On and on, beneath the dewy darkness, they fled swiftly down the swirling stream; underneath black walls, and temples, and the castles of the princes of the East; past sluice-mouths, and fragrant gardens, and groves of all strange fruits; past marshes where fat kine lay sleeping, and long beds of whispering reeds; till they heard the merry music of the surge upon the bar, as it tumbled in the moonlight all alone.
Into the surge they rushed, andArgoleaped the breakers like a horse; for she knew the time was come to show her mettle, and win honor for the heroes and herself. Into the surge they rushed, andArgoleaped the breakers like a horse, till the heroes stopped all panting, each man upon his oar, as she slid into the still broad sea.
Then Orpheus took his harp and sang a pæan, till the heroes’ hearts rose high again; and they rowed on stoutly and steadfastly, away into the darkness of the West.
By Elsie Finnimore Buckley
In the city of Calydon long ago there were great rejoicings because the queen Althæa had given birth to a son, her first-born, who, if he grew to years of manhood, would in time sit upon the throne of his father Œneus, and rule the land. Some seven days after the child was born it chanced that the queen was lying in her chamber, with the babe upon her breast.
As she lay she watched the shadows playing up and down upon the walls, and to her eyes they took strange forms of men and beasts. Now it was a great fight she saw, with horses and chariots rushing over a plain, and mighty warriors meeting face to face in battle; now it was a hunt, with winding of horns and dogs straining at the leash, and a white-tusked boar breaking through a thicket. But whether it was a hunt or whether it was a battle, everywhere there was one figure of a man she watched—a man tall and fair and brave, who stood out conspicuous among his fellows—such a hero as her son might grow to be if he lived till years of manhood. And she prayed that her vision might come true, and her son grow up to be a hero—a man mighty in sport and mighty in battle. In time the flames died down, and the fire burned clear and still upon the hearth. The queen’s eyes grew heavy, and she was about to turn on her side to sleep when a strange thing happened, which took from her all desire for rest. The wall of the room in front ofher, which had glowed bright and cheery in the firelight, grew gray and misty and seemed to vanish before her eyes, and through the opening there came towards her the forms of three strange women, taller and more terrible than any women of earth. The first one carried in her hand a skein of thread, the second a spindle, and the third a pair of great sharp shears. The queen lay still and motionless with terror as they came forward slowly arm in arm and stood beside the couch, looking down upon the child at her breast. At length the first one spoke.
“I give to thy child, Althæa, a thread of life exceeding bright and fair.”
“And I,” said the second, “will weave that thread into dark places, where it will shine the brighter for the darkness round about, and bring him honor and great renown.”
The third one said never a word, but walked slowly round the couch till she stood before the fire on the hearth. A great brand had fallen from the grate, and lay smouldering on the stones. Bending down, she took it in her hand, and thrust it deep into the red-hot heart of the fire, and stood watching it till it was well alight, and the tongues of flame shot crackling upwards. Then she turned towards the queen.
“As soon as that brand upon the fire is consumed,” she said, “I will cut the shining thread with my shears, and his life shall be as ashes cast forth upon the wind.”
With a cry of terror the queen sprang up from her couch, rushed across the room, and, drawingforth the blazing brand from the fire, she smothered it in her gown, and crushed it beneath her bare feet, till not a live spark remained about it. Then she hid it in a secret place where she alone could find it, and cast herself upon her couch and knew no more.
For many a long day she lay between life and death, but at last the gods had mercy, and her strength came slowly back to her. But when anyone asked her the cause of her burning, she would shudder and mutter some strange tale of a brand which fell from the fire, and would have burnt out the life of her child. What she meant no one ever knew, but they thought that the gods had stricken her with a sudden fever, and that, not knowing what she did, she had burnt herself in the fire. But of the half-burnt brand and of the word of the Fates they knew nothing, for Althæa had said in her heart:
CHIRON, THE CENTAUR—page 105From the painting by Maxfield Parrish
CHIRON, THE CENTAUR
—page 105
From the painting by Maxfield Parrish
“The Fates have spoken, and their word shall surely come to pass. A fine and fair thread of life has Lachesis given to my son, and Clotho will weave it into dark places, where it shall shine exceeding bright. The gifts they have given are good. The hand of Atropos alone is against him, and she has measured his life by the life of a frail piece of wood. But so long as the gods shall give me strength no careless hand shall place that brand upon the flames, and no man shall know the secret of his life, for grief or madness may turn even the heart of a friend. On me, and on me alone, shall my son’s life rest; for well do I know that neither prayer nor sacrifice can avail to turn the heart of Atropos, the Unswerving One.” So she kept thebrand securely hidden where she alone could find it. Many other fair children did she bear to Œneus the king, but best of them all she loved Meleager, her first-born; for the word that the Fates had spoken came true. He grew to be a great warrior and a mighty man, and was feared by his foes and loved by his friends through the length and breadth of the land. In all the country-side there was no man who could hurl the javelin with such force and skill as he, and whenever he went forth to battle the victory lay with the men of Calydon, and he was called the savior and protector of his city.
