← catalogue

Children of the Dawn : Old Tales of Greece

by E. F. Buckley · English · Gutenberg #40476 · 511,722 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Children of the Dawn : Old Tales of Greece
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Children of the Dawn : Old Tales of Greece

Author: E. F. Buckley

Author of introduction, etc.: Arthur Sidgwick

Illustrator: Frank Cheyne Papé


        
Release date: August 11, 2012 [eBook #40476]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40476

Credits: Produced by D Alexander, Matthew Wheaton, Carbon County
        Public Library (Rawlins, Wyoming) and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN OF THE DAWN : OLD TALES OF GREECE ***

    CHILDREN OF THE DAWN

    OLD TALES OF GREECE


    [Illustration: Each night Hero lighted her torch; each night Leander
                   swam across the narrow sea. _Page 117._]




    CHILDREN OF THE DAWN OLD TALES OF GREECE

    WRITTEN BY

    ELSIE FINNIMORE BUCKLEY


    INTRODUCTION BY      ILLUSTRATIONS BY
    ARTHUR SIDGWICK      FRANK C PAPÉ

    NEW YORK
    FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS




INTRODUCTION:


The aim of this volume is to present, in a form suitable for young
readers, a small selection from the almost inexhaustible
treasure-house of the ancient Greek tales, which abound (it is
needless to say) in all Greek poetry, and are constantly referred to
by the prose-writers. These stories are found, whether narrated at
length, or sometimes only mentioned in a cursory and tantalising
reference, from the earliest poets, Homer and Hesiod, through the
lyric age, and the Attic renaissance of the fifth century, when they
form the material of the tragic drama, down to the second century
B.C., when Apollodorus, the Athenian grammarian, made a prose
collection of them, which is invaluable. They reappear at Rome in the
Augustan age (and later), in the poems of Vergil, Ovid, and
Statius--particularly in Ovid's "Metamorphoses." Many more are
supplied by Greek or Roman travellers, scholars, geographers, or
historians, of the first three centuries of our era, such as
Strabo, Pausanias, Athenæus, Apuleius and Ælian. The tales are
various--stories of love, adventure, heroism, skill, endurance,
achievement or defeat. The gods take active part, often in conflict
with each other. The heroes or victims are men and women; and behind
all, inscrutable and inexorable, sits the dark figure of Fate. The
Greeks had a rare genius for storytelling of all sorts. Whether the
tales were of native growth, or imported from the East or
elsewhere--and both sources are doubtless represented--once they had
passed through the Greek hands, the Greek spirit, "finely touched to
fine issues," marked them for its own with the beauty, vivacity,
dramatic interest, and imaginative outline and detail, which were
never absent from the best Greek work, least of all during the
centuries that lie between Homer and Plato.

The eleven tales here presented from this vast store are (as will be
seen) very various both in date, character, and detail; and they seem
well chosen for their purpose. The writer of these English versions of
ancient stories has clearly aimed at a terse simplicity of style,
while giving full details, with occasional descriptive passages where
required to make the scene more vivid; and, for the same end, she has
rightly made free use of dialogue or soliloquy wherever the story
could thus be more pointedly or dramatically told.

The first story, called "The Riddle of the Sphinx," gives us in brief
the whole Theban tale, from King Laius and the magical building of the
city, to the incomparable scene from Sophocles' last play, describing
the "Passing of OEdipus." It even includes the heroic action of
Antigone, in burying with due rites her dead brother, in spite of the
tyrant's threats, and at the cost of her own life. No tale was more
often treated in ancient poetry than this tragedy of Thebes. Homer and
Hesiod both refer to it, Æschylus wrote a whole trilogy, and
Sophocles three separate dramas, on this theme. Euripides dealt with
it in his "Phoenissæ," which survives, and in his "OEdipus and
Antigone," of which a few fragments remain. And several other poets
whose works are lost are known by the titles of their plays to have
dealt with the same subject.

One other tale in this selection rests in large measure on the Attic
drama--namely, the story of Alcestis, the fourth in this series. As
far as we know, Euripides alone of the ancients treated this theme, in
his beautiful and interesting play "Alcestis," which is here closely
followed by our author. The past history of Admetus, the king, which
Euripides briefly summarises in the prologue, is here dramatized, and
adds much interest to the story, including as it does the Argonauts'
visit to Pelias, and the romantic imaginary scene of the king's first
meeting with Alcestis.

The two charming love-stories which come second and third in this
series, though unquestionably Greek in origin, reach us from Roman
sources, and bear clear evidence in their form and spirit of belonging
to a later age. The character of the love romance in "Hero and
Leander" and the transparent allegory of "Eros and Psyche" (Love and
the Soul), leave little doubt on this point. The former tale is
ascribed to a late Greek epic poet, Musæus, of whom nothing else is
known; and the latter we owe to Apuleius, a Roman philosopher and man
of letters in the second century A.D.

The fifth and tenth stories (in both of which Atalanta appears) rest
in their present shape on the authority of Apollodorus; but the
incidents of the Calydonian boar-hunt, and the race for the hand of
the princess, won by the suitor's clever trick of the golden apples,
are found as local traditions connected with two different parts of
Greece, Arcadia and Boeotia, and may be in their earliest form of
great antiquity.

The two fanciful stories of Echo and Narcissus, and Alpheus and
Arethusa, which form the sixth and ninth in this series, are among the
prettiest of Nature myths, and are characteristic Greek inventions.
The chase of Arethusa under the sea by the river-god Alpheus was to a
Greek the most natural of fancies, for to him all water was protected
by, or identified with, some god, nymph, or spirit; and the fancy was
especially easy to a dweller in the limestone district of Arcadia,
where streams may run underground for long distances, and reappear as
full-grown rivers from a cavern at the foot of the hills. The tale of
Echo in its present form comes only from Latin poetry (Ovid); but the
fancy that Echo was a spirit or nymph, which is the heart of the
story, may well be of unknown antiquity, especially among the most
imaginative of races, living in a land of rocky hills, the native home
of echoes.

Of the remaining stories (Pygmalion, Orpheus, and OEnone), the
briefest comment will suffice. The beautiful and pathetic tale of
Orpheus and Eurydice, which is best known to us from the incomparable
version of it at the close of Vergil's fourth "Georgic," we know on
good evidence to have been extant at least as early as Æschylus (fifth
century B.C.), and possibly much earlier. The touching story of
OEnone is post-Homeric, and is known to us only from Ovid and
Apollodorus. It is familiar to all Englishmen from the two beautiful
poems of Tennyson, which are respectively among the earliest and
latest of his works. The strange yet striking tale of Pygmalion also
comes to us from Apollodorus; and though it may be much older, it is
perhaps not likely to belong to an earlier time than the fourth
century B.C., a date which seems to be suggested both by the character
of the story, and the development of the art of sculpture implied in
it.

It only remains to commend these beautiful old stories, in their
English dress, to the favour of those for whom they are intended.

    A. SIDGWICK.

    OXFORD,
    _September 9, 1908_.




    CONTENTS


    THE RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX
    EROS AND PSYCHE
    HERO AND LEANDER
    THE SACRIFICE OF ALCESTIS
    HUNTING THE CALYDONIAN BOAR
    THE CURSE OF ECHO
    THE SCULPTOR AND THE IMAGE
    THE DIVINE MUSICIAN
    THE FLIGHT OF ARETHUSA
    THE WINNING OF ATALANTA
    PARIS AND OENONE




    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


    FRONTISPIECE--Each night Hero lighted her torch; each night
                  Leander swam across the narrow sea
    TITLE-PAGE
    Heading to Introduction
    Heading to Contents
    Heading to List of Illustrations
    She put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to
        side like an angry lion waiting for his prey
    With firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and
        Theseus followed after
    On the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and fairest of
        the Immortals
    Faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round and round
    She unloosed the rope, and pushed out into the stream
    "Help, help! I drown in this foul stream!"
    She lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled
        beneath her, so that she leant back against the pillar for
        support
    From the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman, playing
        on his lyre
    Admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine.... Without a thought
        he passed the altar by
    And the children crept silently to her
    She answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and
        raised him from his knees
    As he spoke, he took her by the hand, and set her in a place of
        honour between his father and himself
    As the brute bore down, Meleager buried the spear deep in his
        shoulder
    For the last time he leaned forward
    On the breath of the night wind Aphrodite came in, and she
        kissed the statue on the lips
    From the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the
        grass
    "Orpheus," she cried in her despair, "thy hand!"
    On and on she fled, with the swiftness and strength of despair
    "Oh, my father!" she cried
    Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic
    Out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a
        maiden clad all in misty white
    Menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the Achæan host
    Cast herself upon the body of Paris, and put her arms about his
        neck
    Initials, Tail-pieces, etc.




Children of the Dawn




The Riddle of the Sphinx


Far away towards the east and the regions of the rising sun lies the
fair land of Hellas, a land famous from of old for mighty deeds of
mighty men, and famous to this day among the nations of the earth; for
though the mighty men, her heroes, have long since passed away, their
names live on for ever in the pages of her grand old poets, who sing
of their deeds in strains which still kindle the hearts of men, and
stir them up to be heroes too, and fight life's battle bravely.

Long ago, in the city of Thebes, there ruled a king named Laius and
his queen Iocasta. They were children of the gods, and Thebes itself,
men said, had been built by hands more than mortal; for Apollo had led
Cadmus the Phoenician, the son of Zeus, to the sacred spot where he
was to raise the citadel of Thebes, and Pallas Athene had helped him
to slay the monstrous dragon that guarded the sacred spring of Ares.
The teeth of the dragon, Cadmus took and planted in the plain of
Thebes, and from this seed there sprang up a great host of armed men,
who would have slain him; but he took a stone and cast it in their
midst, whereupon the serpent-men turned their arms one against
another, fighting up and down the plain till only five were left. With
the help of these five, Cadmus built the citadel of Thebes, and round
it made a wall so wide that a dozen men and more might walk upon it,
and so huge were the stones and so strong was the masonry that parts
of it are standing to this day. As for the city itself, the tale goes
that Amphion, the mightiest of all musicians, came with his lyre, and
so sweetly did he play that the hearts of the very stones were stirred
within them, so that of their own free-will they fell into their
places, and the town of Thebes rose up beneath the shadow of the
citadel.

For many a long day did Laius and Iocasta rule over the people of
Thebes, and all that time they had no children; for a dreadful curse
lay on the head of Laius that, if ever he had a son, by that son's
hand he should die. At last a boy was born to them, and Laius,
remembering the curse, swore that the child should never grow to
manhood, and he bade Iocasta slay him forthwith. But she, being his
mother, was filled with a great love and pity for the helpless child.
When it nestled in her arms and clung to her breast she could not find
it in her heart to slay it, and she wept over it many a bitter salt
tear, and pressed it closer to her bosom. As the tiny fingers closed
round hers, and the soft head pressed against her, she murmured,

"Surely, so little a thing can do no harm? Sweet babe, they say that I
must kill thee, but they know not a mother's love. Rather than that, I
will put thee away out of my sight, and never see thee more, though
the gods know I had sooner die than lose thee, my little one, my own
sweet babe."

So she called a trusty house-slave, who knew the king's decree, and
placing the child in his arms, she said,

"Go, take it away, and hide it in the hills. Perchance the gods will
have pity on it, and put it in the heart of some shepherd, who feeds
his flocks on distant pastures, to take the child home to his cot and
rear it. Farewell, my pretty babe. The green grass must be thy cradle,
and the mountain breezes must lull thee to sleep. May the gods in
their mercy bless thy childhood's hours, and make thy name famous
among men; for thou art a king's son, and a child of the Immortals,
and the Immortals forget not those that are born of their blood."

So the man took the child from Iocasta; but, because he feared the
king's decree, he pierced its ankles and bound them together, for he
thought,

"Surely, even if some shepherd wandering on the mountain-side should
light upon the child, he will never rear one so maimed; and if the
king should ask, I will say that he is dead."

But because the child wept for the pain in its ankles, he took it home
first to his wife to be fed and comforted, and when she gave it back
into his arms, it smiled up into his face. Then all the hardness died
out of his heart, for the gods had shed about it a grace to kindle
love in the coldest breast.

Now Cithæron lies midway between Thebes and Corinth, and in
winter-time the snow lies deep upon the summit, and the wild winds
shriek through the rocks and clefts, and the pine trees pitch and bend
beneath the fury of the blast, so that men called it the home of the
Furies, the Awful Goddesses, who track out sin and murder. And there,
too, in the streams and caverns, dwell the naiads and the nymphs, wild
spirits of the rocks and waters; and if any mortal trespass on their
haunts, they drive him to madness in their echoing grottoes and gloomy
caves. Yet, for all that, though men called it dark Cithæron, the
grass about its feet grew fine and green, so that the shepherds came
from all the neighbouring towns to pasture their flocks on its
well-watered slopes. Here it was that Laius's herdsman fell in with a
herdsman of Polybus, king of Corinth, and, seeing that he was a kindly
man, and likely to have compassion on the child, he gave it him to
rear.

Now, it had not pleased the gods to grant any children to Polybus,
king of Corinth, and Merope, his wife, though they wreathed their
altars with garlands and burnt sweet savour of incense; and at last
all hope died out of their hearts, and they said,

"The gods are angry, and will destroy our race, and the kingdom shall
pass into the hands of a stranger."

But one day it chanced that the queen saw in the arms of one of her
women a child she had not seen before, and she questioned her, and
asked if it were hers. And the woman confessed that her husband, the
king's herdsman, had found it on dim Cithæron, and had taken pity on
it, and brought it home. Then the queen looked at the child, and
seeing that it was passing fair, she said,

"Surely this is no common babe, but a child of the Immortals. His hair
is golden as the summer corn, and his eyes like the stars in heaven.
What if the gods have sent him to comfort our old age, and rule the
kingdom when we are dead? I will rear him in the palace as my own son,
and he shall be a prince in the land of Corinth."

So the child lived in the palace, and became a son to Polybus and
Merope, and heir to the kingdom. For want of a name they called him
OEdipus, because his ankles, when they found him, were all swollen
by the pin that the herdsman had put through them. As he grew up, he
found favour in all men's eyes, for he was tall and comely and cunning
withal.

"The gods are gracious," men said, "to grant the king such a son, and
the people of Corinth so mighty a prince, to rule over them in days to
come."

For as yet they knew not that he was a foundling, and no true heir to
the throne.

Now, while the child was still young, he played about the courts of
the palace, and in running and leaping and in feats of strength and
hardihood of heart there was none to beat him among his playmates, or
even to stand up against him, save one. But so well matched were these
two, that the other children would gather round them in a ring to
watch them box and wrestle, and the victor they would carry on their
shoulders round the echoing galleries with shouting and clapping of
hands; and sometimes it was OEdipus, and sometimes the other lad.
But at length there came a time when again and again OEdipus was
proved the stronger, and again and again the other slunk home beaten,
like a cur that has been whipped: and he brooded over his defeat, and
nourished hatred in his heart against OEdipus, and vowed that one
day he would have his revenge by fair means or by foul.

But when Merope the queen saw OEdipus growing tall and fair, and
surpassing all his comrades in strength, she took him up one day on to
the citadel, and showed him all the lovely land of Hellas lying at his
feet. Below them spread the shining city, with its colonnades and
fountains and stately temples of the gods, like some jewel in the
golden sands, and far away to the westward stretched the blue
Corinthian Gulf, till the mountains of Ætolia seemed to join hands
with their sisters in Peloponnese. And she showed him the hills of
Arcadia, the land of song and shepherds, where Pan plays his pipe
beneath the oak-trees, and nymphs and satyrs dance all the day long.
Away to the bleak north-west stood out the snowy peaks of Mount
Parnassus and Helicon, the home of the Muses, who fill men's minds
with wisdom and their hearts with the love of all things beautiful.
Here the first narcissus blooms, and the olive and the myrtle and rosy
almond-blossom gently kiss the laughing rivulets and the shining,
dancing cascades. For Helicon was a fair and gentle youth whom his
cruel brother Cithæron slew in his mad jealousy. Whereupon the gods
changed them both into mountains, and Helicon is mild and fair to this
day, and the home of all good things; but Cithæron is bleak and
barren, because his hard heart had no pity, and the Furies haunt it
unceasingly. Then Merope turned him to the eastward and the land of
the Dawning Day, and showed him the purple peaks of Ægina and the
gleaming Attic shore. And she said to him,

"OEdipus, my son, seest thou how Corinth lies midway 'twixt north
and south and east and west, a link to join the lands together and a
barrier to separate the seas?"

And OEdipus answered,

"Of a truth, mother, he who rules in Corinth hath need of a lion's
heart, for he must stand ever sword in hand and guard the passage from
north to south."

"Courage is a mighty thing, my son, but wisdom is mightier. The sword
layeth low, but wisdom buildeth up. Seest thou the harbours on either
side, facing east and west, and the masts of the ships, like a forest
in winter, and the traffic of sailors and merchants on the shore? From
all lands they come and bring their wares and merchandise, and men of
every nation meet together. Think not, my son, that a lion's heart and
a fool's head therewith can ever be a match for the wisdom of Egypt or
the cunning of Phoenicia."

Then OEdipus understood, and said,

"Till now I have wrestled and boxed and run races with my fellows on
the sands the livelong day, and none can beat me. Henceforth I will
sit in the market-place and discourse with foreigners and learned men,
so that, when I come to rule in my father's place, I may be the wisest
in all the land."

And Merope was pleased at his answer, but in her heart she was sad
that his simple childish days were past; and she prayed that if the
gods granted him wisdom they would keep his heart pure and free from
all uncleanness.

So OEdipus sat in the market-place and talked with merchants and
travellers, and he went down to the ships in the harbour and learned
many strange things of strange lands--the wisdom of the Egyptians,
who were the wisest of all men in the south, and the cunning of the
Phoenicians, who were the greatest merchants and sailors in all the
world. But in the evening, when the sun was low in the west, and the
hills all turned to amethyst and sapphire, and the snow-mountains
blushed ruby red beneath his parting kiss, then along the smooth, gold
sands of the Isthmus, by the side of the sounding sea, he would box
and wrestle and run, till all the ways were darkened and the stars
stood out in the sky. For he was a true son of Hellas, and knew that
nine times out of every ten a slack body and a slack mind go together.

So he grew up in his beauty, a very god for wisdom and might, and
there was no question he could not answer nor riddle he could not
solve, so that all the land looked up to him, and the king and queen
loved him as their own son.

Now one day there was a great banquet in the palace, to which all the
noblest of the land were bidden, and the minstrels played and the
tumblers danced and the wine flowed freely round the board, so that
men's hearts were opened, and they talked of great deeds and heroes,
and boasted what they themselves could do. And OEdipus boasted as
loud as any, and challenged one and all to meet him in fair fight. But
the youth who had grown up with him in rivalry, and nourished jealousy
and hatred in his heart, taunted him to his face, and said,

"Base born that thou art, and son of slave, thinkest thou that free
men will fight with thee? Lions fight not with curs, and though thou
clothe thyself with purple and gold, all men know that thou art no
true son to him thou callest thy sire."

And this he said being flushed with wine, and because myriad-mouthed
Rumour had spread abroad the tale that OEdipus was a foundling,
though he himself knew nought thereof.

Then OEdipus flushed red with rage, and swift as a gale that sweeps
down from the mountains he fell upon the other, and seizing him by the
throat, he shook him till he had not breath to beg for mercy.

"What sayest thou now, thou whelp? Begone with thy lying taunt, now
that thou hast licked the dust for thy falsehood."

And he flung him out from the hall. But Merope leant pale and sad
against a pillar, and veiled her face in her mantle to hide her tears.
And when they were alone, OEdipus took her hand and stroked it, and
said,

"Grieve not for my fiery spirit, mother, but call me thine own son,
and say that I was right to silence the liar who would cast dishonour
upon my father's name and upon thee."

But she looked at him sadly and longingly through her tears, and spoke
in riddling words,

"The gods, my child, sent thee to thy father and to me in answer to
our prayers. A gift of God thou art, and a gift of God thou shalt be,
living and dead, to them that love thee. The flesh groweth old and
withereth away as a leaf, but the spirit liveth on for ever, and those
are the truest of kin who are kin in the spirit of goodness and of
love."

But OEdipus was troubled, for she would say no more, but only held
his hand, and when he drew it away it was wet with her tears. Then he
thought in his heart,

"Verily, my mother would not weep for nought. What if, after all,
there be something in the tale? I will go to the central shrine of
Hellas and ask the god of Truth, golden-haired Apollo. If he say it is
a lie, verily I will thrust it back down that coward's throat, and the
whole land shall ring with his infamy. And if it be true--the gods
will guide me how to act."

