.\n]\n\n[Illustration: 'The four knights view the English host.'--_p. 26._]\n\n=Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\n_A Child's Book, for Children, for Women, and for Men._\n\nSWEETHEART TRAVELLERS\n\nBy S. R. CROCKETT\n\n[Illustration: SWEETHEART TRAVELLERS S. R. CROCKETT]\n\n    '_It is the rarest of all rarities, and veritably a child's book\n    for children, as well as for women and men. It is seldom,\n    indeed, that the reviewer has the opportunity of bestowing\n    unstinted praise, with the feeling that the laudation is,\n    nevertheless, inadequate. \"Sweetheart Travellers\" is instinct\n    with drollery; it continually strikes the softest notes of\n    tenderest pathos, and it must make the most hardened bachelor\n    feel something of the pleasures he has missed in living mateless\n    and childless._'--TIMES.\n\n    '_A more delightful book for young, old, and middle aged, it is\n    scarcely possible to conceive._'--TRUTH.\n\n    '_We confess to having fallen under the spell of these\n    delightful chronicles. The illustrations are just what was\n    wanted to make this one of the most attractive books about\n    children._'\n\n    PALL MALL GAZETTE\n\n[Illustration: On the road to Conway.--_p. 64._]\n\n=Large 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\nSINTRAM & HIS COMPANIONS\n\nAND UNDINE\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBy DE LA MOTTE FOUQU\u00c9\n\nWith Introduction\n\nBy CHARLOTTE M. YONGE\n\n    '_The anonymous translation is the good old standard one. Vastly\n    superior to subsequent versions._'--TIMES.\n\n    '_Certain to engage the sympathies of an entirely new set of\n    readers._'--DAILY TELEGRAPH.\n\n    '_Nothing could be more attractive than the form in which this\n    excellent edition is sent forth._'--RECORD.\n\n    '_A better present for a thoughtful lad or lass could hardly\n    be._'--CHURCH TIMES.\n\n=Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n[Illustration: Sintram and his companions.--_From p. 139._]\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by F. M. Rudland\n\nTHE HISTORY OF THE\n\nFAIRCHILD FAMILY\n\nBy Mrs. SHERWOOD\n\nEdited with Introduction\n\nBy MARY E. PALGRAVE\n\n[Illustration: _Emily & her brother & sister went to play in the\ngarden. p. 68_]\n\n    '_A better gift-book is not easy to find than this pleasing\n    edition of a deservedly popular story._'\n\n    DAILY NEWS.\n\n    '_We have seen few more delightful volumes._'--RECORD.\n\n    '\"_The History of the Fairchild Family\" has never appeared in a\n    more attractive form._'\n\n    SCOTSMAN.\n\n=Large 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Hugh Thomson\n\nTALES FROM\n\nMARIA EDGEWORTH\n\nWith Introduction by AUSTIN DOBSON\n\n[Illustration: Waste Not, Want Not: or, Two Strings to your Bow.--_p.\n191._]\n\n    '_One of the best of the new editions that the present Christmas\n    has called forth. Strangers to the fascinating pen of Maria\n    Edgeworth could not have a better volume in which to learn what\n    they have been missing._'--TIMES.\n\n    '_Exceedingly attractive._'--SPECTATOR.\n\n    '_Nothing could be more admirably carried out._'--BOOKMAN.\n\n=Large 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.=\n\n\nWELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO., LTD., LONDON\n\n\nIllustrated by Gordon Browne\n\n[Illustration: A Chapter Heading.]\n\nSIR TOADY CRUSOE\n\nBy S. R. CROCKETT\n\n[Illustration: '_It will thoroughly satisfy the children's most\nfastidious taste._'\n\n    Morning\n    Leader.\n\n    '_The best book for children, if not the best book we have seen\n    this year._'--WESTMINSTER GAZETTE.\n\n    '_We have seen nothing for a long time to equal the admirable\n    illustrations._'--DUNDEE COURIER.\n\n[Illustration: 'Watch 'em, boy!' said Dinkey.--_p. 245._]\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\nIllustrated by F. D. Bedford\n\nFORGOTTEN TALES OF LONG AGO\n\nEdited with Introduction by\n\nE. V. LUCAS\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBeside numerous Black and White Illustrations, the Frontispiece and\nTitle-page are in Colours.\n\n_The Contents include:_\n\nDICKY RANDOM; JEMIMA PLACID; TWO TRIALS; THE FRUITS OF DISOBEDIENCE;\nTHE THREE CAKES; SCOURHILL'S ADVENTURES; ELLEN AND GEORGE; THE\nJOURNAL, by Priscilla Wakefield; THE BUNCH OF CHERRIES; THE LIFE AND\nADVENTURES OF LADY ANNE; CAPTAIN MURDERER, by Charles Dickens, and\nmany other favourite old stories, now forgotten.\n\n    '_Is Mr. E. V. Lucas going to provide its with one of the\n    prettiest books of each Christmas season? For successive years\n    we have been delighted with his clever selection from the\n    child-fiction of our grandparents, and we are left like Oliver\n    Twist, asking for more._'--BOOKMAN.\n\n[Illustration: 'She cut her beautiful hair close to her head!'-_p.\n162._]\n\n\n_Large crown 8vo, printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\n\nArchaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained.","title":"Children of the Dawn : Old Tales of Greece","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93638}