When he was in the flower of his manhood, the call of Jason came from far Iolcos for all the heroes of Greece to join him in his search for the Golden Fleece. Amongst them sailed Meleager in the good shipArgo, and came to the land of the dusky Colchians on the shores of the Black Sea. He played his part like a man, and came back to Calydon with a fair name for courage and endurance. Then was he hoisted on the shoulders of his countrymen and carried through the streets of the city, and feasted right royally in his father’s house.
Soon after his return it chanced that the harvest was more plentiful than it had ever been within the memory of man. Wherefore Œneus the king ordered a great thanksgiving to be held throughout the land in honor of Bacchus and Ceres and Minerva, who had given such good gifts to men. At every shrine and temple the altars smoked with sacrifice, and glad bands of youths and maidens with garlands on their heads danced hand in hand around, singing the song of the harvest.
When Diana, the huntress, saw that everywhere the altars smoked in honor of Ceres and Bacchus and Minerva, but that never a single stone was raised to her, she was filled with jealousy and wrath. One night, when all the land lay sleeping, she left the mountains, where she loved to hunt, and came down to Calydon. The arrows in her quiver rattled as she strode along in her wrath, and the flash of her eyes was as the flash of summer lightning across the sky. With great swinging strides she came and stood over Œneus as he slept.
“O king,” she said, “too long have I been patient and waited for my dues; but I will suffer thine ingratitude no more. When the young corn stands green upon the plain, and the vine-leaves are shooting, and the trees cast once more their shade upon the bare hill-side, then shalt thou have cause to know my power. Broad and dark are the forests, and many a wild beast lurks therein that is tame at my word alone. One of these will I let loose upon thy land. Many a fair field shall be trodden underfoot, and many a vineyard and olive-grove laid waste—yea, and red blood shall flow, ere my wrath be assuaged, and I take away the pests from your midst. I have spoken, and no sacrifice shall turn me from my word.”
Thus did she speak, saying the words in his ear, and turned and left the room by the way she had come. With a start he awoke from his sleep and looked around him, but no one could he see. Only a sudden storm of wind lashed the branches of the trees against each other, and a dark cloud hid the face of the moon.
“The sad winter-time is coming,” he thought, “with its storms and its darkened days. Yet, lest there be aught in my dream, I will remember Diana to-morrow, and her altars, too, shall smoke with sacrifice.”
So on the morrow a great festival was held in honor of Diana, the maiden huntress, and Œneus laid aside all thought of his dream. But when the spring-time came and the early summer, he had cause to remember it with sorrow, for out of the forests there came a great boar which laid waste all the country, right and left. In size he was more huge than an ox of Epirus, whose oxen are the largest in the world, and the bristles on his neck stood up like spikes. His breath was as a flame of fire that burned up all that stood in his way, and his cruel little eyes gleamed red with blood. Over the cornfields he raged, and trampled the green blades beneath his hoofs, and with his strong, white tusks he tore down the vine-branches and broke the overhanging boughs of the olive, so that the young berries and fruit lay spoilt upon the ground. Not only did he lay waste the fields, but the flocks and herds on the pasture-land were not safe from his attack, and neither shepherds nor dogs could protect them from his fury. Through all the country-side the people fled in terror for their lives, and hid within the city walls, only now and again a band of the bravest would go forth and lay nets and snares for him; but so great was the strength of the beast that he broke through every trap they could devise, and, killing any man who stood in his path, he would return, with greaterfury than before, to his attack upon the fields and cattle. At length things came to such a pass that, unless the monster could be checked, famine would ere long stare the people in the face. When Meleager saw that neither prayer nor sacrifice would turn the heart of Diana, nor any ordinary hunting put an end to the boar, he determined to gather around him a band of heroes who, for the sake of glory, would come together for the hunt, and either kill the beast or perish themselves in the attempt. So he sent a proclamation far and wide through all the kingdoms of Greece.