So he set forth alone upon his pilgrimage. And he took the road that
runs by the side of the sea and up past Mount Gerania, with its
pine-clad slopes, where Megarus, the son of Zeus, took refuge, when
the floods covered all the land and only the mountain-tops stood out
like islands in the sea. For he followed the cry of the cranes as they
sought refuge from the waters, and was saved, and founded the city of
Megara, which is called by his name to this day. Right past
Ægosthena--the home of the black-footed goats--went OEdipus to
Creusis, along the narrow rocky path between the mountains and the
sea, where a man must needs be sure of foot and steady of head, if he
is to stand against the storms that sweep down from bleak Cithæron.
For the winds rush shrieking down the hills like Furies in their
wrath, and they sweep all that stands in their way over the beetling
cliffs into the yawning, seething gulf below, and those that fall into
her ravening jaws she devours like some wild beast, and they are seen
no more. Then he went through fertile Thisbe past the little port of
Tipha, the home of Tiphys, helmsman of the famous Argonauts, who
sailed to nameless lands and unknown seas in their search for the
Golden Fleece. And many a roaring torrent did he cross, as it rushed
foaming down from the steep white cliffs of Helicon, and over
pathless mountains, past rocky Anticyra and the hills of hellebore,
and through the barren plain of Cirrha, till he came to rock-built
Crisa and the fair Crisean plain, the land of cornfields and vineyards
and the grey-green olive-groves, where in spring-time the pomegranate
and oleander flowers shine out red as beacon-fires by night.

There he had well-nigh reached his journey's end, and his heart beat
fast as he mingled with the band of pilgrims, each bound on his
different quest to the god of Light and Truth, golden-haired Apollo,
the mightiest of the sons of Zeus and the slayer of Pytho, the famous
dragon. At Delphi is his shrine and dwelling-place, and there within
his temple stands the sacred stone which fell from heaven and marks
the centre of the earth. A great gulf yawns beneath, a mighty fissure
going deep down into the bowels of the earth to the regions of the
dead and the land of endless night; and deadly fumes rise up and
noxious mists and vapours, so that the Pythian priestess, who sits
above on her brazen tripod, is driven to frenzy by their power. Then
it is that she hears the voice of Apollo, and her eyes are opened to
see what no mortal can see, and her ears to hear the secrets of the
gods and Fate. Those things which Apollo bids her she chants to the
pilgrims in mystic verse, which only the wise can interpret aright. So
from north and south and east and west men flocked to hear her
prophecies, and the fame of Apollo's shrine went out through every
land--from Ocean's stream and the Pillars of Heracles to the far
Ionian shore and Euphrates, the mighty river of the East.

OEdipus drew near to the sacred place and made due sacrifice, and
washed in the great stone basin, and put away all uncleanness from his
heart, and went through the portals of rock to the awful shrine
within, where the undying fire burns night and day and the sacred
laurel stands. And he put his question to the god and waited for an
answer. Through the dim darkness of the shrine he saw the priestess on
her tripod, veiled in a mist of incense and vapour, and as the power
of the god came upon her she beheld the things of the future and the
hidden secrets of Fate. And she raised her hand towards OEdipus, and
with pale lips spoke the words of doom,

"OEdipus, ill-fated, thine own sire shalt thou slay."

As she spoke the words his head swam round like a whirlpool, and his
heart seemed turned to stone; then, with a loud and bitter cry, he
rushed from the temple, through the thronging crowd of pilgrims down
into the Sacred Way, and the people moved out of his path like
shadows. Blindly he sped along the stony road, down through the pass
to a place where three roads meet, and he shuddered as he crossed
them; for Fear laid her cold hand upon his heart and filled it with a
wild, unreasoning dread, and branded the image of that awful spot upon
his brain so that he could never forget it. On every side the
mountains frowned down upon him, and seemed to echo to and fro the
doom which the priestess had spoken. Straight forward he went like
some hunted thing, turning neither to right nor left, till he came to
a narrow path, where he met an old man in a chariot drawn by mules,
with his trusty servants round him.

"Ho! there, thou madman!" they shouted; "stand by and let the chariot
pass."

"Madmen yourselves," he cried, for his sore heart could not brook the
taunt. "I am a king's son, and will stand aside for no man."

So he tried to push past them by force, though he was one against
many. And the old man stretched out his hand as though to stop him,
but as well might a child hope to stand up against a wild bull. For he
thrust him aside and felled him from his seat, and turned upon his
followers, and, striking out to right and left, he stunned one and
slew another, and forced his way through in blind fury. But the old
man lay stiff and still upon the road. The fall from the chariot had
quenched the feeble spark of life within him, and his spirit fled away
to the house of Hades and the kingdom of the Dead. One trusty servant
lay slain by his side, and the other senseless and stunned, and when
he awoke, to find his master and his comrades slain, OEdipus was far
upon his way.

On and on he went, over hill and dale and mountain-stream, till at
length his strength gave way, and he sank down exhausted. And black
despair laid hold of his heart, and he said within himself,

"Better to die here on the bare hill-side and be food for the kites
and crows than return to my father's house to bring death to him and
sorrow to my mother's heart."

But sweet sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke hope and the love of
life put other thoughts in his breast. And he remembered the words
which Merope the queen had spoken to him one day when he was boasting
of his strength and skill.

"Strength and skill, my son, are the gifts of the gods, as the rain
which falleth from heaven and giveth life and increase to the fruits
of the earth. But man's pride is an angry flood that bringeth
destruction on field and city. Remember that great gifts may work
great good or great evil, and he who has them must answer to the gods
below if he use them well or ill."

And he thought within himself,

"'Twere ill to die if, even in the uttermost parts of the earth, men
need a strong man's arm and a wise man's cunning. Never more will I
return to far-famed Corinth and my home by the sounding sea, but to
far-distant lands will I go and bring blessing to those who are not of
my kin, since to mine own folk I must be a curse if ever I return."

So he went along the road from Delphi till he came to seven-gated
Thebes. There he found all the people in deep distress and mourning,
for their king Laius was dead, slain by robbers on the high road, and
they had buried him far from his native land at a place where three
roads meet. And, worse still, their city was beset by a terrible
monster, the Sphinx, part eagle and part lion, with the face of a
woman, who every day devoured a man because they could not answer the
riddle she set them. All this OEdipus heard as he stood in the
market-place and talked with the people.

"What is this famous riddle that none can solve?" he asked.

"Alas! young man, that none can say. For he that would solve the
riddle must go up alone to the rock where she sits. Then and there she
chants the riddle, and if he answer it not forthwith she tears him
limb from limb. And if none go up to try the riddle, then she swoops
down upon the city and carries off her victims, and spares not woman
or child. Our wisest and bravest have gone up and our eyes have seen
them no more. Now there is no man left who dare face the terrible
beast."

Then OEdipus said,

"I will go up and face this monster. It must be a hard riddle indeed
if I cannot answer it."

"Oh, overbold and rash," they cried, "thinkest thou to succeed where
so many have failed?"

"Better to try, and fail, than never to try at all."

"Yet, where failure is death, surely a man should think twice?"

"A man can die but once, and how better than in trying to save his
fellows?"

As they looked at his strong young limbs and his fair young face they
pitied him.

"Stranger," they said, "who art thou to throw away thy life thus
heedlessly? Are there none at home to mourn thee and no kingdom thou
shouldst rule? For, of a truth, thou art a king's son and no common
man."

"Nay, were I to return, my home would be plunged in mourning and woe,
and the people would drive me from my father's house."

They marvelled at his answer, but dared question him no further; and,
seeing that nothing would turn him from his purpose, they showed him
the path to the Sphinx's rock, and all the people went out with him to
the gate with prayers and blessings. At the gate they left him, for he
who goes up to face the Sphinx must go alone, and none can stand by
and help him. So he went through the Crenean gate and across the
stream of Dirce into the wide plain, and the mountain of the Sphinx
stood out dark and clear on the other side. Then he prayed to Pallas
Athene, the grey-eyed goddess of Wisdom, and she took all fear from
his heart. So he went up boldly to the rock, where the monster sat
waiting to spring upon her prey; yet for all his courage his heart
beat fast as he looked on her. For at first she appeared like a mighty
bird, with great wings of bronze and gold, and the glancing sunbeams
played about them, casting a halo of light around, and in the midst of
the halo her face shone out pale and beautiful as a star at dawn. But
when she saw him coming near, a greedy fire lit up her eyes, and she
put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an
angry lion waiting for his prey. Nevertheless, OEdipus spoke to her
fair and softly,

"Oh, lady, I am come to hear thy famous riddle and answer it or die."

"Foolhardy manling, a dainty morsel the gods have sent this day, with
thy fair young face and fresh young limbs."

And she licked her cruel lips.

Then OEdipus felt his blood boil within him, and he wished to slay
her then and there; for she who had been the fairest of women was now
the foulest of beasts, and he saw that by her cruelty and lust she had
killed the woman's soul within her, and the soul of a beast had taken
its place.

"Come, tell me thy famous riddle, foul Fury that thou art, that I may
answer it and rid the land of this curse."

"At dawn it creeps on four legs; at noon it strides on two; at sunset
and evening it totters on three. What is this thing, never the same,
yet not many, but one?"

[Illustration: "She put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from
side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey."]

So she chanted slowly, and her eyes gleamed cruel and cold.

Then thought OEdipus within himself,

"Now or never must my learning and wit stand me in good stead, or in
vain have I talked with the wisest of men and learnt the secrets of
Phoenicia and Egypt."

And the gods who had given him understanding sent light into his
heart, and boldly he answered,

"What can this creature be but man, O Sphinx? For, a helpless babe at
the dawn of life, he crawls on his hands and feet; at noontide he
walks erect in the strength of his manhood; and at evening he supports
his tottering limbs with a staff, the prop and stay of old age. Have I
not answered aright and guessed thy famous riddle?"

Then with a loud cry of despair, and answering him never a word, the
great beast sprang up from her seat on the rock and hurled herself
over the precipice into the yawning gulf beneath. Far away across the
plain the people heard her cry, and they saw the flash of the sun on
her brazen wings like a gleam of lightning in the summer sky.
Thereupon they sent up a great shout of joy to heaven, and poured out
from every gate into the open plain, and some raised OEdipus upon
their shoulders, and with shouts and songs of triumph bore him to the
city. Then and there they made him king with one accord, for the old
king had left no son behind him, and who more fitted to rule over them
than the slayer of the Sphinx and the saviour of their city?

So OEdipus became king of Thebes, and wisely and well did he rule,
and for many a long year the land prospered both in peace and war. But
the day came when a terrible pestilence broke out, and the people died
by hundreds, so that at last OEdipus sent messengers to Delphi to
ask why the gods were angry and had sent a plague upon the land. And
this was the answer they brought back,

"There is an unclean thing in Thebes. Never has the murderer of Laius
been found, and he dwells a pollution in the land. Though the
vengeance of the gods is slow, yet it cometh without fail, and the
shedding of blood shall not pass unpunished."

Then OEdipus made proclamation through the land that if any man knew
who the murderer was, they should give him up to his doom and appease
the anger of Heaven. And he laid a terrible curse on any who dared to
give so much as a crust of bread or a draught of water to him who had
brought such suffering on the land. So throughout the country far and
wide a search was made to track out the stain of blood and cleanse the
city from pollution, but day after day the quest was fruitless, and
the pestilence raged unceasingly, and darkness fell upon the soul of
the people, as their prayers remained unanswered and their
burnt-offerings smoked in vain upon the altars of the gods. Then at
last OEdipus sent for the blind seer Teiresias, who had lived
through six generations of mortal men, and was the wisest of all
prophets on earth. He knew the language of the birds, and, though his
eyes were closed in darkness, his ears were opened to hear the secrets
of the universe, and he knew the hidden things of the past and of the
future. But at first when he came before the king he would tell him
nothing, but begged him to question no further.

"For the things of the future will come of themselves," he cried,
"though I shroud them in silence, and evil will it be for thee, O
king, and evil for thine house if I speak out the knowledge that is
hidden in my heart."

At last OEdipus grew angry at his silence, and taunted him,

"Verily, me thinks thou thyself didst aid in the plotting of this
deed, seeing that thou carest nought for the people bowed down beneath
the pestilence and the dark days that are fallen on the land, so be it
thou canst shield the murderer and escape thyself from the curse of
the gods."

Then Teiresias was stung past bearing, and would hold his tongue no
longer. "By thine own doom shalt thou be judged, O king," he said.
"Thou thyself art the murderer, thyself the pollution that staineth
the land with the blood of innocent men."

Then OEdipus laughed aloud,

"Verily, old man, thou pratest. What rival hath urged thee to this
lie, hoping to drive me from the throne of Thebes? Of a truth, not
thine eyes only, but thy heart, is shrouded in a mist of darkness."

"Woe to thee, OEdipus, woe to thee! Thou hast sight, yet seest not
who thou art, nor knowest the deed of thine hand. Soon shalt thou
wander sightless and blind, a stranger in a strange land, feeling the
ground with a staff, and men shall shrink back from thee in horror
when they hear thy name and the deed that thou hast done."

And the people were hushed by the words of the old man, and knew not
what to think. But the wife of OEdipus, who stood by his side, said,

"Hearken not to him, my lord. For verily no mortal can search the
secrets of Fate, as I can prove full well by the words of this same
man that he spoke in prophecy. For he it was who said that Laius, the
king who is dead, should be slain by the hand of his own son. However,
that poor innocent never grew to manhood, but was exposed on the
trackless mountain-side to die of cold and hunger; and Laius, men say,
was slain by robber bands at a place where three roads meet. So
hearken not to seer-craft, ye people, nor trust in the words of one
who is proved a false prophet."

But her words brought no comfort to OEdipus, and a dreadful fear
came into his heart, like a cold, creeping snake, as he listened. For
he thought of his journey from Delphi, and of how in his frenzy he had
struck down an old man and his followers at a place where three roads
meet. When he questioned her further, the time and the place and the
company all tallied, save only that rumour had it that Laius had been
slain by robber bands, whilst he had been single-handed against many.

"Was there none left," he asked, "who saw the deed and lived to tell
the tale?"

"Yea, one faithful follower returned to bear the news, but so soon as
the Sphinx was slain and the people had made thee king he went into
distant pastures with his flocks, for he could not brook to see a
stranger in his master's place, albeit he had saved the land from
woe."

"Go, summon him," said OEdipus. "If the murderers were many, as
rumour saith, with his aid we may track them out; but if he was one
man single-handed--yea, though that man were myself--of a truth he
shall be an outcast from the land, that the plague may be stayed from
the people. Verily, my queen, my heart misgives me when I remember my
wrath and the deed that I wrought at the cross-roads."

In vain she tried to comfort him, for a nameless fear had laid hold of
his heart.

Now, while they were waiting for the herdsman to come, a messenger
arrived in haste from Corinth to say that Polybus was dead, and that
OEdipus was chosen king of the land, for his fame had gone out far
and wide as the slayer of the Sphinx and the wisest of the kings of
Hellas. When OEdipus heard the news, he bowed his head in sorrow to
hear of the death of the father he had loved, and turning to the
messenger, he said,

"For many a long year my heart hath yearned toward him who is dead,
and verily my soul is grieved that I shall see him no more in the
pleasant light of the sun. But for the oracle's sake I stayed in
exile, that my hand might not be red with a father's blood. And now I
thank the gods that he has passed away in a green old age, in the
fulness of years and of honour."

But the messenger wondered at his words.

"Knewest thou not, then, that Polybus was no father to thee in the
flesh, but that for thy beauty and thy strength he chose thee out of
all the land to be a son to him and heir to the kingdom of Corinth?"

"What sayest thou, bearer of ill news that thou art?" cried OEdipus.
"To prove that same tale of thine a slanderous lie I went to Delphi,
and there the priestess prophesied that I should slay mine own sire.
Wherefore I went not back to my native land, but have lived in exile
all my days."

"Then in darkness of soul hast thou lived, O king. For with mine own
hands I received thee as a babe from a shepherd on dim Cithæron, from
one of the herdsmen of Laius, who was king before thee in this land."

"Woe is me, then! The curse of the gods is over me yet. I know not my
sire, and unwittingly I may slay him and rue the evil day. And a cloud
of darkness hangeth over me for the slaying of King Laius. But lo!
they bring the herdsman who saw the deed done, and pray Heaven he may
clear me from all guilt. Bring him forward that I may question him."

Then they brought the man forward before the king, though he shrank
back and tried to hide himself. When the messenger from Corinth saw
him he started back in surprise, for it was the very man from whose
hands he had taken OEdipus on the mountain-side. And he said to the
king,

"Behold the man who will tell thee the secret of thy birth. From his
hands did I take thee as a babe on dim Cithæron."

Then OEdipus questioned the man, and at first he denied it from
fear, but at last he was fain to confess.

"And who gave me to thee to slay on the barren mountain-side?"

"I pray thee, my king, ask no more. Some things there are that are
better unsaid."

"Nay, tell me, and fear not. I care not if I am a child of shame and
slavery stains my birth. A son of Fortune the gods have made me, and
have given me good days with the evil. Speak out, I pray thee. Though
I be the son of a slave, I can bear it."

"No son of a slave art thou, but seed of a royal house. Ask me no
more, my king."

"Speak, speak, man. Thou drivest me to anger, and I will make thee
tell, though it be by force."

"Ah! lay not cruel hands upon me. For thine own sake I would hide it.
From the queen thy mother I had thee, and thy father was--Laius the
king. At the cross-roads from Delphi didst thou meet him in his
chariot, and slew him unwittingly in thy wrath. Ah, woe is me! For the
gods have chosen me out to be an unwilling witness to the truth of
their oracles."

Then a great hush fell upon all the people like the lull before a
storm. For the words of the herdsman were so strange and terrible that
at first they could scarce take in their meaning. But when they
understood that OEdipus was Laius's own son, and that he had
fulfilled the dreadful prophecy and slain his sire, a great tumult
arose, some saying one thing and some another; but the voice of
OEdipus was heard above the uproar,

"Ah, woe is me, woe is me! The curse of the gods is upon me, and none
can escape their wrath. Blindly have I done this evil, and when I was
striving to escape Fate caught me in her hidden meshes. Oh, foolish
hearts of men, to think that ye can flee from the doom of the gods;
for lo! ye strive in the dark, and your very struggles bind you but
closer in the snare of your fate. Cast me from the land, ye people; do
with me what ye will. For the gods have made me a curse and a
pollution, and by my death alone will the land have rest from the
pestilence."

And the people would have taken him at his word; for fickle is the
heart of the multitude, and swayed this way and that by every breath
of calamity. They were sore stricken, too, by the pestilence, and in
their wrath against the cause of it they forgot the slaying of the
Sphinx and the long days of peace and prosperity. But the blind seer
Teiresias rose up in their midst, and at his voice the people were
silent.

"Citizens of Cadmus, foolish and blind of heart! Will ye slay the
saviour of your city? Have ye forgotten the man-devouring Sphinx and
the days of darkness? Verily prosperity blunteth the edge of
gratitude. And thou, OEdipus, curse not the gods for thine evil
fate. He that putteth his finger in the fire is burnt, whether he do
it knowingly or not. As to thy sire, him indeed didst thou slay in
ignorance; but the shedding of man's blood be upon thine own head, for
that was the fruit of thy wrathful spirit, which, through lack of
curbing, broke forth like an angry beast. Hadst thou never slain a
man, never wouldst thou have slain thy sire. But now thou art a
pollution to the land of thy birth, and by long exile and wandering
must thou expiate thy sin and die a stranger in a strange land. Yet
methinks that in the dark mirror of prophecy I see thy form, as it
were, a guardian to the land of thy last resting-place, and in a grove
of sacred trees thy spirit's lasting habitation, when thy feet have
accomplished the ways of expiation and the days of thy wandering are
done."

So the people were silenced. But OEdipus would not be comforted,
and in his shame and misery he put out his own eyes because they had
looked on unspeakable things. Then he clothed himself in rags and took
a pilgrim's staff, to go forth alone upon his wanderings. And the
people were glad at his going, because the plague had hardened their
hearts, and they cared nothing for his grey hairs and sightless eyes,
nor remembered all he had done for them, but thought only how the
plague might be stayed. Even Eteocles and Polyneices, his own sons,
showed no pity, but would have let him go forth alone, that they might
live on the fatness of the land. For their hardness of heart they were
punished long after, when they quarrelled as to which should be king,
and brought down the flood of war upon Thebes, and fell each by the
other's hand in deadly strife. Of all his children, Antigone alone
refused to let him go forth a solitary wanderer, and would listen to
none of his entreaties when he spoke of the hardness of the way that
would lie before them.

"Nay, father," she cried; "thinkest thou that I could suffer thee to
wander sightless and blind in thine old age with none to stay thy
feeble steps or lend thee the light of their eyes?"

"The road before us is hard and long, my child, and no man can say
when my soul shall find rest. The ways of the world are cruel, and men
love not the cursed of the gods. As for thee, Heaven bless thee for
thy love; but thou art too frail and tender a thing to eat of the
bread and drink of the waters of sorrow."