“O men of Greece,” he said, “the fair plains of Calydon lie trodden underfoot by a grievous monster, and her people are fallen upon evil days. Come hither and help us, all ye who love adventure, and fear not risk nor peril, ye seasoned warriors whose spirit is not dead within you, and ye young men who have yet your name to win. Come hither to us, and we will give you fair sport and good cheer withal.”
In answer to his call there flocked from far and wide to Calydon a great host of brave men, and mighty was the muster which gathered beneath the roof of Œneus for the hunting of the boar. Jason himself came, the leader of the Argonauts, and Castor and Pollux, the great twin brethren, whose stars are in the sky. There was Theseus, too, who slew the Minotaur, and Peirithous his friend, who went down with him to Hades, and tried to carry off Proserpine from the King of the Dead. And swift-footed Idas came, and Lynceus, his brother, whose eyes were so sharp that they could see intothe center of the earth. Others were there besides, whose names are too many to tell, and Toxeus and Plexippus, the brothers of Althæa the queen, whom she loved as she loved her own son Meleager. In the great hall a sumptuous feast was spread, and loud was the laughter and bright were the faces, as one friend met another he had not seen for many a long day. The feast was well under way when one of the attendants whispered in the ear of the king that yet another guest had come for the hunting of the boar.
“Who is he?” asked the king.
“My lord, I know not,” the man replied.
“Well, keep him not standing without, at all events,” said Œneus, “but show him in here, and we will make him welcome with the rest.”
In a few moments the man returned, and held back the curtain of the great doorway for the newcomer to enter. All eyes were turned eagerly that way to see who it might be, and a murmur of surprise ran round the hall; for they saw upon the threshold no stalwart warrior, as they had expected, but a maiden young and beautiful. She was clad in a hunter’s tunic, which fell to her knee, and her legs were strapped about with leathern thongs. Crosswise about her body she wore a girdle, from which hung a quiver full of arrows, and with her right hand she leant on a great ashen bow like a staff. Her shining hair fell back in waves from her forehead, and was gathered up in a coil behind, and she held her head up proudly and gazed round on the company unabashed. The glow of her cheek and the spring of her step told of life in the open,and of health-giving sport over hill and dale, so that she might have been Diana herself come down from her hunting on the mountains.
She looked round the hall till her eyes fell on Œneus, the host, in the place of honor, and in no wise troubled by the silence which her coming had caused, she said: “Sire, for my late-coming I crave thy pardon. Doubtless some of thy guests have come from more distant lands than I, but, as ill-luck would have it, I chose to come by way of the sea instead of by the isthmus. For a whole day I ate out my heart with waiting till the wind fell, and I could cross over in safety.”
Concealing his surprise as best he could, Œneus answered: “Maiden, we thank thee for thy coming, and make thee right welcome in our halls. Yet we would know thy name who, a woman all alone, hast crossed barren tracts of land and stormy seas unflinching, and come to take part in a hunt which is no mere child’s sport, but a perilous venture, in which strong men might hesitate to risk their lives and limbs.”
As she listened to his words she smiled. “O king,” she said, “thou hidest thy surprise but ill. Yet am I not offended, nor will I make a mystery of who I am. My name is Atalanta, and I come from the mountains of Arcadia, where all day long I hunt with the nymphs over hill and over dale, and through the dark forests, following in the footsteps of her we serve, great Diana the huntress. At her command I stand before thee now, for she said to me, ‘Atalanta, the land of Calydon lies groaning beneath the curse, wherewith I cursed them becausethey forgot me, and gave me not my dues. But do thou go and help them, and for thy sake I will lay aside my wrath, and let them slay the monster that I sent against them. Yet without thee shall they not accomplish it, but the glory of the hunt shall be thine.’ Thus did she speak, and in obedience to her word am I come.”
When she had spoken, a murmur ran round the hall, and each man, determined in his mind that no mere woman should surpass him in courage and strength. The sons of Thestius, the queen’s brothers, especially looked askance at her, and their hearts were filled with jealousy and wrath; for there seemed no reason why she should not be a match for any man among them, in a trial where swiftness of foot and sureness of eye would avail as much as brute force. When Meleager saw their dark looks he was very angry that they should so far forget their good breeding as to fail in welcoming a guest, and he rose from his seat and went towards her.
“O maiden,” he said, “we make thee right welcome to our halls, and we thank thee because thou hast heard our appeal, and art come to help us in the day of our trouble. Come, now, and sit thee down, and make glad thy heart with meat and wine, for thou must need it sorely after thy long journeying.”
As he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a place of honor between his father and himself, and saw that she had her fill of the good fare on the board. As he sat beside her and talked with her, his heart was kindled with love, for shewas exceeding fair to look upon; and the more he thought upon the morrow’s hunting, the more loath was he that she should risk her life in it. At length he said:
“Atalanta, surely thou knowest not what manner of beast it is that we are gathered together to destroy. Thou hast hunted the swift-footed stag, perchance, through the greenwood, but never a monster so fierce as this boar that Diana has sent against us. I tell thee, it will be no child’s play, but a matter of death to some of us. Hast thou no mother or father to mourn thee if any evil chance befall, or any lover who is longing for thy return? Think well ere it be too late.”
But she laughed aloud at his words. “Thou takest me for some drooping damsel that sits at home and spins, and faints if she see but a drop of blood. I tell thee, I know neither father, nor mother, nor husband, nor brother, and I love but little the lot of womenkind. Never have I lived within four walls, and the first roof that covered me was the forest-trees of Mount Parthenius. Whence I came or how I got to Parthenius no one can tell, and I have no wish to find out. As for savage beasts, had I not the eyes of a hawk and the feet of a deer, I had not been safe ten seconds on the uplands of Arcadia. For there dwells a fierce tribe of centaurs—monsters half human and half horse—who have the passions of men and the strength of beasts. These pursued me over hill and dale, and I fled like the wind before them; but ever and anon I found time to turn and let fly from my bow a dart which fell but seldom short of the mark.So that after a time they gave up in despair, and molested me no more. So talk not to me of fierce beasts or of danger.”
And nothing that Meleager could say would turn her from her purpose. But across the board he saw the eyes of Toxeus and Plexippus, his mother’s brothers, fixed upon him, and their brows were dark and lowering as they frowned upon him and Atalanta. So he said no more, lest they should discover his secret and taunt him. As for Atalanta, a stone would have returned his love as readily as she. For a companion in the hunt she liked him full well, but to give up her maiden life for his sake was as far from her thoughts as the east is from the west.
When the morrow dawned, great was the bustle and confusion in the court of the palace, where all were to meet together for the hunting of the boar. Attendants ran this way and that to fetch and carry for their masters, and, as the huntsman blew his horn, the hounds barked impatiently, and strained, whining, at their leashes. At length, when all was ready, Althæa with her maidens came forth into the portico, and bade farewell to her guests, her husband, her brothers, and to Meleager, her son. “God speed thee, my son,” she said, as she looked proudly on him, “and good luck to thy hunting.”
Then she stood on the step and waved to them with a smile as they turned to look back at her before the curve of the roadway hid them from sight. But though a smile was on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and her heart within her was darkwith a dim foreshadowing of evil. With a heavy step, she turned and went into the house, and as she passed the altar by the hearth she stopped and bowed her head. “Great Diana,” she prayed, “have mercy and bring my loved ones safely back to me this day.”
Then she went to her chamber and drew forth from its hiding-place the half-burnt brand on which her son’s life depended. “His life, at any rate, is safe,” she thought, “so long as this brand is in my keeping.” And she hid it away again where she knew no one could find it, and set to work restlessly, to while away the hours as best she could, till the hunters should come home.