"Ah, father, thinkest thou that aught could be more bitter than to sit
in the seat of kings whilst thou wanderest a beggar on the face of
the earth? Nay, suffer me to go with thee, and stay thy steps in the
days of thy trial."

Nothing he could say would dissuade her. So they two set out alone
upon their wanderings, the old man bowed down beneath the weight of
sorrow, and the young girl in the freshness of youth and beauty, with
a great love in her heart--a bright, burning love which was the light
by which she lived, and a light which never led her astray. For love
guided her into desolate places and through many a pathless
wilderness, and at length brought her in the flower of her maidenhood
to the very gates of death; yet when the cloud of earthly sorrow hung
darkest over her head, love it was that lifted the veil of doubt, and
cast about her name a halo of glory that will never fade. And all the
story of her love and how she buried her brother Polyneices, though
she knew it was death to cast so much as a handful of dust upon his
body, you may read in one of the noblest plays that has ever been
written.

So she and OEdipus set out upon their wanderings. At first OEdipus
was filled with shame and bitterness, and cursed the day of his birth
and his evil fate; but as time went on he remembered the words of
Teiresias--how at his death he should be a blessing to the land of his
last resting-place; and the hope sprang up in his heart that the gods
had not forsaken him, but would wipe out the stain of his sin, and
make his name once more glorious among men. Daily this hope grew
stronger and brighter, and he felt that the days of wandering and
expiation were drawing to a close, and a mysterious power guided his
steps he knew not whither, except that it was towards the goal of his
release. So they wandered on across the Theban plain and over dim
Cithæron, till they came to the torch-lit strand of Eleusis and
Demeter's sacred shrine, and the broad plain of Rarus, where
Triptolemus first taught men to drive a furrow and sow the golden
grain. And they went along the Sacred Way which leads to Athens, with
the circling mountains on their left, and to the right the blue
Saronic Gulf and the peaks of sea-girt Salamis. And many a hero's
grave did they pass and many a sacred shrine, for all along that road
men of old raised monuments to the undying glory of the dead and the
heritage of honour which they left to unborn generations. And always
Antigone tended the old man's feeble steps, and lent him the light of
her young eyes, till at length they came to white Colonus and the
grove of the Eumenides. There she set him on a rock to rest his weary
limbs. And the soft spring breezes played about them, and the clear
waters of Cephisus flowed sparkling at their feet to the fertile plain
below. In the dark coverts and green glades the nightingale trilled
her sweet song, and the grass was bright with many a golden crocus and
white narcissus bloom. As he sat there a great calm filled the old
man's heart, for he felt that the days of his wandering were done. But
while they were resting a man from the village happened to pass, and
when he saw them he shouted out,

"Ho! there, impious wanderers, know ye not that ye sit on sacred land
and trespass on hallowed ground?"

Then OEdipus knew more surely than ever that the day of his release
had come.

"Oh, stranger!" he cried, "welcome is that which thou sayest. For
here shall the words of the prophet be fulfilled, when he said that in
a grove of sacred trees my spirit should find rest."

But the man was not satisfied, and he called to a band of his
countrymen who were in the fields close by. And they came up and spoke
roughly to OEdipus, and asked his name and business. When he told
them they were filled with horror, for all men had heard of the
slaying of Laius, and they would have turned him out by force. But
OEdipus raised himself from the rock on which he was seated, and in
spite of his beggar's rags and sightless eyes, there was a majesty
about his face and form that marked him as no common man.

"Men of Colonus," he said, "ye judge by the evil I have done, and not
by the good. Have ye forgotten the days when the name of OEdipus was
honoured throughout the land? Of a truth the days of darkness came,
and the stain of my sin found me out. But now is my wrathful spirit
curbed, and the gods will make me once more a blessing to men. Go,
tell your king Theseus, who rules in Athena's sacred citadel, that
OEdipus is here, and bid him come with all speed if he would win a
guardian for this land, an everlasting safeguard for his city in days
of storm and stress."

So they sent off a messenger in hot haste, for there was a mysterious
power about the aged wanderer that none could withstand. And soon
Theseus arrived, himself a mighty hero, who had made Athens a great
city and rid the country of many a foul pestilence. And he greeted
OEdipus courteously and kindly, as befitted a great prince, and
offered him hospitality. But OEdipus said,

"The hospitality I crave, O king, is for no brief sojourn in this
land. Nay, 'tis an everlasting home I ask. For the hand of Heaven is
upon me, and full well I know that this day my soul shall leave this
frail and broken body. And to thee alone is it given to know where my
bones shall rest--to thee and thy seed after thee. As long as my bones
shall remain in the land, so long shall my spirit watch over it, and
men shall call upon my name to turn the tide of battle and stay the
flood of pestilence and war. Wilt thou come with me, O king, whither
the gods shall lead, and learn the secret of my grave?"

Then Theseus bowed his head, and answered,

"Show thou the way, and I will come."

So OEdipus turned and led the way into the grove, and Theseus and
Antigone followed after. For a mysterious power seemed to guide him,
and he walked as one who could see, and his steps were strong and firm
as those of a man in his prime. Straight into the grove did he go till
they came to the heart of the wood, where there was a sacred well
beneath a hollow pear-tree. Close by was a great chasm going deep down
into the bowels of the earth, and men called it the Gate of Hades, the
Kingdom of the Dead. Here, too, the Awful Goddesses were worshipped
under a new and gentler name. For after they had driven the murderer
Orestes up and down the land for his sin, he came at length to Athens
to stand his trial before gods and men. And mercy tempered justice and
released him from blood-guiltiness, and the Furies laid aside their
wrath and haunted him no more. So the people of Athens built them
shrines and sanctuaries, and worshipped them as Eumenides, the Kindly
Maidens. And now once more a wanderer was to find rest there from his
sin.

When they reached the well, OEdipus sat down upon a rock and called
his daughter to his side, and said,

"Antigone, my child, thy hand hath ministered to me in exile, and
smoothed the path for the wanderer's feet. Go now, fetch water, and
pour libation and drink-offering to the gods below. It is the last
thing thou canst do for me on earth."

So Antigone fetched water from the well, and dressed and tended him,
and poured libation to the gods. And when she had finished, OEdipus
drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and said,

"Grieve not for me, my child. Well I know that thy heart will ache,
for love hath made light the burden of toil. But for me life's day is
done, and I go to my rest. Do thou seek thy brethren, and be to them
as thou hast been to me. My child, my child, hard is the way that lies
before thee, and my soul yearneth over thee for the evil day that
shall come. But look thou to thine own pure heart, on which the gods
have set the seal of truth that changeth not with passing years, and
heed not the counsels of men."

And he held her closely to him, and she clung weeping about his neck.
As they sat a hush fell upon the grove, and the nightingales ceased
their song, and from the depths of the grove a voice was heard like
the voice of distant thunder.

"OEdipus, OEdipus, why dost thou tarry?"

When they heard it they were afraid. But OEdipus rose up and gently
put his daughter from him, saying,

[Illustration: "With firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more,
and Theseus followed after."]

"Lo! the voice of Zeus, who calleth me. Fare thee well, my child; thou
canst go no further with me. For Theseus only is it meet to see the
manner of my death, and he and I must go forward alone into the wood."

With firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and Theseus
followed after. And what happened there none can tell, for Theseus
kept the secret to his dying day. But men say that when he came out of
the wood his face was as the face of one who had seen things passing
mortal speech. As for OEdipus, the great twin Brethren Sleep and
Death carried his bones to Athens, where the people built him a
shrine, and for many a long year they honoured him as a hero in the
land of Attica. For though the sin that he sinned in his wrath and
ignorance was great and terrible, yet his life had brought joy to many
men and prosperity to more lands than one. For with wisdom and love he
guided his days, and with sorrow and tears he wiped out the stain of
his sin, so that, in spite of all he suffered, men love to tell of the
glory and wisdom of OEdipus, and of how he solved the riddle of the
Sphinx.




Eros and Psyche


I

In the blue waters of the Ægean Sea, midway between Greece and Egypt,
lies the fertile land of Crete. Here, long, long ago, when the gods
still walked on earth in human form and the sons of men were as
children playing in a fair garden, there ruled a king who was the
father of three lovely daughters. They lived in a palace in the rich
Omphalian plain, beneath the shade of snow-capped Ida, surrounded by
smiling gardens and fruitful vineyards, with a glimpse, away to the
southward, of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. So great was the beauty
of these three maidens that their fame went abroad throughout all the
land, and wealthy wooers flocked from far and wide to win their hands
in marriage. The two elder sisters soon became the brides of two great
princes, and were well content to pass their days in the sunshine of
their husbands' love and admiration, and to deck themselves with gold
and jewels, and listen to the praise of their beauty upon the lips of
men. For the gods had given them grace of form and feature, but their
souls within were vain and foolish, so that in after-years, when they
found their sister more blessed than they, their vanity and envy
brought them to an evil end.

The youngest sister, whose name was Psyche, continued to live on at
home long after the other two were married. In face and form she was
as fair as they, whilst her soul within was so pure and beautiful that
it shed a heavenly radiance about her, so that when men looked into
her face all thoughts of love and wooing died out of their hearts, and
they worshipped her as one of the Immortals. Wherever she passed
voices were hushed and heads were bowed in prayer, till at length it
was rumoured that Aphrodite herself, the Queen of Love, had come to
live with men. The temples stood deserted and the altars bare of
sacrifice, and from far and wide men flocked to Psyche with gifts and
garlands and songs of praise.

Then foam-born Aphrodite, Queen of Love, was filled with jealousy and
wrath that a mortal should usurp her place and name, and she cast
about in her mind for some means of revenge.

"Verily, I must make this Cretan maiden rue the day when first men
laid my offerings at her feet. I will smite her with so dire a malady
that her very beauty shall be turned to scorn, and the heights to
which her impious pride hath raised her shall be as nought to the
depths of her shame and misery."

Thereupon she sent for her son, the great god Eros, who lords it over
gods and men. The poison of his fiery darts none can withstand, and
with him it rests to burn men's hearts with the fever of unsatisfied
desire, or so to temper the venom of his shafts that it runs like
heavenly nectar through the veins. Yet the joy that he gives withal is
akin to madness, and the torture of his wrath a frenzy unquenchable.

"Best-beloved son," she said, "if thou carest aught for thy mother's
name and fame, thou wilt hasten now to do my bidding. In midmost Crete
there dwells a maid--Psyche by name--whose impious pride hath cast
dishonour on my godhead. The offerings that are mine by right are cast
before her feet. My temples stand devoid of worshippers, who flock to
pay her court; and all this not in Crete alone, but from the farthest
shores of Hellas men cross the sea in white-winged ships to gaze upon
her face. Go now, I pray thee, and smite her with a poisoned arrow
from thy bow. Make her to love some loathly monster, deformed in soul
and body, and with a passion so shameless and all-consuming that men
shall spurn her, even as now they haste to pay their vows. As thou
lovest me, go with all speed and do my bidding."

So Eros sped away to fulfil Aphrodite's command, and plant in the
heart of Psyche the image of a dark and dreadful monster, and make her
love it. As she slept he came and stood beside her, armed with his bow
and poisoned arrows. But when he looked upon her his arm fell lifeless
by his side, and the arrows slipped out of his hand, for never had he
looked on one so fair; and her beauty smote his heart as surely as
ever one of his own shafts had pierced a mortal's breast. From that
moment he loved her with all his soul, and swore that no harm should
ever come to her through him, but that he himself and no other,
whether man or monster, should be her bridegroom. And he picked up the
arrow and put it back into the sheath.

"If she can trust me," he said, "she shall never feel a wound from one
of these. I will carry her away, and she shall be mine; but till the
gods are reconciled that I should wed a mortal, and my mother's anger
is appeased, I must visit her only in the night-time, and she must not
know who I am nor see my face. When the gods have proved her and found
her worthy of me, then will I reveal myself to her, and through my
love she shall be immortal, and dwell with me for ever in the shining
courts of heaven."

And he bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. She smiled in her
sleep and held out her arms towards him, and he knew that his kiss had
kindled in her heart the light of love.

Aphrodite, meanwhile, with her mind at rest, took her way along the
shell-strewn curve of a sandy bay, and laughing ripples made music at
her feet. The Sun was slowly sinking to his bed in Ocean's stream, and
Night rode in her crescent car across the calm green vault of heaven.
From Aphrodite's feet a broad gold path of light led straight to the
sunset realms of Helios, the sun-god, and as she waited on the shore,
a band of dolphins ploughed the sea towards her. In their wake came
Tritons blowing on soft-voiced conches, and some drew a pearly shell
behind and pushed it to the shore and bade her enter.

"Great Helios bids thee to his midnight revelry, O Queen of Love,"
they cried, "and we are come to guide thee along the golden pathway
to the glowing palaces of Sunset Land."

As the goddess stepped into the shell, they blew a loud salute upon
their conches, and spread a silken sail above her head, and with music
and laughter they crossed the shining sea to the golden halls of
Helios.


II

Psyche, meanwhile, all unconscious of the wrath she had kindled in the
breast of Aphrodite, was pining away at home in loneliness of heart.
Little did she care for the worship that men paid her or for the
offerings that they laid at her feet. It was for the love of a husband
that she longed, and her soul was starving in the midst of rich gifts
and the rapt, adoring gaze of worshippers. Her melancholy fastened on
the king her father, and on all the palace, and soothsayers and augurs
crowded round the doors with omens, charms, and riddling words, and
prophesied all manner of evil.

At last the king could bear it no longer, and he set forth on
pilgrimage to Apollo's shrine at Delphi, and made question of the
oracle.

"Have the gods ordained that Psyche, my daughter, should die unwed,
though the fairest maid on earth, or doth some bridegroom await her
who tarrieth long? O god of Light, reveal his name, and save my child
from death."

Then the tripod shook, and from the midst of the incense and vapour
the priestess made reply,

"Think not of marriage-songs, O king, or bridal torches. On a lonely
rock on snow-clad Ida must thou leave thy child, the bride of no
mortal man. But a savage monster shall come, the terror of gods and
men, and shall bear her away to his own land, and thine eyes shall see
her no more. Wherefore make ready the funeral feast. Bring forth your
sable robes of mourning, and bid the minstrels raise a dirge for the
dead. For so the gods have willed it."

So the king went sadly home, and his heart was heavy within him. And
all the people mourned with him; for they loved the fair princess,
with her beautiful sad face and her kind and noble heart. All manner
of tales went abroad of the monster she must wed, some saying one
thing and some another. But most men thought it must be Talus, the
great giant who guarded Crete. Three times every day did he walk round
the island, and woe to any stranger who fell in his path or tried to
land when he was by. For from top to toe he was made of burning
metal--gold and silver and bronze and iron--while through his body ran
one single vein that was filled with fire and fastened in his head
with a nail. If any man tried to thwart him, he would gather him up in
his great bronze arms and hold him to his breast, red-hot with the
fire in his vein, and when he was well cooked through he would devour
him. Many a long year after, when Jason sailed by with the heroes of
the Golden Fleece, Talus rushed down, and would have stopped them from
watering their ship, and have turned them adrift on the salt seas to
be tortured to death with thirst. But Medea, Jason's dark witch-wife,
beguiled him with fair promises, and made him cool his burning body in
the sea before she would come near. Then when she had him under her
spells she softly drew the nail from his head, and the fire flowed
forth from his vein, and all his strength departed, and he died with a
curse on his lips for Medea and her wiles. But she only laughed aloud,
and bade Jason water the ship and thank the immortal gods that he had
a witch-woman to wife. That, however, was long after, and Talus was
now in the prime of life, and the terror of all the country-side.

Meanwhile, the land was plunged in mourning, and in the palace all was
bustle and confusion in preparation for the funeral rites. All day
long the old king sat in his chamber, and looked out towards the
lonely heights of Ida, where his daughter was to be left.

"Better that she should die in her maidenhood," he cried, "than wed
this terrible monster."

Psyche alone in all the palace was calm, and tried to comfort her
father.

"Sire," she said, as she put her arms about his neck, "to look on thy
tears is to me more bitter than my fate. Weep not for me, for
something within me bids me take comfort, and I hear a sweet voice
say, 'Rejoice, beloved, and come with me.' Dark was that day, my
father, when first men laid their offerings at my feet, and my heart
dwelt apart in its loneliness. And now, if but for one day I may look
upon the face of my bridegroom, I would gladly die. For, methinks, it
is no monster I must wed."

But the king thought only of the words of the oracle, and would not be
comforted.

At length the bridal day dawned, and the sad procession wound slowly
from the palace towards Ida. Choruses of singers led the way with
solemn dirges for the dead, and the king, uncrowned, followed with his
nobles clad in armour and holding blazing torches in their hands. Next
came Psyche, all in white, with a bridal veil and garlands, and
surrounded by white-robed maidens; and last of all the people of the
city followed with loud wailing and lamentation. Up the steep mountain
road they went, and the path grew rougher and narrower step by step.
On either side the dark rocks frowned down upon them, and echoed to
and fro the wailings of the people as they passed, and above them the
snow-capped peak of Ida stood out against the summer sky, like a
lonely sentinel keeping watch over the plain below. Slowly the shadows
of the rocks lengthened across the barren slopes, and the funeral
torches shone pale in the glowing sunset light. At last they reached
the appointed place beneath the unmelting snow, and on the barren rock
they set the maiden, and bade her a sorrowful good-bye. Ever and anon
they turned back to look on her as they wound down the mountain-track,
and always she waved to them a fond farewell. At length the shadows
fell on all the mountain-side, and only the snow-clad peak flashed
like a ruby in the last rays of the sun, and as they looked backward
for the last time they saw Psyche transformed in the golden light. Her
white dress shone like a rainbow, and her golden hair fell about her
shoulders like a stream of fire, and as she raised her arm to wave to
them she looked like no mortal maid, but a goddess in all her beauty,
so that the people hushed their voices and bowed their heads before
her. Soon the light faded, and they could see her no more. Sadly they
went their way, and all down the mountain-track and across the plain
below the torches shone out like pale twinkling stars in the darkness.

Psyche, meanwhile, left alone, pondered sadly on her fate, and
wondered what the night would bring. And as she sat and pondered, a
soft breeze played about her, filling her veil and robe, and gently
she felt herself lifted from the rock and borne through the air, till
she was laid down upon a grassy bank sweet with the scent of thyme and
violets. Here a deep sleep fell upon her, and she knew no more.


III

Day was dawning when Psyche awoke, and high up in the bright air the
larks were singing their morning hymn to the sun, and calling on bird
and beast and flower to awake and rejoice in the glad daylight. At
first she could remember nothing of what had happened, and wondered
where she was; then slowly all the sad ceremony of the day before came
back to her--the funeral procession up Mount Ida, the lonely rock on
which she had been left, and the soft west wind that had borne her
away. So she rose up from the green bank on which she had slept all
night, and looked round about her to see what manner of land she was
in.

She found herself standing on a hillock in the midst of a fertile
plain. Steep cliffs rose up on every side as though to guard the
peaceful valley, and keep out any evil thing that would enter in. To
the eastward only was there a break in the mountain-chain, and the
dale widened out towards the sea. As Psyche gazed, the golden disc of
the sun rose slowly from the water, and his bright rays lit up the
grey morning sky and scattered the silvery mist that hung about the
tree-tops. On either side of her was a wood, with a green glade
between sloping up towards a marble temple, which flashed like a jewel
in the rays of the rising sun. And Psyche was filled with wonder at
the sight, for it seemed too fair to be the work of human hands.

"Surely," she thought, "it must be the handiwork of the lame fire-god
Hephæstos, for he buildeth for the immortal gods, who sit on high
Olympus, and none can vie with him in craft and skill."

Then she looked about her to see if anyone were near. But all around
was quiet and still, with no signs of human habitation. Wondering the
more, she drew near to the temple, and went up the marble stairs that
led to the entrance. When she reached the top her shadow fell upon the
golden gate, and, as she stood doubting what to do, they slowly turned
on their hinges, and opened to her of their own accord, and she walked
through them into the temple. She found herself in a marble court
surrounded by pillars and porticoes which re-echoed the soft music of
a fountain in the midst. Through the open doors of the further
colonnade she caught a glimpse of cool dark rooms, with carvings of
cedar-wood and silver and silken hangings. And now the air was filled
with music and sweet voices calling her by name.

"Psyche, lady Psyche, all is thine. Enter in."

So she took courage and entered. All day long she wandered about the
enchanted palace discovering fresh wonders at every step. Even before
she knew it the mysterious voices seemed to guess every wish of her
heart. When she would rest they led her to a soft couch. When she was
hungry they placed a table before her spread with every dainty. They
led her to the bath, and clothed her in the softest silks, and all the
while the air was filled with songs and music.

All this time she had not said a word, for she feared she might drive
away the kindly voices that ministered to her. But at last she could
keep silence no longer.

"Am I a goddess," she asked, "or is this to be dead? Do those who pass
the gates of Death feel no change, nor suffer for what they have done,
but have only to wish for a thing to gain their heart's desire?"

The voices gave her never a word in answer, but led her to the chamber
where her couch was spread with embroidered coverlets. The walls all
round were covered with curious paintings, telling of the deeds of
gods and heroes--how golden Aphrodite loved Ares, the god of War, and
Apollo the nymph Daphne, whom he changed into a laurel-tree that never
fades. There was Ariadne, too, upon her island, whom the young god
Dionysus found and comforted in her sore distress; and Adonis, the
beautiful shepherd, the fairest of mortal men.

Psyche, tired out by all the wonders she had seen during the day, sank
down upon her couch, and was soon asleep. But sleep had not long
sealed her lids before she was awakened by a stir in the room. The
curtain over her head rustled as though someone were standing beside
her. She lay still, almost fainting with terror, scarcely daring to
breathe, when she heard a voice softly call her by name.

"Psyche, my own, my beloved, at last I have got thee, my dear one."

And two strong arms were round her and a kiss upon her lips. Then she
knew that at last the bridegroom she had waited for so long had come
to claim her, and in her happiness she cared not to know who he was,
but was content to feel his arms about her and hear her name upon his
lips. And so she fell asleep again. When she awoke in the morning her
first thought was to look on the face of the husband who had come in
the dark night, but nowhere could she find him. All the day she passed
in company of the mysterious voices who had ministered to her before;
but though their kindness and courtesy was never failing, she wandered
disconsolately about the empty halls, longing for the night-time, and
wondering whether her lover would come again. As soon as it was dark
she went again to her chamber, and there once more he came to her and
swore that she was his for evermore, and that nothing should part
them. But always he left her before it was light and came to her again
when night had fallen, so that she never saw his face nor knew what he
was like. Yet so well did she love and trust him that she never cared
to ask him his secret. So the days and nights sped swiftly by, for in
the daylight Psyche found plenty to amuse her in the enchanted palace
and garden, and she did not think of loneliness when every night she
could hold sweet converse with her beloved.

But one evening when he came to her he was troubled, and said,

"Psyche, my dear one, great danger threatens us, and I must needs ask
thee somewhat that shall grieve thy tender heart."

"Mine own lord," she said, "what can there be that I would not gladly
do for thee?"

"Well do I know, beloved, that thou wouldst give thy life for me. But
that which I ask will grieve thee sore, for thou must refuse the boon
thy sisters shall ask thee."

"My sisters! They know not where I am. How, then, can they ask me a
boon?"

"Even now they stand upon the lonely rock where thou wast left for me,
to see if they can find thee or learn aught of thy fate. And they will
call thee by name through the echoing rocks, but thou must answer them
never a word."

"What, my lord! wouldst thou have my sisters go home disconsolate,
thinking that I am dead? Nay, surely, thou wouldst not be so hard of
heart? But let me bid the soft west wind, that wafted me hither, bring
them too, that they may look upon my happiness and take back the
tidings to mine aged sire."

"Psyche, thou knowest not what thou askest. Foolish of heart are thy
sisters, and they love the trappings and outward show of woe, and with
their mourning they wring their father's aching heart till he can bear
it no more. So he hath sent them forth to see whether they can hear
aught of thy fate. And, full of their own hearts' shallow grief, they
seek thee on the mountain-side, thinking to find thy bones bleaching
in the rays of the sun. Were they to see thy happiness, their hearts
would be filled with envy and malice. They would speak evil of me, and
taunt thee on thine unknown lord, and bid thee look upon my face and
see lest I be some foul monster. And Psyche, mine own wife, the night
that thou seest my face shall be the night that shall part us for
evermore, and thy first look shall be thy last. Therefore answer them
not, I pray thee, but stay with me and be my bride."

And Psyche was troubled at these words, for she thought her husband
wronged her sisters. Nevertheless, unwilling to displease him, she
said,

"I will do thy will, my lord, even as thou sayest."

Yet all the day long she thought on her sisters wandering on the bleak
mountain-side, and how they would call for her by name, and at length
go sadly home to her father's house and bring no comfort. The more she
thought on it the sadder she became, and when her husband came to her,
her face was wet with tears. In vain he tried to comfort her. She only
sobbed the more.

"All my joy is turned to bitterness," she said, "when I think on the
grief that bows down my father's heart. If but for one day I could
bring my sisters here and show them my happiness, they would bear the
news to him, and in my joy he would be happy too. Let them but come
and look at this fair home of mine, and surely it will not harm me or
thee, my dear lord?"

"I have not the heart to refuse thee, Psyche," he said, "though it
goeth against me to grant this. I fear that evil will come. If they
ask thee of me, answer them not."

Psyche was overjoyed at his consent, and thanked him, and put her arms
about his neck and said,

"My dearest lord, all thou sayest I will do. For wert thou Eros, the
god of Love himself, I could not love thee more."


IV

The next day, when Psyche was left alone, she went out into the valley
to see whether she could hear her sisters calling her. And sure
enough, she had not gone far, when high up above her head, from the
top of the cliff, she heard her name, "Psyche, O Psyche! where art
thou?" At this she was overjoyed,

"O gentle Zephyr!" she called, "O fair west wind! waft, oh, waft my
sisters to me!"

Scarcely had she said the words than she saw her sisters gently borne
down from the cliff above and set upon the ground beside her. She fell
upon their necks and kissed them.

"Ah, my dear sisters," she cried, "how happy am I to see you! Welcome
to my new home. See, I am not tortured, as you thought. Nay, my life
is bliss, as you shall see for yourselves. Come, enter in with me."

And she took them by the hand and led them through the golden gates.
The ministering voices played soft music in the air, and a rich feast
was spread before them. All through the palace Psyche led them, and
showed them all her treasures, and brought out her choicest jewels,
and bade them choose out and keep as many as they wished.

All this time, though there was no corner of the palace that she kept
hidden from them, she spoke no word of her mysterious husband. At
length they could contain their curiosity no longer, and one made bold
to ask her,

"Psyche, thou livest not here alone, of a surety. Yet where is thy
lord? All thy treasures hast thou shown us, but him, the giver of
all, we have not seen. Who is he, then? Surely he, whom the winds and
bodiless voices obey, must be a god, and no mortal man. Tell us of
him, we pray thee."

And Psyche remembered her husband's warning.

"My lord," she said, "is a huntsman bold, and over hill and dale he
rides this day after the swift-footed stag. As fair as the dawn is he,
and the first down of youth is on his cheek. All through the hours of
sunlight he goeth forth to the chase, and at eventime he returneth to
me."

It was now close on night, and the shadows fell long across the cool
green lawns of the garden. Psyche bethought her that it was high time
for her sisters to go, before they could ply her with questions. So,
kissing them farewell, and sending many a loving message to the king
her father, she called on Zephyr to waft them away to the top of the
cliff.

Hitherto the surprise and wonder at all they had seen and heard had
filled the minds of the two sisters. But when they found themselves
once more alone upon the barren mountain-slopes, they had leisure to
think and compare their lot with that of their sister. Before they had
seen her golden halls they had been quite content with their own
palaces. But these now seemed humble beside the splendours they had
just left. Their shallow hearts were quite filled up with the image of
themselves, and they had no room left for their sister. But now her
good fortune forced the remembrance of her upon them, and they were
filled with an envy and jealousy of her which conquered even their
love for themselves. They could not be content to return once more to
their homes, and receive the homage of their husbands and their
households. Their one thought was how they might spoil her happiness.
For the hatred that is born of self-love is an all-consuming passion
that burns up every kind and noble thought, as a forest fire burns up
the tall trees that stand in the path of its fury.

"How cruel and unjust," cried one, "that she, the youngest, should be
blest so far above us both. My lord is a very beggar to him who giveth
Psyche her golden halls to dwell in."

"Yea, and mine is an old man by the side of this beardless youth.
Sister, thy grief and mine are one. Side by side let us work, and
verily her cunning shall be great if she can avail against us and keep
her ill-gotten wealth."

"Thou sayest well. 'Twas from pride that she welcomed us to her halls
to flaunt her riches before us. Sister, I am with thee. Quickly let us
plan some plot to unrobe this upstart maiden of her vaunted godhead."

Whereupon they agreed together to bring their father no word of
Psyche's happiness. They tore their robes and loosed their hair, as
though all this while they had been wandering over the rough mountain
rocks.

"Ah, sire," they cried, "how can we tell thee the evil tidings?
Nowhere can we find our sister, or any trace of her. Verily, the
oracle lieth not, and she is the bride of some fell monster."

Their cruel words smote their father to the heart, and quenched the
feeble spark of hope that still burned in his breast. And when all
hope leaves the heart of man, life leaves him, too. So the old king
died, and his blood was on the hands of his own children, and one day
they paid the penalty with their lives.

Meanwhile, Psyche lived on in the happy valley in blissful content.
Her husband would often warn her that her sisters were plotting her
ruin, but she would listen to nothing against them. At last one night
he said,

"Psyche, to-morrow thy sisters will seek thee once again. This time
they will not wait for Zephyr to bear them down, but, trusting
themselves to the barren air, they will hurl themselves from the
cliff, and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Leave them to their
fate. 'Twill be due penalty for their crime, and 'tis the only way
that we can be saved, beloved."

"My lord," cried Psyche, "thy cruelty would kill my love for thee,
were it not immortal. But, in very truth, all my joy would be slain
did I know that my sisters were killed when I could have saved them.
Oh, dearest husband, by the love that makes us one, I beseech thee,
send Zephyr once more to bear my sisters hither."

And she sobbed so pitifully and prayed so earnestly that once again he
had not the heart to refuse.

So about noontide the next day Psyche heard loud knocking and cries at
the door, and she hastened to open it herself to her sisters. Again
she kissed them, and bade them welcome, and they deceived her with
flattery and honeyed words, and when she was off her guard one said,

"Come, tell us, Psyche, thy husband's name. Among the immortal gods,
where doth he take his place, and why is he not here to greet us?"

"My husband," she replied, "is a rich merchant. Many a long year hath
it taken to build up all the fortune you behold, for already the hair
about his temples is touched with snow. And this day hath he gone a
long journey to a distant town in search of rich merchandise, and he
returneth not till the setting of the sun."

Then quickly she called on Zephyr to bear them away before they could
ply her with questions.

When her husband came that night he was more troubled than before, and
begged her to see them no more, but let them be dashed to death on the
rocks if they troubled her again. Her pure heart, however, would
believe no evil of them; and in this one thing she disobeyed her lord.


V

Meanwhile, the second visit of the sisters to Psyche in her beautiful
home had but served to add fuel to the fire of their envy. When they
remembered her confusion and the different tales she had told them
about her unknown lord, jealousy whispered in their ears that all her
happiness depended on the keeping of her secret, and that secret they
straightway determined to know.

"'Tis a strange lord, methinks," said one, "who in the waxing and
waning of a single moon doth change from a beardless boy to a grave
and reverend merchant whose hair is touched with snow."

"True, sister. And therein lieth the secret of her happiness. Her
lying tale but proves that she hath never seen her lord. And verily,
he who would hide his face from the queen of his heart must be some
child of the Immortals, whose love for an earth-born maid must be hid
from gods and men."

"Yea, and they who are loved of the Immortals are themselves immortal,
too, and their seed after them. Truly, sister, that Psyche should be a
goddess is more than I can bear."

"I feel with thee! It is not meet that the youngest should have all.
Let us invent some lying tale which shall make her look upon her lord,
and break the spell which binds him to her."

"What sayest thou to the words of the oracle that doomed her to wed a
monster? Let us go to her and say that now we know this to be true,
and beg her to flee from a fate so vile."

So once more they trusted themselves to Zephyr, for Psyche had
prevailed upon her lord to promise that, so long as her sisters should
do her no harm, Zephyr should always be waiting to carry them to and
fro from her.

Early the next day she was aroused from sleep by the sound of weeping
and lamentation at her door, and she hastened to meet her sisters,
fearing some ill news. And they fell upon her neck, crying,

"Alas, alas, for thine evil fate!"

"Mine evil fate, sisters? What mean ye? All is well with me."

"Ah, so thou thinkest in thine heart's innocence. Even so falleth the
dove a victim to the hawk that wheeleth above."

"What talk is this of doves and hawks? Come, my sisters, weep no more,
for in this pleasant vale even the winds of heaven breathe gently on
me, so good and great is my lord who commandeth them."

"Thy lord! Hast ever seen his face, child, that thou callest him good
and great?"

"Nay," she answered, blushing to think that they had guessed her
secret, "'tis true I have not seen his face, but what need to look
upon him when all around me breathes of his love for me?"

"Hast never heard tell of foul monsters that wed with the daughters of
men, and come to them only in the night season, when the darkness can
hide their deformity? They cast a spell about their victims, and by
their wiles and enchantments they make all things about them seem
fair. But one day, when they have had their fill, and tire of the maid
they have won, lo! at a word the pleasant palaces and gardens vanish
into air, and she is left all ashamed and deserted, and scorned by
gods and men. Ah, sister, be warned by those who wish thee well, and
flee from thy vile lot ere all is lost. Even yesterday, when we left
thee, we saw a monstrous shape that glided after us through the wood,
and we fled in terror, knowing it was thy lord, who would not have us
near thee. Come with us now, and be saved."

When Psyche heard their words she was very troubled. Truly, 'twas
strange that her lord should be loath for her to see her sisters,
unless, indeed, it was even as they said, and she was the prey of some
terrible beast. Yet his kind and loving words and his tender thought
for her welfare and all the beauty that surrounded her gave the lie to
such a thought.

"My dear sisters," she cried, "I thank you for your loving fears for
me, but it cannot be as you say. Though I have never looked upon my
lord, these fair halls and gardens do but mirror forth the beauty of
his soul, and I know that he is true."

"Then why doth he hide his face? At least, if thou wilt not flee with
us now, do but put him to the test when he comes this night. A glimpse
at his form will tell thee that our tale is true; and if by some
strange chance it be not so, what harm can one glance do?"

Thus they tempted her, and made her doubt her lord, though sore
against her will. So it often happens that the pure of heart are
tortured by the doubts which the wicked plant in their breasts. As
little does a young bird in the greenwood suspect the hunter's snare
as did Psyche in her loving innocence suspect the malicious envy of
her sisters.

But they were filled with joy at the success of their plot, and when
Zephyr had borne them to the top of the cliff they could contain their
gladness no longer, but fell upon each other's necks and kissed and
danced for glee.

But Psyche at their bidding made ready to look upon her lord that
night. Under a chair she placed a lighted lamp in readiness, and
shrouded it about, that the light might not shine into the room and
betray her purpose. Trembling she went to bed that night, for she
hated the deed she must do. At the usual hour her lord came and spoke
lovingly to her, and kissed her, but her words died away upon her
lips, and she shuddered at his embrace. In time he fell asleep, and
his breathing was gentle and even as that of a child sweetly dreaming
in its innocence of heart. Then she rose up silently in the dead of
night, and walking softly to the chair, she took the lamp from
beneath and turned on tiptoe to the bed. High above her head she held
the light, that the rays might fall more gently on him as he slept,
and with bated breath she drew near and looked on him. As she looked,
the blood rushed headlong through her veins, and her heart beat fast
within her, and her limbs seemed turned to water as she bent forward
to look more closely. For on the bed, wrapped in deep slumber, lay no
terrible monster, as she feared, but the youngest and fairest of the
Immortals--Eros, the great god of Love. The gleam of his golden locks
was as sunshine on the summer sea, and his limbs like the eddying
foam. From his shoulders sprang two mighty wings bright as the
rainbow, and by his side lay his quiver and darts. As he moved
restlessly in the light of the lamp she heard her name upon his lips.
With a low cry she fell on her knees beside him, and as she did so her
arm grazed the point of an arrow placed heedlessly in the sheath. The
poison ran like liquid fire through her veins, and set her heart
aflame, and with blazing cheeks she bent over and kissed him on the
lips. As she did so the lamp trembled in her hand, and a drop of the
burning oil fell upon his shoulder, and he started up and found her
bending over him.

"Ah, wretched, wretched Psyche!" he cried; "what hast thou done?
Couldst thou not trust me, who gave thee all the happiness thou hast
ever known?"

"My lord, my lord, forgive me! I would but prove to my sisters by mine
own eyes' witness that thou wert not the monster that they dreaded."

"Thrice foolish maid! Knowest thou not that doubt driveth away love?
Did I not tell thee that thy first look would be thy last? From a
terrible fate I saved thee when Aphrodite bade me strike thee with my
shaft and make thee love some terrible beast. When I went forth to do
her bidding thy grace and beauty conquered me, and I took thee away to
be my bride; and in time, hadst thou proved worthy, my mother and all
the great gods that rule above would have forgiven me, and shed on
thee the gift of immortality, to live with me for ever in the courts
of heaven. But now all is lost, and I must leave thee."

[Illustration: "On the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and
fairest of the Immortals."]

"Ah, my lord, great is my sin, but I love thee, and my soul is thine.
Over the whole wide world would I wander, or be slave to the meanest
of men, so be it I could find thee again. Ah, dearest lord! tell me
not that all hope is gone."

One moment he was silent, as though doubting her. Then he answered,

"One way there lieth before thee, if thy courage prove greater than
thy faith--one only way, by which thou canst reach me--the long rough
path of trial and sorrow. Heaven and earth shall turn against thee;
for men win not immortality for a sigh. Yet will I help thee all I
may. In thine own strength alone thou wouldst faint and die by the
way, but for every step thou takest I will give thee strength for two.
And now farewell! I can tell thee no more, neither linger beside thee.
Fare thee well, fare thee well."

As he vanished from her eyes Psyche fell senseless on the floor, and
for many a long hour she lay there, hearing and seeing nothing, as
though life itself had fled.


VI

Meanwhile the two sisters were waiting in a frenzy of impatience to
know whether success had crowned their evil plot. If the doubt they
had planted in Psyche's breast had borne fruit, and she had dared to
disobey her lord, they knew full well that all her happiness would
have vanished like a dream. Yet, fearing the anger of him whom the
winds of heaven obeyed, they dared not trust themselves to Zephyr, who
had carried them down before. So they wandered restlessly from room to
room, and peered from the windows, hoping that Psyche in her misery
would come to them and beg for succour in her evil plight. There was
nothing they would have loved better than to spurn her from their
doors and taunt her on the retribution which had fallen on her vanity.
But all day long they waited, and yet she came not, so that at length
they parted and went each one to her couch.

But the night was hot and sultry, and the eldest sister lay on her bed
and tossed restlessly from side to side, and could not sleep. At
length she went to the casement and drew aside the curtain and looked
out on the starry night, and when she had cooled her burning brow she
went back to her couch. Just as she was about to fall asleep she felt
a shadow pass between her and the light from the window, and she
opened her eyes, and her heart beat fast; for straight in the path of
the moonbeams stood Eros, the great god of Love, and his wings stood
out black against the starlit sky as he leant on his golden bow.
Though his face was dark in the shadow, his eyes seemed to pierce
through to her heart as she lay still and trembling with fear. But he
spoke softly to her with false, honeyed words.

"Lady, thy sister Psyche, whom I chose out from the daughters of men,
hath proved false and untrue, and lo! now I turn my love to thee. Come
thou in her stead and be mistress in my palace halls, and I will give
thee immortality. Lo! even now Zephyr awaits thee on the mountain-top
to bear thee away to my home."

So saying, he faded from her sight. Her wicked heart was filled with
joy when she heard of Psyche's fall, and she rose up in the dead of
night and put on her gayest robe and brightest gems. Without so much
as a look on the prince her husband she went out to the mountain-top.
There she stood alone, and called softly to Zephyr,

"O Zephyr, O Zephyr, O fair west wind, waft me, oh waft me away to my
love!"

Without waiting she threw herself boldly down. But the air gave way
beneath her, and with a terrible cry she fell faster and faster, down,
down, to the gulf below, and was dashed to pieces on the rocks; and
from the four quarters of heaven the vultures gathered and fed upon
her flesh.

As for the second sister, to her, too, the god appeared and spoke
false honeyed words, and she too went forth alone; and in the morning
her bones lay gleaming white beside her sister's on the rocks below.