They, meanwhile, had gone their way up the steep path which led into the mountains and deep into the heart of the forest, where they knew their prey was lurking. Soon they came upon the track of his hoofs leading to the dry bed of a stream, where the rushes and reeds grew high in the marsh-land, and the bending willows cast their shadow over the spot he had chosen for his lair. Here they spread the nets cautiously about, and stationed themselves at every point of vantage, and, when all was ready, let loose the hounds, and waited for the boar to come forth from his hiding-place. Not long did they have to wait. With a snort of rage he rushed out. The breath from his nostrils came forth like steam, and the white foam flew from his mouth and covered his bristly sides and neck. Quick as lightning, he made for the first man he could see, and the tramp of his hoofs re-echoed through the woods like thunder as hecame upon the hard ground. As soon as he rushed out, a shower of missiles fell towards him from every side, but some were aimed awry or fell too far or too short of him, and those that touched him slipped aside on his tough hide; and he broke through the nets that had been spread to catch him, and galloped away unharmed, whilst two of the hunters, who stood in his path, and had not been able to rush aside in time, lay groaning on the ground with the iron mark of his hoof upon them. When the rest saw that he had escaped they gave chase with all speed, headed by Castor and Pollux, on their white horses, and Atalanta close beside them, running swiftly as the wind. Ahead of them the woodland track gave a sudden turn to the left, and the boar, rushing blindly forward, would have plunged into the undergrowth and bushes, and escaped beyond range of their darts. But Atalanta, seeing what must happen, stopped short in the chase. Quick as thought, she put an arrow to the string, and let fly at the great beast ahead; and Diana, true to her word, guided the arrow so that it pierced him in the vital part behind the ear. With a snort of pain and fury, he turned round upon the hunters and charged down towards them as they came up from behind, and great would have been the havoc he had wrought among them but for Meleager. As the brute bore down, he leaped lightly to one side, and, gathering together all his strength, buried the spear deep into the beast’s black shoulder, and felled him to the earth with the force of his blow. Immediately the others gathered round, and helped to finish the work that Meleagerhad begun, and soon the monster lay dead upon the ground.
Then Meleager, with his foot upon the boar’s head, spoke to the hunters. “My friends,” he said, “I thank you all for the courage and devotion you have shown this day. My land can once more raise her head in joy, for the monster that wrought such havoc in her fields lies dead here at my feet. Yet the price of his death has not been light, my friends.” And they bowed their heads in silence, as they remembered the two whom the boar had struck in his rush, one of whom was now dead. “Yet those who have suffered, have suffered gloriously, giving up themselves, as brave men must, for the sake of others, and their names shall surely not be unremembered by us all. Once more, my trusty comrades, I thank you, every man of you. As for thee, lady,” he continued, turning to Atalanta, “while all have played their part, yet the glory of the hunt is thine. But for thy sure hand and eye the beast might yet be lurking in the forest. Wherefore, as a token of our gratitude, I will give to thee the boar’s head as a trophy to do with as thou wilt.”
At his words a murmur of applause went round the ring of them that listened. Only the voices of Toxeus and Plexippus were not heard, for they were mad with jealousy and wrath, and as soon as there was silence they spoke.
“By what right,” asked Toxeus, “shall one bear off the trophy of a hunt in which each one of us has played his part?”
The insolence of his words and looks roused theanger of Meleager to boiling-point. All through the hunt the brothers had shown scant courtesy to Atalanta, and now their rudeness was past bearing.
“By the same right as the best man bears off the prize in any contest,” he answered quietly, though he was pale with rage.
“Happy is that one who has first won the heart of the judge, then,” said Plexippus with a sneer, as he looked at Atalanta.
By the truth and the falsehood of his words Meleager was maddened past all bearing. Scarce knowing what he did, he sprang upon him, and before anyone knew what he was about, he had buried his hunting-knife in the heart of Plexippus. When Toxeus saw his brother fall back upon the grass, he sprang upon Meleager, and for a moment they swung backwards and forwards, held each in the other’s deadly grip. But Meleager was the younger and the stronger of the two, and soon Toxeus too lay stretched upon the ground beside his brother, and a cry of horror went through the crowd of those who stood by. Pale and trembling, Meleager turned towards them.
“My friends,” he said, “farewell. You shall look upon my face no more. Whether I slew them justly or no, the curse of Heaven is upon me, and I know that night and day the Furies will haunt my steps, because my hand is red with the blood of my kinsmen. O fair fields of Calydon, that I have loved and served all my days, farewell for ever. Never more shall I look upon you, nor my home on the steep hill-side, nor the face of thequeen, my mother; but I must hide my head in shame far from the haunts of men. As for thee, lady,” he said, turning to Atalanta, “their taunt was false, yet true. Right honorably didst thou win the trophy, as all these here will testify;” and he pointed to the hunters standing round. “Yet my soul leapt with joy when I found that into thine hand and none other’s I might give the prize of the hunt. Wherefore, think kindly on my memory, lady, when I am far away, for a brave man’s heart is in thy keeping. Farewell.”