VII

When Psyche awoke from her swoon, she looked around her in
bewilderment, for the scene which met her eyes was the same, and yet
so different. The forest-trees waved their arms gently in the breeze,
and whispered to each other in the glad morning light, and in the
hedges the birds sang sweet songs of joy; for the skies were blue, and
the grass was green, and summer was over the land. But Psyche sat up
with a dull grief in her heart, feeling over her the dim shadow of a
half-forgotten woe that meets those who awake from sleep. At first she
wondered where she was, for her clothes were wet with dew, and looking
round the still familiar scene, she saw the green glade in the forest,
but no shining palace at the top. Then like a flash she remembered the
night, and how by her doubt she had forfeited all her happiness, and
she lay on the ground and sobbed and prayed that she might die. But
soon tired out with weeping, she grew calmer, and remembered the words
of her lord--how she could find him again only after long wandering
and trial. Though her knees gave way beneath her, and her heart sank
at the thought of setting out alone into the cruel world, she
determined to begin her search forthwith. Through the dark forest she
went, and the sun hid his face behind the pine-tops, and great oaks
threw shadows across her path, in weird fantastic forms, like wild
arms thrust out to seize her as she passed. With hurrying steps and
beating heart she went on her way till she came out on the bleak
mountain-side, where the stones cut her tender feet and the brambles
tore her without mercy. But on and on she struggled along the stony
road, till the path grew soft beneath her, and sloped gently downwards
to the plain. Here through green fields and smiling pastures a river
wound slowly towards the sea, and beyond the further bank she saw the
smoke from the homesteads rise blue against the evening sky. She
quickened her steps, for already the shadows from the trees fell long
across the fields, and the grass turned to gold in the light of the
dying day. And still between her and shelter for the night lay many a
broad meadow and the silver stream to cross. As she drew nearer she
looked this way and that for a ford, but seeing none, she gathered
together her courage, and breathing a prayer to the gods, stepped into
the water. But she was weak and faint with fasting, and at every step
the water grew deeper and colder, and her strength more feeble, till
at length she was borne off her feet, and swept away by the hurrying
tide. In her agony she cried out,

"O god of Love, have mercy and save me ere I die, that I may come to
thee!"

Just as she was about to sink, she felt a strong arm seize her and
draw her up on the opposite shore. For a while she lay faint and
gasping for breath; but as her strength returned, she heard close
beside her soft notes of music, and she opened her eyes to see whence
the sweet sounds came. She found herself lying beneath a willow-tree,
against which leant a strange musician. For his head and shoulders and
arms were those of a man, but his legs and feet were thin and hoofed,
and he had horns and a tail like a goat. His ears were pointed, his
nose was wide and flat, and his hair fell unkempt and wild about his
face. Round his body he wore a leopard's skin, and he made sweet music
on a pipe of reeds. At first she was terrified at the sight of this
strange creature, but when he saw her look up at him, he stopped
playing, and smiled at her; and when he smiled he puckered his face in
a thousand wrinkles, and his eyes twinkled merrily through his wild
elf-locks, so that none could look on him and be sad. In spite of all
her woes Psyche fairly laughed aloud as he began to caper round her on
his spindle legs, playing a wild dance-tune the while. Faster and
faster he went, and up and down, and round and round, till, with a
last shrill note on his pipe and a mad caper in the air, he flung
himself on the grass beside her.

"Have I warmed the blood back to thy heart, fair maid?" he asked, "or
shall I dance again the mad dance that drives away cold and despair?"

"Nay, merry monster, even now my sides ache with laughter. But tell
me, who art thou, that savest damsels in distress, and drivest away
their sorrow with thy wild piping and dance?"

"I am the god of the forest and woodland and broad wide pasture lands.
To me the shepherd prays to give increase to his flocks, and the
huntsman for a good day's sport. In the evening, when the moon shines
high o'erhead, and the sky is bright with stars, I take my pipe and
play my lays in the dim dark forest glades. To the sound of my music
the brook murmurs sweetly, the leaves whisper softly o'erhead, the
nymphs and naiads forget their shyness, and the hamadryad slips out
from her tree. Then the eyes of the simple are opened, and on the
cool, green grass by the side of the silver stream the goatherd,
the neatherd and the young shepherd-lad dance hand-in-hand with the
nymphs, and the poet, looking forth from his window, cries, 'How sweet
are the pipes of Pan!'

[Illustration: Faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round
and round.]

"But when the dark storm-cloud rides over the sky, and the streams
rush swollen with rain, with fleet foot I hurry through woodland and
dell, and over the bleak mountain-tops; the crash of my hoofs on the
rocks sounds like thunder in the ears of men, and the shriek of my
pipe like the squall of the wild storm-wind. And I rush through the
midst of the battle when the trumpets are calling to arms; but above
the blare of the bugle men hear the shrill cry of my pipes. Then the
archer throws down his bow, and the arm of the spearman falls limp,
and their hearts grow faint with panic at the sound of the pipes of
Pan. Nay, turn not from me in terror, lady," he added, as Psyche made
as though she would flee, "for I wish thee no ill. 'Tis gods mightier
than I who have made me goat-footed, with the horns and the tail of a
beast. But my heart is kindly withal, or I would not have saved thee
from the stream."

Once more he smiled his genial smile, and puckered his face like the
ripples on a lake when a breeze passes over,

"Come, tell me who art thou, and how can I help thee?"

Then Psyche told her tale, and when she had finished Pan was silent
for a time, as though lost in thought. At length he looked up, and
said,

"Thou seekest the great god Eros? I would that I could help thee,
lady; but love once fled is hard to find again. Easier is it to win
the dead to life than to bring back love that doubt hath put to
flight. I cannot help thee, for I know not how thou canst find him,
or where thou must seek. But, if thou wilt journey further, and cross
many a long mile of pasture and woodland, thou wilt come to the rich
corn-lands and the shrine of Demeter, the great Earth Mother. She
knows the secret of the growing corn, and how the rich fruits ripen in
their season, and she will have pity on a maid like thee, because of
her child Persephone, whom Hades snatched away from her flowery
meadows and dragged below to be Queen of the Dead. Three months she
lives with him, the bride of Death, in the dark world of shades, and
all the earth mourns for her. The trees shed their leaves like tears
on her grave, and through their bare branches the wind sings a dirge.
But in the spring-time she returns to her mother, and the earth at her
coming puts on her gayest robe, and the birds sing their brightest to
welcome her back. At her kiss the almond-tree blushes into bloom, and
the brook babbles merrily over the stones, and the primrose and violet
and dancing daffodil spring up wherever her feet have touched. Go,
then, to Demeter's shrine; for if thy love is to be sought on earth,
she will tell thee where to go; but if to find him thou must cross the
dark river of death, her child Persephone will receive thee."

He then pointed out to her the path to the village, where she could
get shelter for the night, and Psyche, thanking him, went on her way,
gladdened at heart by the genial smile of the wild woodland god.

That night she slept in a shepherd's cottage, and in the morning the
children went out with her to point out the road she must go. The
shepherd's wife, standing at the door, waved to her with her eyes full
of tears. She had maidens of her own, and she pitied the delicate
wanderer, for Psyche's beautiful face had shed a light in the rude
shepherd's hut which the inmates would never forget.


VIII

So Psyche went on her journey, often weak and fainting for food, and
rough men laughed at her torn clothes and bleeding feet. But she did
not heed their jeers and insults, and often those who had laughed the
loudest when she was a little way off, were the first to hush their
rude companions when they saw her near. For her face was fairer than
the dawn and purer than the evening star, so that the wicked man
turned away from his sin when he saw it, and the heart of the watcher
was comforted as he sat by the sick man's bed.

At length, as Pan had told her, she came to the rich corn-lands where
Demeter has her shrine. Already the valleys were standing thick with
corn, for it was close on harvest-time, and on the hill-sides the
purple grapes hung in heavy clusters beneath the tall elm-branches. As
she drew near the temple, a band of harvesters came out. They had just
placed the first-fruits of the corn in the shrine, and now they were
trooping to the fields, a merry throng of young men and maidens.
Psyche stood back shyly as they passed, but they heeded her not, or at
most cast a curious glance at her ragged clothes and bruised feet.
When they had passed her, and she had heard their merry laughter and
chatter die away down the lane, she ventured to enter the temple.
Within all was dark and peaceful. Before the altar lay sheaves of
corn and rich purple clusters of grapes, whilst the floor was strewn
with the seeds and bruised fruits which the harvesters had let fall
when they carried in their offerings. Hidden in a dark corner Psyche
found the temple-sweeper's broom, and, taking it, she swept up the
floor of the temple. Then, turning to the altar steps, she stretched
forth her hands and prayed,

"O Demeter, great Earth Mother, giver of the golden harvest--O thou
who swellest the green corn in the ear, and fillest the purple vine
with gladdening juice, have mercy on one who has sinned. For the sake
of thy child, Persephone, the Maiden, have pity on me, and tell me
where in the wide world I can find Eros, my lord, or whether to the
dark land I must go to search for him."

So she prayed, and waited for an answer; but all was still and dark in
the temple, and at length she turned sorrowfully away, and leant her
head against a pillar and wept. And, because she had walked many a
long mile that day, and had not eaten since dawn, she sank down
exhausted on the ground, and gradually her sobs grew fewer and
fainter, and she fell asleep.

As she slept she dreamt the temple was dark no more, but into every
corner shone a soft clear light, and looking round to see whence it
came, she saw, on the altar steps, the form of a woman, but taller and
grander than any woman of earth. Her robe of brown gold fell in
stately folds to her feet, and on her head was a wreath of scarlet
poppies. Her hair lay in thick plaits on her bosom, like ripe corn in
the harvest, and she leant on a large two-handed scythe. With great
mild eyes she looked at Psyche as one who has known grief and the
loss of loved ones, and can read the sorrows of men's hearts.

"Psyche," she said, "I have heard thy prayer, and I know thy grief,
for I, too, have wandered over the earth to find the child of my love.
And thou must likewise wander and bear to the full the burden of thy
sin; for so the gods have willed it. This much can I tell thee, and no
more. Thou must go yet further from the land of thy birth, and cross
many a rough mountain and foaming torrent, and never let thy heart
grow faint till thou come to a temple of Hera, the wife of Zeus the
All-seeing. And if she find thee worthy, she will tell thee how thou
must seek thy love."

So saying, she faded from her sight, and Psyche awoke and found the
temple cold and dark. But in her heart she cherished the image of the
great Earth Mother, with her large eyes full of pity, and set out
comforted on her journey.

Too long would it be to tell of all her wanderings and all the
hardships of the road, but many a moon had waxed and waned before she
stood on the brow of a hill looking down on Hera's shining temple.
Down the hill she went, and up the marble steps, and men stood aside
as she passed, for her face was fairer than before, and she no longer
shrank back like a hunted thing, but walked with the swinging gait of
those whose feet the kind earth has hardened, and the breezes of
heaven have fanned the fire in their eyes. In her heart she knew that
she had conquered and borne the terrors of the path with no coward's
fears, and she prayed that Hera might find her worthy of doing great
deeds to win back her lord. Then she stood before the altar, and made
her prayer,

"O Hera, golden-throned, who sittest on the right hand of Zeus--O thou
who, when the marriage-torch is lit, doth lead the bride and
bridegroom to their home, and pourest blessings on their wedded love,
have mercy on me, and show me where I may find my lord. Far have I
wandered, and drunk deep of sorrow's cup, but my heart is strong for
any task that shall win back my love to me."

Thus she prayed, and bowed her head before the great white statue of
the goddess. Even as she spoke, the statue seemed to change and rise
from the ivory throne in the shape of a woman tall and exceeding fair.
Her robes were like the clouds at sunset, and her veil like the
mountain mist; on her head she wore a crown of gold, and the lightning
played about her feet as she gazed at Psyche with eyes that pierced
through to her soul.

"Psyche," she said, "I have heard thy prayer, and I know that thou art
true. For I am the wife of Zeus, who seeth all things, and he hideth
naught from me. Well I know that thou hast wandered far, and suffered
at the hands of men. But greater trials await thee yet, before thou
canst find thy lord. Thou must be slave to foam-born Aphrodite, the
pitiless goddess of Love. And she will try thee sorely, and put thee
to many a hard test ere she will forgive thee and think thee worthy of
her son Eros, or of the godhead men gave thee long ago. But if thou
overcomest her wrath, thou hast overcome death itself, and naught can
part thee from thy lord again. Go, then, to where she holds her court
in a pleasant valley by the sea, and forget not that the gods bless
tenfold those who waste not the power that is given them, how feeble
soe'er it be."

So saying, she faded slowly away till Psyche found herself standing
once more before the pale white statue. Then she turned and went
through the silent temple, and out into the sunlight, and asked for
the road which would lead her to the sea and Aphrodite's pleasant
vale.


IX

For many a long day she journeyed, till at length she saw the blue sea
far away and a pleasant valley sloping to the shore. Here the waves
broke in laughing ripples on the beach, and the leaves danced gaily on
the trees in the soft west wind; for Aphrodite, born of the foam, the
fairest of all the goddesses, held her court there, surrounded by her
nymphs and maidens. As she sat on her golden throne they danced around
her with their white arms gleaming, and crowned her with roses,
singing the while the song of her beauty.

"O foam-born Aphrodite, Queen of Love, fairest of Time's deathless
daughters. Thee the golden-snooded Hours kiss as they pass and the
circling Seasons crown with grace. Before thee all was fire and chaos,
but at thy coming like sped to like. The earth decked herself with
flowers, and the nightingale sang to her mate on the bough, and in the
pale moonbeams youth and maiden sped hand in hand through the glade.
Thy smile is like sunshine on ripples, but the flash of thine eyes
like the death-bearing gleam of the lightning; for not always art thou
kind. The heart of the scorner thou breakest, and art jealous for thy
rites. Wherefore north and south and east and west men worship thee,
both now and evermore, O goddess of ten thousand names!"

As Psyche drew near the nymphs espied her. With loud cries they rushed
forward, and flinging chains of roses about her, dragged her forward
before the throne.

"A prisoner, a prisoner!" they cried--"a mortal, O queen, who has
dared to enter thy sacred vale! What fate shall be hers?"

And Psyche knelt trembling before the throne. She dared not look up,
for she felt the eyes of the goddess upon her, and the blaze of her
anger burned through to her heart.

"Psyche, what doest thou here? Knowest thou not that long ago I loved
thee not, because thy beauty taught men to forget my dues, and mine
own son didst thou lead to disobey my word? By thy folly hast thou
lost him; and glad am I that he is rid of thy toils. Think not that
thy tears will move me. Those who enter my sacred vale become the
lowest of my slaves, and woe to them if they fail to do the task I set
them. Verily, thine shall be no light one, or I am not the Queen of
Love and Beauty."

"O lady," answered Psyche, "'twas to be thy slave and to do thy will
that I came to thy sacred vale, if haply I might turn thy wrath to
love and prove myself not all unworthy of thy son. Great was my sin, O
goddess, when I doubted him; but many are the tears I have shed, and
weary the way I have wandered in search of him--yea, even to the dark
underworld would I go, if so be it I could find him there. As for the
worship that men paid me, Zeus, who searcheth all hearts, knoweth
that I lifted not mine in pride above thee. Nay, doth not every gift
of beauty come from thee, O mighty one? If my face hath any fairness,
'tis that it shadoweth forth thine image. Weak are the hearts of men,
lady, and hard is it for them to look on the sun in his might. Be not
angry, then, if through the mortal image that perisheth, they stretch
forth blind hands towards the beauty that fadeth not away. And now on
my knees I beg thee, O queen, to set me thy hardest tasks, that I may
prove my love or die for mine unworthiness."

As Psyche was speaking the face of the goddess softened, and she
answered her more gently.

"Thy words please me, maiden, for the gods love those who shrink not
back from trial. Three tasks will I set thee, and if in these thou
fail not, one harder than all the others will I give thee, whereby
thou shalt win thy love and immortality. Go, maidens, and lead her to
my garner, that she may sort the golden grain ere the sun's first rays
gild the pine-tops."


X

At the command of the goddess the nymphs gathered round Psyche, and,
binding her hands with chains of roses, led her away to the garner.
Here they set her free, and with peals of merry laughter bade her
farewell.

"Pray to the hundred-handed one, maiden, to help thee," cried one;
"thy two hands will not go far."

"Nay, an hundred hundred hands could not sort the grain by sunrise,"
said another.

"Better to work with two hands," said Psyche, "than idly to pray for
ten thousand."

But for all her brave answer her heart sank as she looked at the task
before her; for she stood in the largest garner it had ever been her
lot to see--wide and lofty as her father's palace-halls, and all the
floor was strewn with seeds and grain of every kind--wheat, oats and
barley, millet, beans and maize, which she must sort each after its
kind into a separate heap before the sun should rise. However, she set
diligently to work, and minute after minute, hour after hour passed
swiftly by, and the heaps kept growing by her side; yet for all her
toil 'twas but a tiny corner of the garner she had cleared. Feverishly
she worked on, not daring to look at what remained to do. Her back
ached, her arms grew stiff, and her eyes felt heavy as lead, but she
worked as one in a dream, and her head kept falling on her breast for
weariness, till at length she could hold out no longer, but fell fast
asleep upon the cold stone floor.

While she slept a marvellous thing happened. From every hole and crack
there appeared an army of ants--black ants, white ants, red
ants--swarming and tumbling over each other in their haste. Over the
whole floor of the garner they spread, and each one carried a grain of
seed, which it placed upon its own heap and ran quickly back for
another. Such myriads were there, and so quickly did they work, that
by the time the first ray of the sun peeped in at the windows the
floor was clear, save for the heaps of sorted grain standing piled up
in the midst. The bright light pouring in at the window fell upon
Psyche as she slept, and with a start she awoke and began feverishly
to feel about for the grain. When her eyes became accustomed to the
light, how great was her joy and thankfulness to see the neat heaps
before her! And as she looked round, wondering who could have been so
kind a friend, she saw the last stragglers of the ants hurrying away
to every crack and cranny.

"O kind little people," she cried, "how can I thank you?"

She had no time to say more, for the door was thrown open, and in a
golden flood of sunlight the nymphs came dancing in. Seeing the floor
cleared and the bright heaps lying on the floor, they stopped short in
amazement.

"Verily thou hast wrought to some purpose, maiden," said one.

"Nay, she could never have done it of herself," said another.

"True, O bright-haired ones!" answered Psyche. "I toiled and toiled,
and my labour did but mock me, and at length my strength gave way and
I fell asleep upon the floor. But the little folk had pity on me, and
came out in myriads and sorted out the grain till all was finished.
And lo! the task is accomplished."

"We will see what our queen shall say to this," they answered.

And binding her once more in their rosy chains, they led her to
Aphrodite.

"Hast thou swept my garner, Psyche, and sorted the grain each after
its kind?" she asked.

"Thy garner is swept and thy grain is sorted, lady," she replied, "and
therein I wrought the little my feeble strength could bear. When I
failed the little folk came forth and did the task."

Trembling, she waited for the answer, for she feared that in the very
first trial she had failed. But Aphrodite answered,

"Why dost thou tremble, Psyche? The task is accomplished, and that is
all I ask; for well do I know the little folk help only those who help
themselves. Two more tasks must thou do before I put thee to the final
proof. Seest thou yon shining river? On the other bank graze my flocks
and herds. Precious are they beyond all telling, for their skins are
of pure gold. Go, now, and fetch me one golden lock by sunset."

So saying, she signed to the nymphs to release Psyche, who went at
once towards the stream, light-hearted; for this task, she thought,
would be no hard one after the last.

As she approached the river she saw the cattle feeding on the further
bank--sheep and oxen, cows and goats--their golden skins gleaming in
the sunlight. Looking about for some means of crossing, she espied a
small boat moored among the reeds. Entering it, she unloosed the rope
and pushed out into the stream. As she did so, one of the bulls on the
further shore looked up from his grazing and saw her. With a snort of
rage he galloped down the field, followed by the rest of the herd.
Right down to the water's edge they came, lashing their tails and
goading with their horns, and an ill landing would it have been for
Psyche had she reached the shore. Hastily she pushed back among the
reeds, and pondered what she must do; but the more she thought the
darker grew her lot. To get one single hair from the golden herd she
must cross the stream, and, if she crossed, the wild bulls would goad
her to death. At length in despair she determined to meet her doom, if
only to show that her love was stronger than death. As she bent over
the boat to loose the rope, a light breeze set the reeds a-whispering,
and one seemed to speak to her.

[Illustration: She unloosed the rope and pushed out into the stream.]

"Fair lady, leave us not, for those who reach the further shore return
not to us again."

"Farewell, then, for ever, gentle reed, for I have a task to do,
though I die in the vain attempt."

"Ah, lady, stay here and play with us. Too young and fair art thou to
die."

"No coward is young or fair, kind reed. And before sunset I must win a
lock from a golden fleece yonder, or I shall never find my love
again."

And she let loose the rope.

"Stay, stay, gentle maiden. There I can help thee, for all my life
have I watched the golden herds, and I know their ways. All day long
they feed in the pleasant pasture, and woe to those who would cross
over when the sun is high in heaven. But towards evening, when he is
sinking in the far west, the herdsman of Aphrodite cometh and driveth
them home to their stalls for the night. Then mayest thou cross with
safety and win a lock from the golden herd."

But Psyche laughed aloud at his words.

"Thou biddest me steal the apples when the tree is bare. Thy heart is
kind, O reed, but thy tongue lacketh wisdom. Fare thee well."

"Not so fast, lady. Seest thou not the tall ram yonder by the
thorn-bush? Sweet grows the grass beneath its shade, yet to reach it
he must leave a golden tribute on the thorns. Even now there is a lock
of his fleece caught in the branches. Stay with us till the herds are
gone, lady, and then canst thou win the lock of gold."

"O kindest of reeds, forgive my blindness. 'Tis more than my life thou
hast saved, for, with the task undone, I should lose my love for
ever."

So all day long she stayed and talked with the reeds; and they told
her that often folk came down to the stream and pushed out for the
other bank. But when the cattle rushed raging to the water's edge they
turned back afraid, and dared not venture forth again, but went home
disconsolate. And so they heard not the whispering of the reeds nor
learnt the secret of winning the golden lock.

Now the shadows were falling fast, and away in the distance Psyche
heard the horn of the herdsman and his voice calling the cattle home.
At the sound they lifted their heads, and made for the gate on the far
side of the field. As soon as they were safely through, Psyche pushed
out the boat and rowed to the other bank. Swiftly she made for the
thorn-bush and picked the golden lock from the bough, and as the boat
glided back to the reeds, the sun sank low behind the hills. Close at
hand she heard the laughter of the nymphs as they came to see whether
the task were done. With a smile she drew the lock of gold from her
bosom, and, marvelling, they led her back to Aphrodite.

"Thou hast a brave heart, Psyche," said the goddess, as she looked at
the golden lock at her feet.

"The bravest heart could not have won this lock, lady, without knowing
the secret which the reeds whispered to me."

"Well do I know that, Psyche. But 'tis only the pure in heart that can
understand the voice of the wind in the reeds; and thus doubly have I
tried thee. Take now this crystal bowl for thy third task. Beyond this
pleasant vale thou wilt come to a dark and barren plain. On the far
side a mighty mountain rears his peak to heaven, and from the summit a
spring gushes forth and falls headlong over the precipice down into
the gulf below. Go now and get me a draught of that stream, but see
that thou break not the goblet on the way, for its worth is beyond all
telling."

In truth, as she held it out, the crystal gleamed brighter than the
rainbow. Psyche took the goblet, and the first rays of the sun found
her already on the plain. Far away on the other side the mountain-peak
rose barren and black against the sky, and she hurried on as fast as
her feet would go, lest night should fall ere she had filled the
goblet. On and on she went, and at length she drew near to the
mountain and looked about for a path leading up to the summit. But
naught could she see save rocks and boulders and masses of crumbling
stones, and there was nothing for it but to set to work to climb the
rough mountain-side. Clasping the goblet tightly in one hand, she
clung to the rocks as best she might with the other, fearing at every
step that she would slip and break her precious burden. How she ever
reached the top she never knew, but at length she stood, bruised and
torn, upon the summit. What was her dismay when she saw that the
mountain-peak was divided by a mighty cleft, and across the abyss she
saw the stream of water gushing out from the steep rock a hundred feet
and more below the summit! Even had she toiled down again and up on
the other side the rock fell away so smooth and sheer that a
mountain-goat would have no ledge on which to rest his foot.

Psyche sat down upon a rock to think what she must do, and the more
she thought the more she felt that her last hour had come.

"For the only way I can reach the water is to throw myself into the
bottomless abyss, where the stream flows deep down into the bowels of
the earth; and I should be dashed to pieces, but perchance the King of
the Underworld would have mercy on me, and let my soul return but once
on earth to bear the crystal bowl to Aphrodite."

So saying, she stood and bade farewell to the earth and the pleasant
sunlight and the fair flowers that she loved, and prepared to throw
herself over the mountain-side. As she was about to spring from the
edge, she heard the whirring of wings above her head, and a mighty
eagle flew down and settled on the rock beside her.

"Far up above thy head, in the blue sky, have I watched thee, Psyche,
and seen thy labours on the mountain-side. Too brave and true art thou
to go to thy death. Give me the goblet, and I will fill it. Knowest
thou that yonder stream is a jet which springeth up from dark Cocytus,
the River of Wailing, which watereth the shores of the dead? No mortal
can touch of that water and live, or bear it away in a vessel of
earth. But this goblet is the gift of Zeus almighty, and I am his
messenger--the only bird of heaven that can look on the sun in his
might. Give me the cup, then, and I will fill it, and bear it to the
mountain-foot, that thou mayest carry it back in safety."

With tears of joy and thankfulness Psyche gave him the goblet, and as
he flew away across the dark chasm, swift as an arrow from the bow,
she turned and sped down the mountain-side, heeding not the stones and
boulders, so glad was she at heart. At the foot she found the eagle
awaiting her.

"O mightiest of birds, how can I thank thee?" she cried.

"To have served thee, lady, is all the thanks I need. Farewell, and
may the gods prosper thee in thy last great trial."

And he spread his mighty wings and flew away. Psyche watched him till
he grew but a tiny speck in the blue of the sky. Then she turned and
hastened across the plain with her precious goblet of water.

The nymphs danced put to meet her as before, and led her to Aphrodite.

"I see thou art fearless and true, maiden," she said, when Psyche had
told her tale. "Twice hast thou faced death without flinching, and now
must thou go down to his own land; for no woman is worthy of my son's
love, if she possess not beauty immortal that fadeth not with passing
years. And she alone, the Queen of the Dead, can give thee this gift.
Take this casket, then, and go and kneel before her and beg her to
give thee therein the essence of that beauty. When thou hast it, see
thou hasten swiftly back and open not the casket; for if its fumes
escape and overcome thee in the world below, thou must dwell for ever
with the shades."

So Psyche took the casket, and her heart sank within her at the
thought of that dread journey. And the nymphs waved sadly to her as
she went away, for never yet had they looked on one who had returned
from the dark land of shadows.


XI

Away from the pleasant vale went Psyche, for she knew full well that
nowhere in that fair place could she find a way down to the world
below. As a child, when she had lived in her father's halls, her nurse
had told her strange tales of dark and fearsome caves which men called
the mouth of Hades, and how those who went down them never returned;
or if one perchance, more favoured than the rest, came back into the
sunlight, his face was pale and his strength departed, and he talked
wildly of strange things that none could understand.

Far over the country-side she wandered and asked for the gate of
Hades, and some pitied her weakness, and some laughed at her
foolishness, and all men thought her mad.

"For beggar and king, for wise and foolish, the road to Hades is one,"
they said, "and all must travel it soon or late. If thou seekest it,
in very sooth, go throw thyself from off yon lofty tower, and thou
wilt find it fast enough."

Sadly she went and stood on the tower, for she saw no other way. Once
again she bid farewell to the earth and the sunlight, and was about to
leap from a pinnacle, when she thought she heard a voice calling her
by name, and she hushed her breath and listened.

"Psyche, Psyche," she heard, "why wilt thou pollute my stones with
blood? I have done thee no wrong, yet thou wouldst make men hate me
and shun the rock on which I stand. As for thee, it would avail thee
nought, for thy soul would dwell for ever in the Kingdom of the Dead,
and the shadow of thyself, faint and formless, would glide about my
walls, and with thin-voiced wailing weep for thy lost love; men,
hearing it, would flee from me, and for lack of the builder's care, my
stones would fall asunder, and of all my proud beauty naught would be
left, save a mound of moss-grown stones and thy spirit's mournful
guardianship."

Then Psyche knelt and kissed the stones.

"Poor tower," she said, "I would not harm thee. Thou canst tell me,
perchance, some better way, for I must bear this casket to the Queen
of the Dead, and beg for a gift of beauty immortal, that I may return
to the earth worthy of my lord."

"Hadst thou thrown thyself over the edge, thou wouldst never have come
to the Queen of the Dead, but wailing and forlorn wouldst have
wandered on the shores of the Land that has no name; for betwixt that
land and Hades flows the wide Stygian stream. One boat there is that
can cross it, and therein sits Charon, the ferryman of souls. Greedy
of gain is he and hard of heart, and none will he take across who bear
not a coin of gold in their mouths. And the pale ghosts of those who
have died away from their loved ones, when none were by to pay the
last rites of the dead and place the gold coin in their mouths--all
these flock wailing around him and beg him with heart-rending cries to
take them over the stream. But to all their entreaties he turneth a
deaf ear and beateth them back with his oar. E'en hadst thou prevailed
on him and come to the palace of pale Persephone, thou couldst not
have entered in; for at the gates sits Cerberus, the three-headed
hound of Hell, and none may pass him without a cake of barley-bread.
But his soul loveth the taste of earth-grown corn, and while he
devours it the giver may pass by unscathed."

"The coin of gold and the barley-cake I can get," she said, "but how I
can reach the Underworld alive I know not."

"Not far from hence thou wilt find the cave men call the Gate of
Hades. In ignorance they name it, for no man hath proved where it
leads. All the long years I have stood upon this rock have I watched
the entrance to that cave, and men have come up and looked inside, and
the boldest have entered in; but always have they come swiftly back,
staggering like drunken men, with pale faces and wild eyes full of
fear, and about them hangs the smell of the noisome vapours that rise
up from the gates of the dead; and the old wives sitting by the
fireside nod their grey heads together. 'Tis the tale that our mothers
told us long ago and their mothers before them,' they mutter. 'Tis
surely the Gate of Hades, and those who venture too far will never
come back again.' They have guessed aright, maiden, and down that dark
cavern lies thy path."

"But if those who venture too far never return, how shall I bear back
the essence of undying beauty in the casket?"

"Instead of one gold piece, take two, and two loaves of fresh-baked
barley-bread. One gold coin to the ferryman and one loaf to the hound
must thou give as thou goest, and keep the rest for thy return, and
from greed they will let thee pass back again. Tie the casket in thy
bosom, and put the gold coins in thy mouth, and take the barley-loaves
one in each hand. See that thou set them not down, or the pale ghosts
will snatch them away; for the taste of the earth-grown meal giveth a
semblance of warmth to their cold forms, and for a brief space they
feel once more the glow of life. So by many a wile will they seek to
make thee set down the bread; but do thou answer them never a word,
for he who toucheth or answereth one of these becometh even as they
are."

Psyche thanked him for his counsel, and went forth to beg the two gold
coins and barley-loaves, and for love of her fair face the people gave
it gladly. When all was ready, she set out towards the cave. About its
mouth the brambles grew tall and thick, and the ivy hung down in long
festoons, for none had ventured in for many a long year. As best she
might, she cut a way through the prickly hedge, and stood in the
shadow of the cave, and the drip of the water from the roof sent a
faint echo through the vaults. Through the dark pools she went,
through mud and through mire, and the green slime hung like a dank
pall about the walls. On and on she hastened, till her head swam round
and her heart turned sick within her; for round her floated a mist of
poisonous vapour, which choked her and made her gasp for breath, and
monstrous shapes swept past--the Furies and Harpies and hundred-headed
beasts which guard the gate to Hades. Their cries and shrieks filled
the air, and every moment she shrank back, terrified that they would
tear her limb from limb, as they bore down on her with the whirr of
their mighty wings and their wild locks flying in the wind. Across the
path they stood and waved her back, and her heart turned cold with
fear; but she pressed onward with hurrying steps, and lo! when she
came up to them the shapes clove asunder like mist before the sun, and
she passed through them, and found they were but smoke.

And so she came to the nameless land that lies betwixt earth and
Hades; a barren, boundless plain it is, with never a tree or shrub to
break the dulness of its sad mud flats. Up and down it wander the
shades of those whose bodies the kind earth has never covered, and
they wring their hands and wail to their dear ones above, to grant
them burial and the rites of the dead. For Charon, the grim ferryman,
beats them back from his boat, because they have no coin, and they are
doomed to dwell for ever in the land that has no name.

As she was crossing the dismal plain, an old man came towards her
beating a laden ass. Old and weak was he, and could scarce stagger
along by the side of the beast, and as he came up to Psyche the cords
broke that bound the burden on the ass's back, and the faggots he
carried were scattered all about. And he set up a dismal wailing, and
wrung his pale withered hands.

"Gracious damsel, have mercy on an old man, and help me load my ass
once more."

But Psyche remembered the words of the tower, and she clung the
tighter to the loaves of bread, though she longed to help the feeble
shade.

[Illustration: "Help, help! I drown in this foul stream!"]

Onward she went till she came to the banks of the Styx, the mighty
river of Hell, by which the great gods swear. Nine times it winds its
snaky coils about the shores of Hades, and across its leaden waters
Charon, the boatman of the dead, ferries backward and forward for
ever. When he saw Psyche, he hailed her, and asked her for the coin.
Answering him never a word, she held out one coin with her lips, and
as he took it she shuddered. For his breath was as the north wind
blowing across the snow, and his eyes were like a fish's, cold and
dull.

"Welcome, sweet maiden. 'Tis not often we get a fare like thee, my
boat and I;" and he laughed a hard, thin laugh, like the cracking of
ice in a thaw, and beneath her weight the boat creaked in chorus.

Out into the stream he pushed with his pole, and then set to with his
oar, and the rise and fall of the blade made never a sound in those
dull leaden waters. As they neared the middle of the stream, Psyche
saw two pale arms rise up above the waves, and the head of an old man,
who cried out to her piteously,

"Help, help! I drown in this foul stream! Ah, for pity's sake put out
one finger to save me!"

And Psyche turned aside to hide her tears; for the face was the face
of her father, and his cries pierced through to her heart. As the boat
passed by he sank with a moan beneath the waves, and she saw him no
more.

At length they reached the shore of Hades, and she saw three paths
before her leading upwards from the landing-stage. As she stood, not
knowing which to take, the old man beckoned to her.

"I know not whither thou art bound, lady, for thou bearest not on
thee the mark of the dead. The souls of the wicked I know, for about
them fly the Furies, the avengers of sin, and hound them down the
left-hand path, through Periphlegethon, the river of fire--down, down
to the utmost depths of Tartarus. And the souls of the brave shine
forth like stars in the darkness, and they take the right-hand path to
the Elysian fields of light, where the breeze blows bright and fresh
and the golden flowers are glowing. The middle path leadeth to the
palace of pale Persephone, but that way only the gods and the children
of the gods may go, or those who bear with them some token from the
Immortals."

Then Psyche showed him Aphrodite's casket, and turned up the middle
path. Through a dark wood she went, and came out upon a plain. Here
she saw three aged women weaving at a loom, and they cried out to her
in weak, quavering voices,

"Oh, maiden, thine eyes are young and thy fingers supple. Come help us
unravel the thread."

But for the third time she turned aside, and went quickly on her way,
and when she looked back over her shoulder the loom and the hags had
vanished away.

So at length she came to the palace of Persephone. The roof and
columns were all of pure silver, which shone with a pale light through
the murk and gloom, like the shimmer of pale moonbeams on a cloudy
night. Above the heads of the pillars ran a frieze of strange device.
It told of Night and Chaos, and of the birth of Time, and how the sons
of Earth rose up against the gods in deadly battle, and were hurled
into the depths of Tartarus by the thunderbolts of Zeus. And it
showed how Prometheus the Titan gave fire to mortal men, so that they
learnt all manner of crafts, and became the masters of all living
things, and like the gods for wisdom. But they ruled by the law of the
strongest, and said that might was right, and begat the foul forms of
Pestilence and War and red-handed Murder. The other side told of the
things that would come to pass when Time and Death should be no more,
and Love should rule the universe. On that side all the forms were
fair and all the faces beautiful, and the breeze played through
pleasant places where the flowers never fade. In the centre of the
pediment, with mighty wings overshadowing either side, stood a mighty
figure, Anangke, great Necessity, the mother of gods and men. From the
one side she looked dark and terrible, and the world trembled at her
frown, but from the other she was fairer than the day, and by
unchanging law she drew all things after her till they should be
perfected.

On the palace steps before the doorway sat Cerberus, the three-headed
watch-dog. When he saw Psyche approaching he began to growl, and his
growl was like the rattle of thunder far away. As she drew nearer he
barked furiously and snarled at her, baring his white gleaming fangs.
Quickly she threw him one of the barley loaves, and while he was
devouring it, she slipped gently past, and stood within the courtyard
of the palace. All was silent and deserted, and her footsteps, as they
fell on the marble pavement, sent no echo through the colonnades; for
it seemed that even sound must die in that lifeless air. She passed
through great doors of bronze into a lofty hall. In the shadowy
depths of it she saw a great throne raised, and on it sat the Queen of
the Dead. About her stood two handmaids, and their names were Memory
and Sleep. One fanned her with great poppy-leaves, and as she did so
the eyes of the queen grew heavy and dim, and she sat as one in a
trance. But when this one grew weary of fanning, anon the other would
hold up before her a great mirror of polished steel, and when she
looked into it the colour would rush into her pale cheeks, and her
eyes would glow like coals of fire, for in the flash of the steel she
saw earth's flowery meadows, and remembered that for three months only
did she live in the gloom and the shade; and she knew, moreover, that
one day the circling seasons would stay their course, and decay and
death would pass away, and when that time came she would return no
more to the murk and gloom, but dwell for ever in the sunshine and the
flowers. A magic mirror is that which Memory holds, and few are there
who can bear to look on its brightness, but those whose eyes are
strong gaze into its depths, and learn that knowledge and remembrance
are one.

With timid steps did Psyche cross the hall, and knelt upon the steps
of the throne.

"Child of Earth, what dost thou here?" asked the queen. "This is no
place for living souls."

"O mighty one, 'tis a boon I beg of thee," said Psyche, and drew from
her bosom Aphrodite's casket. "Give me, I pray thee, the gift of
undying beauty in this casket, that I may return above worthy of my
lord."

"'Tis a great boon thou askest. Nevertheless, for thy bravery's sake I
will give it thee. For many are they who set out to find it, but few
have the heart to come so far."

Thereupon she took the casket in her hands, and breathed into it, and
her breath was as the smoke of incense on the altar.

"Take it and return swiftly whence thou earnest, and see thou open it
not till thou comest upon earth. For in the land of the dead my breath
is death, but above it is life and beauty immortal. Fare thee well."

With a glad heart Psyche rose from her knees, and sped through the
silent palace. She threw the second loaf to Cerberus as she passed,
and for the second coin of gold Charon took her once more across in
his boat. This time no sad phantoms cried to her for help, and she
knew that it was for the sake of the earth-grown meal that they had
stood in her path before.

At last she stood once more in the sunlight, and joy lent wings to her
feet as she sped across the plain and away to Aphrodite's pleasant
vale. With the casket in her hand, she knelt before the throne, but
Aphrodite put out her hand and raised her up.

"Kneel no more to me, Psyche, for now thou art one of us. But open the
casket and drink into thy very soul the life and beauty that will
never die."

Her smile was brighter than sunshine on the shimmering waves, and the
touch of her hand made Psyche's blood run like fire through her veins.
Scarce knowing what she did, she opened the casket. The fumes rose up
in a cloud about her head, and she knew no more till she felt herself
moving upwards, upwards. As life came slowly back she opened her eyes,
and looked into the face of him she had seen but once. His rainbow
wings were spread above her, and his strong arms held her close, and
he looked into her eyes with the look that mingles two souls into one.

"Beloved," he whispered, "Love has conquered all things. In thy
darkest hour of trial I watched over thee, and gave thee strength, and
now we two will dwell for ever in the courts of heaven, and teach the
hearts of men to love as we love."

[Illustration]




Hero and Leander


One sunny day in April long ago, a maiden sat in a lonely tower
looking out across the Hellespont. At her feet the blue ripples lapped
lazily on the beach and played a soothing lullaby upon the stones, and
the white-sailed ships floated slowly down the stream from Sestos,
carrying their rich freights of corn and merchandise. To the north she
could see the port of Sestos, with the great walls running down from
the city to the harbour, and the masts of the ships as they lay at
anchor by the quay. Across the water, facing the tower, stood Abydos,
with its palaces and houses nestling white at the foot of the low
green hills. So narrow is the sea that runs between Sestos and Abydos,
and so swiftly does the current flow, that the ancients used to think
it was a great river running down from Propontis and the stormy
Euxine, and emptying their overflowing waters into the wide Ægean
main. So they called it the broad Hellespont, for the rivers of Greece
were but narrow streams beside it.

As she looked across the sunlit waters the maiden sighed, and turned
wearily to an old dame who sat spinning in a corner of the room.

"Good mother," she said, "how many years didst thou say we two have
lived in this wave-washed tower?"

"'Tis close on twenty years, my dear, since I brought thee here, a
tiny babe in my arms."

"Twenty years!" sighed the maiden. "Twenty centuries had passed by
more swiftly in the bright busy world out yonder. How long is a
woman's life, good nurse?"

"With the blessing of Heaven she may live for four score years, my
child."

"Four score years--four times as long as I have lived already! I can
well dispense with the blessing of Heaven."

"Nay; hush, hush!" cried the old woman, and stopped her spinning
hastily. "What ails thee, Hero? Thou wast never wont to speak such
dreadful words."

The girl threw herself on her knees beside her, and laid her head upon
her lap and sobbed. The old nurse drew her fingers tenderly over her
long black hair, and waited for the storm of passion to be spent.

"I am tired--tired of this lonely life," sobbed the maiden. "Why am I
shut up here, all alone?"

"Thou knowest the reason full well, my child. If thou goest forth into
the world, a great sorrow will come upon thee, and drive thee to death
in the flower of thy youth. Such was the oracle of the gods concerning
thee. Thy mother--poor young thing!--scarce lived to hold thee to her
breast, and when she died she put thee in my arms. 'Take her away,
nurse, far from the haunts of men, and never let her out into the
cruel world. Go, live with her in some lonely tower by the sea, and
make her a priestess to pitiless, foam-born Aphrodite. Night and day,
as soon as she can lisp a baby prayer, let her burn incense before the
altar of the goddess, and perchance she will have mercy on her, and
save her from her fate. Full well I know that 'tis with her it rests
to strike down my child or to save her, even as it was she, the
goddess of Love, who laid her cruel hand on me, so that now I lie
a-dying. Ah! save my child from the fate that has been mine.' I did as
she bade me, and surely we have not been unhappy, thou and I,
together, all these years?"

And she stroked the girl's cheek tenderly, and sighed as she thought
how, for many months past, it had grown paler week by week.

"Ah, think me not ungrateful!" cried Hero. "Thou knowest that I love
thee, and would never leave thee. But my heart is restless, and I long
to set foot beyond this tower and see a great town and streets and the
faces of my fellow-men."

Then she rose from her knees, and led the old nurse to the window.

"There!" she cried, pointing towards Sestos; "dost thou see where the
white highway runs down into the city--how a crowd of pilgrims throng
towards the gate? See, too, the steep pathway that winds upwards from
the harbour--how the folk move ever one way, up, up, to the temple of
Aphrodite on the hill! How often have I watched them year by year as
they gather together for the great feast of Adonis! Yet I, who all my
life long have been Aphrodite's priestess--I have never been inside
her temple or joined with those who throng from far and wide to pay
her worship at this glad season. Verily, the goddess hath good cause
to be angered with me if I neglect her dues. Good nurse, let me go
to-morrow and join in the procession of the maidens, and let me lay my
tribute of flowers before her altar, that she may bless me and save me
from my evil fate."

But the old nurse was very troubled at her words.

"My child, thou hast thine own shrine within the house where thou
canst burn incense and offer up flowers to Aphrodite. She will answer
thy prayers as well from here as from the crowded temple in the town."

"Then why do men build her great pillared temples, and throng from far
and near to keep her feast, if the fireside shrine and the simple
prayer would please her as well? Nay, she loveth rich gifts and music
and singing and the heads of many bowing as one man before her image.
Ah, nurse, let me go--let me go."

"My child, why wouldst thou go when thou knowest that the world can
only bring thee sorrow? Stay here with me in peace."

"Nay, there is no peace here for me. Aphrodite is angry, and she will
slay me by a slow and cruel death if I do not keep her feast this
year. Should I, her priestess, stay away, when even the meanest of the
folk gather together in her honour? All these years I have not gone,
and now she will stay her hand no more. As for the world and its
cruelty, fear not for that. Thou thyself shalt go with me, and stay by
my side till I join the procession of priestesses and maidens. Then I
will go up with them to the temple, and in their midst I shall be as
far from the world as in this tower. I long to stand within the great
white temple and hear the chanting of the priests. I long to see the
gleaming image of the goddess, and the statue of the risen Adonis, and
the altars sweet with incense and flowers. Ah, nurse, let me go, and
all the rest of the year, till the glad season comes round once more,
I will stay with thee in this tower and pine no more."

So piteously did she beg that the old nurse had not the heart to
refuse, though she feared what might come of it. But she tried to
comfort herself with the thought that perchance, after all, the maiden
was right, and that Aphrodite was killing her by a slow and cruel
death, because she had never kept her solemn feast-day.

The next day broke bright and fair, and Hero, as she looked out from
the window, was filled with joy. In the grey dawn she had risen, and
sat looking anxiously across the narrow sea towards Abydos and the low
line of hills on the further shore.

"O Helios," she prayed, "bright and beautiful, shine down upon the
earth this day, and fill the hearts of all with gladness; for it is
Aphrodite's solemn feast, and the greatest day of all my life."

And her prayer was not unanswered. Slowly the grey dawn turned to
saffron, and the golden disc of the sun rose over the silent hills and
scattered the rosy clouds north and south before him. With a cry of
joy Hero turned away from the window and ran to rouse the old dame in
the other room.

"Nurse, nurse!" she cried, "the sun is shining, and the world has
awaked from sleep. It is time to pick the roses and the lilies fresh
with dew and weave them into garlands for the goddess. Come up, up,
and out with me to the garden."

Without waiting for an answer, she tripped down the turret-stair and
out into the garden, and the old nurse sighed and followed slowly
behind. In the golden morning they gathered the roses and lilies, and
wove them into garlands and posies, and heaped up the loose flowers in
baskets. When all was ready they set out for the town. Though it was
yet early, the streets were thronged with pilgrims and folk hurrying
this way and that to the houses of their friends and kinsmen. Yet,
despite the bustle and confusion, there were few who had not leisure
to turn and watch the maiden and the old woman hastening along.

"It is Hebe come down from the courts of heaven," they said--"she who
giveth to the deathless gods eternal youth and joy. None can look on
her face and be sad."

And, indeed, all the sunshine of the morning seemed reflected in
Hero's face, so glad at heart was she. It was small wonder that men
turned and looked at her; for she walked as one of the Immortals, full
of dignity and grace. No evil thing had ever touched her or left its
mark upon her soul. But in a fair garden she had grown to womanhood,
where the breeze made music in the plane-trees and the waves beat time
upon the shore, and on the hill behind, the tall dark cypress-trees
kept silent watch above her. No angry word had ever reached her ears,
but as long as she had lived the love of one faithful heart had
shielded her. And now, though she knew it not, the call of life had
come to her, as it comes to every living thing, and with eager, open
arms she was answering it. In the midst of that bustling city crowd,
she was like a fair flower that brings into some restless sick-room
the scent of sunlit meadows and the murmur of dancing streams. As she
went she laughed and talked merrily to the old nurse beside her, and
ever and anon a flower would fall to the ground from the laden basket
she was carrying; and one of the crowd would quickly pick it up and
place it in his bosom, and carry away in his heart something of the
music of her laughter and the sunshine of her eyes. The old nurse when
she saw it was filled with fear, and hastened faster along; but Hero
saw none of these things, nor knew that she was different from other
folk.

At length they reached the temple on the hill and went into the
chamber where Aphrodite's priestesses and maidens were to meet; and
they clad her in long white robes, and put a garland on her head. When
all were ready, they went and stood before the priest of the temple,
and he told them in what order they should walk. First came little
children, who scattered rose-leaves in the path, and behind them
followed maidens, playing upon pipes, and singing the hymn to Adonis
and Aphrodite. Next came the priest himself, and on either side of him
two maidens walked, and held above his head great fans of peacock's
plumes. After him followed the long procession of priestesses and
maidens, incense-bearers, and the keepers of the sacred doves. Last of
all came Hero, bearing in her hands a garland of roses and lilies to
lay at the feet of the great white statue of the goddess. Each year
the fairest of the maidens was chosen for this task, and in all that
throng of youth and beauty there was none more fair than she. With her
eyes upon the gleaming statue that shone from the dark recess above
the heads of the worshipping people, she walked as one in a dream.
About her the smoke of the incense rose, and to her ears the voices of
the singers sounded low and far away as they sang,

"All hail to thee, Aphrodite, foam-born Queen of Love! Adonis, all
hail to thee! Thou art risen--thou art risen on this joyful day. No
more doth Death detain thee in his dark domain, nor Persephone
enshroud thee in the mists of the sad Underworld. But thou art come
back to the daylight and the flowers; and Aphrodite has dried her
tears. For once more by thy side, O fairest of mortal men, she wanders
through green glades and echoing caverns and by the shore of the
silver sea. The joy of her love has kindled the light of summer suns,
and like the west wind in the roses, her breath stirs gently in the
hearts of men, and the eyes of every living thing reflect the
brightness of her smile. All hail to thee. Aphrodite! Adonis and
Aphrodite, all hail!"

As they sang, the choir of maidens parted this way and that, and Hero
walked up between them bearing the garland in her hands. When she had
laid it at the feet of the statue, the procession formed once more,
and, with music and singing, they marched round the colonnade to the
shrine of Adonis, and all the people followed after. Still Hero walked
as one in a dream, and when the procession halted, she turned into a
small recess and leant against a pillar to rest; for her part was
done, and the people pressed so close about her in the aisle that she
was glad to stand aside till the procession moved again. With her eyes
closed, she drank in the sweet scent of the incense and flowers, and
listened to the chanting of the choir, as they sang of the love of
Adonis and Aphrodite. How Adonis, the beautiful shepherd, the fairest
of mortal men, was loved by the Queen of Beauty, and all the long
summer days they shepherded his flocks together on the shady slopes of
Ida. But there came a time when the people of the country held a great
hunt, and chased the wild boar through grove and dale till he was
brought to bay in the greenwood; and foremost of those who rushed in
to the death was Adonis. But the boar in his agony turned round upon
him and pierced him in the thigh with his tusk, and wounded unto
death, his followers bore him away and laid him in the shade of an
oak. With a wild cry of sorrow Aphrodite came and knelt beside him,
and tried to call him back to life, but his head fell limp upon her
breast. The red drops of his blood were mingled with her tears, and
both turned to flowers as they fell upon the ground--his blood to the
crimson rose, and her tears to the pale, drooping windflower. All
through the woods and the echoing hills a cry of mourning was heard,
"Adonis, Adonis! O weep for Adonis! Adonis is dead." But though his
spirit had crossed the gloomy river and fled to the dark halls of
Hades, yet Death was not strong enough to hold him. The voice of his
love and of Aphrodite's pleaded together, and heaven and earth, and
the world of the dead, were moved by their prayer. Even the heart of
Pluto, the black-browed god of Death, was touched, and he said that
for only four months in the year must Adonis dwell beneath the earth,
but for the other eight he might live his old life with Aphrodite in
the sunlight. So he chose the season of the flowery spring-time to
come back to his love each year, and only the cold dark months of
winter did he spend in the land below. So did a great love prevail and
conquer even the black lord of Death.

As Hero listened to the well-known tale, her heart was moved, and she
felt that if ever she loved, her love would be as the love of Adonis
and Aphrodite--stronger than death; and she sighed as she remembered
how she must live lonely all her days in the tower by the sea.

As though in answer to her sigh, she felt a light touch upon her arm,
and, raising her head, she found herself face to face with a young
man. She was about to turn away in anger and return to her place in
the procession, but the look of his eyes held her spellbound, so full
of fire and yet so sad were they. For a moment she stood gazing at
him, and the fire of his eyes seemed to light another in her heart and
set her whole frame aglow. The hot blood rushed to her face, and she
lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled beneath her, so
that she leant back against the pillar for support.

"I ask your pardon, gentle lady," said the man; "forgive my rudeness.
Though thou knowest me not, I have known thee for many a long year,
and day and night have I prayed the gods that I might meet thee face
to face. This day Aphrodite has heard my prayer. If I have seemed
presumptuous, forgive me. 'Twas the goddess nerved my arm to touch
thee."

And he stood with bowed head before her, awaiting her reply.

[Illustration: She lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs
trembled beneath her so that she leant back against the pillar for
support.]

"Who art thou, stranger?" asked Hero. "Thou mistakest me, surely, for
some other maid. Never till this day have I set foot beyond my tower,
and to that lonely spot cometh no man, nor have I ever spoken with
such as thee before."

"My name is Leander," said the stranger, "and I dwell in white Abydos
across the water. Full well do I know thy lonely tower; for as I ply
to and fro between Sestos and Abydos on my father's business, I pass
close beneath its walls, and day by day have I seen thee sitting at
thy window looking out across the sea. Ah, lady, be not angry with me!
The first day I saw thee thy beauty set my heart aflame, and since
then I have lived for thee alone."

"Thy words stir me strangely, sir," answered Hero. "I know not what to
say to thee."

"Thou art not angry, then?" he cried. "Thou wilt let me speak my love?
Ah, maiden, all these years have I loved thee with a true heart's
devotion! If my love could find but ever so faint an answer in thy
heart, I would be content."

And he raised his eyes full of hope and joy to her face. But she
turned aside her head to hide the answering fire of her eyes.

"Alas, sir!" she said, "mine is a heart that must never beat for any
living man. I am doomed to dwell in yonder tower lonely all my days,
for if I go forth and mix with the world, I shall die by the curse of
Heaven before my time."

"I have heard thy tale, lady; for even the most secret things are
noised abroad by rumour. Far be it from me to bring the curse upon
thy head. If thou couldst give me thy love, there would be no need for
thee to come forth into the world. I have thought of that. Each day we
would live our lives as we have done till now. But at night, when none
would miss me, I would come to thee. No living soul should know my
secret--no, nor yet the lifeless boards of my boat; for even dumb wood
can tell a tale if need be. Nay, these two arms shall bear me. Look
not fearful, lady. Full often have they borne me to and fro across
this narrow sea from mere love of sport. With thee as the prize they
would bear me twice as far."

As he spoke he held them out towards her, and, indeed, they were
goodly arms to look upon, and his face and form did them no shame
either.

Then Hero raised her eyes and looked him full in the face.

"Leander," she said, "I know not what charm or magic thou hast used,
but I am as clay in thy hands. 'Tis not thy words have conquered me;
in thy reasoning I could find many a flaw. Though one short hour ago I
had never seen thee, yet now I feel that I have known thee always, and
that life apart from thee were worse than death."

"Ah, Hero!" he cried, and took her hand in his; "the gods have heard
my prayer. Though thine eyes had never seen me, the voice of my heart
reached thee long ago, and thy soul came out to mine. 'Twas in answer
to my call that thou didst come to-day to the feast; for I prayed to
Aphrodite to move thy heart, or I knew not how I should ever speak to
thee. This very night, beloved, I will come to thee, and the light
which thou burnest in thy chamber shall be my guiding star."

"Ah, how carefully will I trim that torch to-night!" she said, "that
it may burn brightly for thee. Every evening I put it there as a
beacon-light for the ships that pass in the night; but to-night it
shall burn for thee--for thee alone."

Now the service was ended before the shrine, and the train of people
began to move once more. With one last look and a pressing of hands
they parted, and Hero returned to her place in the procession.

When all was ended, the old nurse hastened to the robing-room. In the
crowd inside the temple she had lost sight of Hero, and her heart was
full of fears for the maiden. As she helped her to lay aside her
festal robes and garland, she gazed anxiously at her.

"Art thou content to come home with me, my child," she asked, "or has
the glamour of the world ensnared thee?"

"Ah, nurse!" she cried joyously, "never, never have I loved my tower
so well. Let us hasten home, and in the quiet of the evening I will
tell thee that of which my heart is full."

The old dame was glad when she found her so ready to go home, and they
hastened silently through the crowded streets. As the sun was setting
behind the hills, and the shadows fell cool and long across the garden
slopes, Hero sat at her nurse's feet, and told her of the story of
Leander's love, and how that night would make them man and wife. When
she had ended her tale, the old dame took her face between her hands
and looked her in the eyes.

"Hero," she said, "this thing can never be. I have failed in my
trust. I have listened to thy pleading, and let thee out into the
world, and now through this man the curse of the gods will be
fulfilled. Think no more of him. Let this day be to thee as though it
had never been, and thou mayst yet escape thy doom."

But Hero sprang to her feet.

"What!" she cried; "thou wouldst take away the only joy of my life
now, when I have just found it? Never! Curse or no curse, Leander
shall be my wedded husband. Ah, nurse!" she added, falling on her
knees once more, "methinks that over all the joys of life the gods
hang a curse, and that it lies not with us poor mortals to choose
between them. We must take both and live, or neither and be dead all
our days on earth. Thou canst not hold me now; I have chosen my lot."

Nothing that the old dame could say availed to change her purpose, but
with her heart full of joy she put on her brightest robes and sat by
the lighted torch in her chamber, looking out across the sea, and
waiting for the night. True to his word, Leander came as soon as
darkness fell, and the old dame let him in by the turret door.
Carefully she shaded her lamp with her hand so that the light fell
full upon his face, that she might see what manner of man he was. He
had dried himself as best he might with leaves and grass from the
garden, but his hair hung in damp clusters about his head, and his
tunic clung wet about him. Yet, in spite of all, he was full fair to
look upon--a very god for strength and beauty. The old dame was
pleased when she saw him, for he had braved danger and discomfort to
win his bride, and he was a proper man withal, and worthy of so fair a
maid as Hero. So she led him upstairs and gave him change of raiment,
and when he was ready she took him to Hero's chamber. There before the
shrine of Aphrodite they plighted their troth, with but one faithful
soul to witness their vows, and the music of the wind and the waves
for their marriage hymn. To the two lovers the night fled by on wings
of lightning, and all too soon they had to say farewell; for ere day
dawned Leander must have reached the further shore. But parting was
sweet sorrow for those who so soon would meet again.

So for many a day their lives ran smoothly on. Each night Hero lighted
her torch; each night Leander was guided by its light, and, true to
his word, swam across the narrow sea that divided him from his wife.
The colour came back to Hero's cheeks and the brightness to her eyes,
and she pined no more to leave the tower and go out into the world.
When the old dame saw how happy she was, she was glad that things had
fallen out so, and prayed that for many a long year the gods would be
pleased to bless their wedded love.

Meantime Leander thought that no one knew of the nightly voyage save
Hero and the old dame her nurse, yet, for all his secrecy, there was
one who each night watched for him with a longing as great as Hero's
own. In the depths of the blue Ægean the daughters of Nereus
dwell--the fair nymphs of the ocean. All the day long they play
beneath the waters, and dance hand in hand along the yellow sands and
the shell-strewn hollows of the sea. But at night, when the eyes of
men are darkened, they come up above the water and, cradled in the
bosom of the waves, swing gently to and fro in the soft summer air;
and the white gleam of their arms is the glint of ripples in the
moonlight. But when the wild storm-wind shrieks over the sea and the
skies are dark and lowering, they forget their fears, and are filled
with madness. Then they chase each other across the black waters with
wild locks flying in the wind, and woe to those who are out upon the
high seas when the Nereids dance in the storm, for their dance is the
dance of Death. The fire of the lightning runs hot in their veins as
they fly on the wings of the whirlwind, and wherever they go the waves
hiss white and angry behind them. On the crests of the billows they
rise and fall, and with the voice of the storm-wind they shriek aloud,
and call upon all things to join in their dance; and they leap on the
decks of the travailing ships, and man, woman, and child they clasp in
their cruel white arms, crying, "Come, dance with us over the sea."
With a force that none can withstand they bear them away, and whirl
them round in the dance of Death, till they hang limp and lifeless in
their arms. Then they toss them aside, nothing caring, to be washed
ashore in the wan morning light, or to sink to a nameless grave in the
depths of the ocean. Wherever they have passed wreck and ruin lie
behind; but they rush on, till the storm dies away, and they sink down
exhausted to their home in the sea. Sometimes in the calm green waters
below they find the bodies of those they have drowned in their frenzy,
but they know them not; for all that they did when the spirit of the
storm was upon them they forget, and it passes from their minds as a
dream dies at break of day. So when they see the bodies lying still
and lifeless, they call to them to come and play with them in the
water, and when they get no answer, they creep closer, and find that
their eyes are closed. Then they know that, however long they call,
they will never get an answer, for they have learnt that those whose
eyes are closed have neither life nor voice, but are as the rocks and
stones. But the Nereids know not sleep nor death, and when they look
upon one lying dead they think he has always been so; and they do not
grieve nor weep for him, for the gods did not make them for grief, but
to be the bringers of beauty wherever they go, and to turn all foul
things fair. So they gather the shells and the bright seaweeds, and
cover the body where it lies, and it sleeps in beauty and peace in the
hollows of the sea.

One of these same Nereids it was who saw Leander as he swam across the
Hellespont each night, and she loved him for his beauty, and longed to
have him as her playfellow. So she swam near to him on the crest of
the dancing waves, and called to him softly,

"O child of the green earth, come, come with me, and play with me and
my sisters in the depths of the blue Ægean."

But he saw her not, nor listened to her pleading, for his eyes were
darkened. To him the gleam of her arms was the moonshine on the water,
and the sound of her voice like the west wind on the waves.

So she followed him in vain across the channel, and when he went up
into the tower she sat below upon a rock, and watched for him to
appear at the window; and she saw Hero sitting by the torch waiting
for her lover, and heard her cry of joy as she ran to greet him when
he came. Then again she called to them softly,

"O children of the green earth, come and play with me. I will crown
your heads with white sea-pearls, and you shall sit on coral thrones
beneath the waves, and be king and queen over all the nymphs of the
sea."

But as they stood hand in hand at the window, they saw her not, and
heard only the murmur of the ripples on the beach. So she sat calling
in vain all the night long. Before the grey morning dawned Leander
came down, and when he reached the shore he turned and called,

"Farewell, Hero!"

And Hero, leaning from her window, answered,

"Leander, farewell!"

So the sea-nymph learnt to know their names, and every night she would
sit sadly calling them, and they heard her not.

But one night all the winds of heaven were loosed, and they rushed
with a wild shriek over the face of the waters, and lashed them to a
fury of white-maned waves. With a deafening crash the thunder echoed
through the hills, and the pale forked lightning lit the sky from east
to west. With white cheeks and a heart full of fear, Hero knelt before
the shrine in her chamber, and prayed the gods to have mercy on the
sailors out at sea, and, above all, to grant that Leander had not set
out ere the storm began.

Meanwhile Leander on the other side had seen the storm approaching,
and he knew full well that when the seas ran high no man could swim
the channel and reach the other shore alive. So he sat by his window
and longed for the storm to be spent and the day to dawn; for the
night without Hero was to him but misery. Across the stream he could
see the torch burning fitfully in the gale.

"The gods grant she think me not faithless," he said, "for not going
to her this night."

As he sat and watched, the storm grew wilder and more terrible. In the
swirling, seething waters the Nereid danced with the madness of the
tempest in her heart, up and down over the crested waves, with the
storm wind whistling through her hair. In the gleam of the
lightning-flash she held out her arms to the shore and called,

"Come and dance with me. Leander, O Leander, come!"

As she called, the east wind rushed with a wild shriek across the
water, and blew out the beacon light in Hero's chamber. Leander at his
window saw the pale light disappear and return no more. A blinding
flash of lightning rent the sky, and the rattle of the thunder sounded
as though the mountains of the earth were falling. Then the spirit of
the storm came upon him too, and he heard the voice of the sea-nymph
calling with a wild, unearthly shriek,

"Leander, O Leander, come!"

And he thought it was the voice of Hero calling him in deadly peril.
Perchance the thunderbolt had struck her tower, and it had crashed in
ruins about her and borne her with its falling stones into the rushing
stream below. In a mad frenzy, scarce knowing what he did, he plunged
into the seething waters and struggled in the waves with the strength
of despair. With a wild cry of joy the sea-nymph caught him in her
arms. "At last, at last, thou hast heard my call," she said.

Up and down through the hissing waves she bore him, now plunging down,
deep, deep, into the calm green water below, now rushing round and
round in a whirlpool, now leaping from the crest of one white wave
into the boiling foam of the next, till he lay limp and breathless in
her arms. She heeded not, but bore him on, ever on, across the water
till they came beneath Hero's tower. Then, rising on the crest of the
waves that beat against the wall, she called,

"Come, join with us in the storm-dance! Come, Hero, Hero!"

In the breath of the east wind the stinging foam beat against the
window like one knocking in wild alarm, and the echo of the
sea-nymph's cry reached the maiden as she knelt before the shrine.
Filled with terror, she rushed to the window and looked down on the
seething water. A brilliant flash of lightning blazed across the sky,
and for a moment all was light as day. On the bosom of a breaking wave
she saw Leander with his arms tossed helpless about him, and his head
thrown back pale and lifeless, and above him stood the sea-nymph in a
robe of flashing foam. With a cry of despair Hero leaped to the sill
and plunged into the roaring waves, and with her arms about Leander,
she, too, was tossed along in the dance of Death, till the storm died
away and the nymph bore them down side by side to the floor of the
blue Ægean. There, true to her word, she set them on thrones of coral,
and twined white sea-pearls in their hair, and in time the winding
seaweeds and clinging ocean flowers wove a shroud of beauty about
them; and their bodies slept side by side in the fair ocean depths. So
did it come to pass that the curse of the gods was fulfilled.

But whether it was truly a curse or a blessing, who shall say? For
they lived and loved with a love that has become famous among men, and
side by side they died. And does not the poet tell us of the islands
of the blest, where the souls of the brave and true abide for ever;
where the breeze blows always bright and fresh, and the golden fruits
are glowing, and the crimson-flowered meadows before the city are full
of the shade of trees of frankincense? In that far land there is no
death nor parting, no sorrow and no tears, but those who have been
true on earth dwell ever side by side. If the poet is right, Hero and
Leander are there together, where no storm can reach them and no sea
can part them ever again.

[Illustration]




The Sacrifice of Alcestis


I

Once upon a time when Pelias, the crafty king, ruled in Iolchos by the
sea, his nephew Jason came and tried to win back from him the land
that was his by right. But Pelias put him off with cunning words, and
sent him forth to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece, thinking
that so he need never look upon his face again. Jason, therefore, who
was brave and stout of heart, and feared not man nor beast, sent a
proclamation through the land, bidding all who loved adventure to join
him in the good ship _Argo_, and sail with him for the Golden Fleece.
From the length and breadth of Hellas the heroes and sons of the
Immortals flocked. Among them came Admetus of Pheræ, in the first
bloom of his manhood, and sailing with the Argonauts, he braved all
the terrors of that fearful voyage, and sat at his oar like a man in
the midst of deadly peril.

After many a long day the remnant of the heroes who had sailed away
from Iolchos returned with the Golden Fleece; and standing before
proud Pelias, they laid it at his feet. In the great hall of the
palace he received them sitting on his throne: on his right hand sat
Philomache his wife, and all about him stood his daughters, Peisidice
and Asteropæa, Hippothoe, and Evadne, and Alcestis--maidens whose
beauty would gladden any father's heart. But fairest of the fair, as
the moon among stars, was Alcestis. When Admetus looked upon her face,
his heart was filled with love for her, and he swore a great oath that
he would live and die unwed, or else have Alcestis to wife.

When Pelias had welcomed back the Argonauts, he bid the henchmen
spread the tables in the hall, and soon the king with his son Acastus
and all the menfolk were seated with the heroes round the well-filled
board. Against a pillar leant a minstrel, who sang of great deeds and
heroes, and how the good ship _Argo_ had braved the terrors of the
seas; while the daughters of Pelias bore round the sweet dark wine in
flagons, and filled up the golden goblets. To Alcestis it fell to fill
up the cup of Admetus, and as he held it out towards her their eyes
met, and she blushed beneath his gaze, and tried to hide her confusion
in the folds of her veil. She was vexed with herself for the blush and
vexed with him for having called it forth. Yet withal her heart beat
fast, and the beating of it was not altogether born of wrath; for
Admetus was a proper man in the prime of life, who had sailed the high
seas and seen danger face to face, and a brave man's admiration is
ever dear to a woman's heart. So it came to pass that when Admetus
drew from his breast a lock of the Golden Fleece, which Jason had
given him for a memorial, and held it forth to her, she refused it
not, but took it and hid it in the folds of her gown, and when Admetus
was gone away she would draw it forth and sigh as she looked at it.

When Admetus saw that she did not altogether disdain him, he was glad
at heart, and plucked up all his courage, and went and stood before
the king her father, and boldly asked her hand in marriage. As he
spoke the king's brow darkened, for he loved not Jason nor any of his
crew. He had sent them forth, as he thought, to their death, and now
they were come home to wrest the kingdom from him and give it to the
lawful heir. So he cast about in his mind for some excuse; for Admetus
was nobly born, and heir to a great kingdom, and he could not say him
nay without good reason. In his trouble he bethought him of an ancient
oracle which a soothsayer had spoken when Alcestis lay a babe upon her
mother's breast. Till now he had put aside all thought of it, and had
looked upon the seer as a mad prophet whose words were of no account.
But now that they would serve him in his need, he pretended that he
had always laid them up in his heart, and intended to abide by them.

"Young man," he said, "they who would woo my child Alcestis must woo
and win her as the gods have ordered. When she lay in her mother's
arms, there came a prophet and stood over her and spake, saying,
'Child of evil fortune! whosoever thou weddest, woe to thy wedded
life, sobeit thy lord come not to bear thee away in a chariot drawn by
a lion and a boar.' Thus spake the prophet of the gods, and his words
shall surely come to pass. Think not, then, that I will give my
daughter up to misery, or that thou hast but to look on her beauty
and long for her, to have her for thine own. Nay; hence, away, and
bethink thee how thou canst so beguile a lion's heart that he shall
walk tamely in the yoke beside his lawful prey. Then, and then only,
when thou comest driving this strange pair shalt thou have Alcestis
for thy wife."

Admetus was sad at heart when he heard the king's words, and he set
out sorrowfully home for the halls of Pheres, his father; for he
thought that this thing was beyond the power of mortal man to do, and
that all his life long he must live in loneliness of soul, without
Alcestis to wife.

When they heard of their son's return, Pheres and Periclymene, his
wife, came forth to greet him, and fell upon his neck and embraced him
with tears of joy. A great feast was prepared, and the altars of the
gods sent up to heaven the savoury smoke of sacrifice, and all the
people rejoiced together at the return of the hero their land had sent
forth.

After all the feasting and merrymaking was ended, Pheres drew his son
aside to his chamber and said,

"My son, whilst thou hast been away in strange lands the hand of Time
hath dealt heavily with me. My knees are weak beneath me, my hair is
white with age, and all my strength is gone. Year by year it groweth
harder for me to ride forth among my people, and the folk on the far
boundary know my face no more, and I cannot say whether all is well
with them. Time is it for me to give my crown and sceptre to a younger
man, and thou hast shown thyself worthy to rule. Take now the kingdom
from my hand, that thy mother and I may pass our last years in peace
together. A mighty kingdom have I builded up for thee, and worthy of
mighty kings. See to it, then, that thou take to wife some princess of
a royal house and rear up a son to rule the land when thou art dead."

And Admetus answered,

"The kingdom will I take from thee right gladly, my father, and rule
it well and wisely so long as the gods shall give me strength. But as
to taking a wife in my halls, that I can never do."

Then he told him of his love for Alcestis, and how he could never hope
to win her. But his father laughed and shook his head.

"'Tis the way of hot-headed youth to think that in all the wide world
one woman alone hath a fair face and bright eyes. Time and the beauty
of another woman shall heal thy malady, never fear."

"Time and another woman may drive me to my death," he answered hotly,
"but never will I wed with any maid save Alcestis alone, whom I love."

And he strode in anger from the room. But Pheres laughed the louder.

"Verily, young blood is the same the whole world through," said he.

So Admetus became King of Pheræ, and ruled in his father's stead; and
from the shores of the sea below Pelion to the land of the Molossians,
the mountain-folk of the Far West, his name was held in honour among
his people; for the land had peace in his day, and the valleys stood
thick with corn, and by the fair-flowing waters of Boebe the shepherd
played his pipes, and his flocks wandered browsing about the green
meadows. No stranger was ever turned away from the palace doors, but,
however poor and ragged he might be, he was welcomed right gladly, and
feasted in the halls and sped upon his way with kindly words. So it
came to pass that through the length and breadth of Hellas, when men
spoke of good cheer and hospitality, they always raised the cup in
honour of Admetus, the kindliest of hosts to rich and poor alike.


II

One day as Admetus sat at meat in the great hall with his parents and
all the household, a thing befell which changed the course of his
whole life. Inside the fire burnt brightly on the hearth, and the
torches on the walls sent a cheerful gleam through the shadowy
vastness. But outside the wind howled about the corners of the palace
like Furies in their wrath, and anon it sunk down to a sob and a wail,
while the lashing of the rain against the walls was as the whip of a
furious driver urging on his steeds. And lo! from out the darkness of
the storm there came a man, who stood in the doorway of the great hall
and looked round about upon the company. Many a long mile must he have
come that day in the teeth of the gale, for from head to foot he was
splashed with mud, and the water ran from his ragged cloak in
streamlets, making a pool upon the floor. In his hand he carried a
staff; from a strap about his body hung a strange instrument such as
no man in the hall had ever seen before; and he held his head up
proudly and looked fearlessly about him, so that for all his sorry
raiment he seemed no common beggar, but a young king in all his pride.
A hush fell upon the people as they gazed, for his eyes shone
strangely bright, and in the darkness of the shadowy doorway his
stature seemed greater than that of mortal man. When he had looked his
fill and saw where Admetus sat, he strode across the hall with great
swinging strides, and came and stood before him. As he walked the
people looked silently after him, for a great ship running before the
wind was not more fair than he.

"O king," he said, and his voice rang clear and mellow through the
hall, "a suppliant I stand before thee, and my hand is red with blood.
Say, wilt thou receive me in thy halls, or wilt thou turn me forth
into the storm and darkness?"

And Admetus marvelled at his words.

"Who art thou, stranger, to make this bold request? When a man's hand
is stained with blood, 'tis to the altars of the gods that he should
fly for cleansing, and not bring pollution to the palaces of kings."

"My name it behoveth thee not to know now, nor the deed I have done.
Let it suffice thee when I say that not yet have the altars of that
god been built who hath the power to cleanse me from blood-guiltiness.
Nay, myself I must work out mine own cleansing, and for the waxing and
the waning of twelve moons it is decreed that I must serve a mortal
man. Wilt thou take me for thine herdsman--yea or nay?"

At this Admetus marvelled the more, and looked hard in the face of the
stranger, but his eyes fell beneath the other's fearless gaze as those
of a dog beneath his master's; and he answered him never a word, for
he felt that the thought of his heart lay writ beneath that piercing
look as clear as writing on a tablet. So he signed to his attendants,
and they led the stranger forth and bathed him in warm water, and
anointing him, clad him in fresh sweet linen and a tunic of silk. When
all was accomplished, they led him back to the hall; and if the people
had marvelled before at his beauty, their wonder was increased twofold
as they gazed at him now.

When he had taken his fill of meat and wine, the stranger turned to
Admetus and said,

"My noble host, fain would I, in some poor measure, requite thee and
thy household for kindness to a wanderer and a suppliant. I have some
small skill in song, and have fashioned me an instrument whereon I
play sweet harmonies, that frame the melody of my song like the golden
setting of a gem. Have I thy leave to sing before thee in thy halls?"

As Admetus bowed his head the stranger loosed the curious instrument
from his girdle. The body of it was the hollow shell of a tortoise, in
the rim of which two twisted horns were cunningly fitted, joined
together towards the top by a silver band. The space between the band
and the furthermost edge of the shell was spanned by seven strings of
gold. Lovingly he drew his fingers across the strings, and the chords
rang soft and true through the silence of the hall, as he played a
prelude to his song, and anon raised his voice and sang. He sang a
strange, sweet song, such as no man there had ever heard, and yet in
the depths of his soul each one of them felt that he had known it
before he was born. For the song that the stranger sang was the song
that the stars first sang together when the universe was born, and
light sprang forth from the darkness. The melody they made that day
vibrates for ever till the end of time. Musicians and artists and
poets, and those whom the gods love, hear it and sing it, each in his
separate way, for those who have forgotten the sound of it. Deep in
the heart of every man it lies voiceless, till once at least in his
lifetime the hand of the divine musician sets the chords vibrating,
and opens the ears of the soul to hear the heavenly harmonies. Such
was the song that the stranger sang, and the people sat breathless
beneath his spell, and gazing deep into the red-hot heart of the fire,
saw strange dreams and visions. The very dogs awoke from their sleep,
and crept closer to the music, and with their heads between their
paws, gazed with unblinking eyes at the singer; and a magic thrill ran
round the circle of them that listened, both man and beast, and welded
and fused their souls in one, so that they felt that the life in them
all was the same. When the song was ended, silence fell upon all
things--even the storm outside had ceased to rage; and Time stood
still as each man sat motionless in his seat, with heart too full for
speech. But at length the spell was broken, and with a sigh and a
whisper, they glided away to their rest, till Admetus and the stranger
were left face to face before the hearth.

"O divine musician," said Admetus, "I know not who thou art. This only
do I know, that I could worship thee for the godlike beauty of thy
song, and follow thee and serve thee all my days."

"Nay, O king; 'tis destined that I must serve thee, and be thy
servant for a year. To-morrow I will lay aside this silken doublet,
and put on the dress that suits my station, and go forth with the
other shepherds of thy flocks."

"O stranger, this thing can never be. Who am I that thou shouldst be
my servant?"

"Thou art the man who turneth not the stranger from thy doors, though
his hands, like mine, be red with blood. As for me, I must work out my
cleansing, as I told thee. For blood-guiltiness is mine, though I have
not sinned in the shedding thereof. But even Zeus himself, thou
knowest, hath not reached wisdom and might, save by sore struggle
against powers less wise than he. Happy am I if by the service of an
upright man I may be purified."

From that day forth the stranger became a herdsman in the halls of
Admetus, and in no wise would he be treated differently from the other
servants. Clad in the coarse, rough homespun of a shepherd, he would
go forth at early dawn with the flocks, and at eventide return and sit
among his fellows at the lower table. The hearts of all the household
were warmed towards him, and it seemed that in his presence no evil
thing could live; for if ever a quarrel or strife of tongues arose, a
look from the stranger would take all the spirit from the combatants,
and the matter fell dead between them like a ball at the feet of
listless players--nay, it seemed that he could read the very thoughts
of their inmost hearts, and all malice and unkindness withered away in
the sunshine of his presence, like sprigs that have no root. Strange
tales were told of how he shepherded his flocks, for the shepherd
lads who went forth with him at dawn would lie at his feet in some
shady grove whilst the flocks browsed close at hand; and he would take
his lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and earth, and at
the sound of his voice the hearts of all living things were moved.
From the rocky heights of Othrys the lion came down and fawned at his
feet with bloodless fangs, and the spotted lynxes gambolled with the
flocks. The shy fawns forgot their fears and left the shelter of the
tall pine-woods, and danced about his lyre with fairy feet; for the
magic of his singing made the whole world kin, and the bow and the
arrow were laid aside in those days, and no watchman stood upon the
heights to guard the herds from beasts of prey. But the flocks
increased and multiplied, and the earth brought forth rich harvests of
corn and fruit, and all the land had peace. So Admetus loved and
honoured his strange herdsman above all his fellows, and took counsel
with him, and followed his advice in all things.


III

Meanwhile in Iolchos by the sea the old king Pelias had died. His son
Acastus succeeded to his throne, and, as the custom was, held great
games in honour of his father. Far and wide through Hellas he sent the
news, and bade all men of might come and take part in the contests of
running and wrestling and hurling the quoit. To the victors in each
trial he offered to give one of his sisters in marriage, but for
Alcestis he made the contest doubly hard, for she was the fairest and
noblest of the daughters of Pelias, and he knew that the suitors
would flock without number for her hand if the task that was set them
was not well-nigh impossible. So he ordained that he who would win her
must prove himself the mightiest of all men in the field that day, and
that, moreover, he must come to bear away his bride in a chariot drawn
by a lion and a boar; for so the king, her father, had ordered in
obedience to the words of the prophet.

When Admetus heard the news, the fire of his love for Alcestis burst
forth into flame, and he felt that he could conquer the whole world to
win her. When he went to rest that night he could dream of nought but
her, and of how all men would marvel when they saw him come to bear
her away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. How he was to train
this strange yoke-pair he knew not, but he felt that Alcestis was not
one whom the gods had fated to live unwedded all her days. From the
length and breadth of Hellas men would flock to woo her, and surely
from all the host one would be found to do this deed, and why should
he not be that one? So he argued, and dreamed sweet dreams of love and
happiness. But,--whether it be that sweet dreams take the heart from a
man, because in sleep they put within his grasp visions which, on
waking, he finds to be but shadows of a shade, and he longs to clasp
them once again without the labour and toil which alone on earth can
bring man happiness,--certain it is that when he awoke Admetus felt
that the task was hopeless, and that all his efforts would be vain.
His heart was in a tumult; his longing for Alcestis was as strong as
ever, but the confidence of winning her was gone. He went out into the
woodland and threw himself on the grass beside the stream and gazed
moodily into the dark depths of a pool. Its silent stillness so
maddened him that he cast a pebble into the midst, and watched it as
it slowly sank, feeling that it was an image of his own life. An hour
or more he sat there idly playing with the pebbles and the water,
heavy at heart, and a prey to morbid fancies. At length he was roused
from his dreaming by the sound of music far away. Slowly it drew
nearer, and from the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman
playing on his lyre, followed by his flocks and the wild creatures of
the forest. Without a word he came and sat beside Admetus at the
water's edge, and the animals lay grouped around. Then he changed the
key of his song from a merry dance-tune to a solemn lay, and the
burden of his song was love--how love, if it were but strong and pure,
could conquer the whole world and accomplish deeds undreamt of. As
Admetus listened, the tumult of his heart was stilled, and once again
the flower of hope sprang up in his breast--not the phantom flower
that springs from idle dreams, but the bright living flower whose
roots are firmly planted in the will to do and dare all things to win
the promised prize.

When the herdsman had ended his song, he laid aside his lyre and gazed
at Admetus.

"Dost thou love this maiden with all thy heart and soul, Admetus?" he
asked.

"I wou

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/40476