And he turned and went away by the forest-path. So surprised were all the company that no man moved hand or foot to stop him. The first to speak was Atalanta. “Comrades,” she said, “do you bear home the dead and break the news as gently as may be to the queen, and I will follow him, if perchance I can comfort him, for the hand of Heaven is heavy upon him.”
The rumor had reached the city that the boar had been killed, but not without loss among the gallant band that had gone out against him, and with a heavy heart Althæa was waiting to know who it was that had fallen. In time she saw them returning home, and in their midst four litters carried on the shoulders of some. When she saw them, her heart stood still with fear, and as they came up and laid down the litters before the doorway she was as one turned to marble, and moved neither hand nor foot. When Œneus the king saw her, he took her gently by the hand. “Come within, lady,” he said; “the hunting of the boar has cost us dear.”
“Ah! tell me the worst at once,” she cried. “I can bear it better so. The suspense is maddening me.”
“Two of those who lie before thee are strangers who have given themselves for us,” he said. “One of them is sore wounded, and the other is gone beyond recovery. The other two, Althæa, are very near and dear to us—Toxeus and Plexippus, thy brothers.”
And he pointed to two of the bodies which lay side by side before her, with their faces covered. With a cry she drew back the coverings, and gazed upon the faces that she loved so well. As she looked, she saw the wounds that had killed them, and she knew now that it was no wild beast that had slain them, but the hand of man. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looked round on those who stood by, and the gleam of her eyes was terrible to see. “Deceive me no more,” she said, “but tell me how these two came to fall by the hand of man.”
“Lady,” said Œneus, “they sought a quarrel with one of our company, and in anger he slew them both.”
For a moment she was silent, then in a low voice, yet one that all could hear, she spoke. “My curse be upon him, whosoe’er he be. O Daughters of Destruction, wingless Furies, I bid you track his footsteps night and day. May no roof cover his head nor any man give him food or drink, but let him be a vagabond on the face of the earth till just vengeance overtake him. On thee, Œneus, do I lay this charge, and on my son Meleager, to avengethe death of these my kinsmen, who have been foully slain.”
In vain did Œneus try to stop her. She was as one deaf to his entreaties. When she had finished, she looked round for Meleager, and when she could not see him, she cried—“where is my son?”
“Lady,” said Œneus, “even now the wingless bearers of thy curse are hunting him through the forest.”
For a moment she swayed to and fro as though she would fall. “Ye gods, what have I done?” she muttered.
Then with a cry she turned and rushed through the doorway, across the deserted palace to her own chamber, and barring the door behind her, she took from its hiding-place the brand she had kept jealously so long. As on the day when the Fates had come to her, a bright fire was burning on the hearth, and deep into the heart of it she pushed the log with both her hands.
“O my son, my son!” she cried; “to think that I should come to this! But though the flame that devours thy life burns out my heart within me, yet must I do it. Thus only can I save thee from my curse. For the word, once spoken, never dies, and the Furies, once aroused, sleep never, night nor day. Wherefore Death alone can give thee peace, O Meleager, my first-born and my dearest.”
Œneus meanwhile had followed her, and stood without, asking her to open to him. But she cried out to him:
“All is well. I beg thee leave me. I would be alone.”
So he left her; and she stood watching the flames slowly eat the wood away, and at last, when the log fell apart in ashes, she sank down upon the floor, and with her son’s life hers too went out for grief.
Meleager meanwhile had gone blindly forward along the forest track, and from afar Atalanta followed him. For a time he went onward, straight as an arrow, never stopping, never turning. But when his mother’s curse was spoken, faster than the whirlwind the Furies flew from the realms of endless night, and came and crouched before his feet. With a cry he turned aside, and tried to flee from them, but wherever he looked they were there before him, and he reeled backward and forward like a drunken man. But soon his strength seemed to give way, and he fell forward on the grass, and Atalanta ran forward and took his head upon her knee. To her eyes they two were alone in the heart of the forest, for the foul shapes of the Furies he alone had seen. But now he lay with his eyes closed, faint and weak, and she thought that some time in the hunt he must have strained himself, and lay dying of some inward hurt that no man could heal, for on his body she could see not a scratch. So she sat in the gathering gloom with his head upon her lap. There was naught else she could do. At last, when his heart beat so faint that she thought it had stopped once for all, he opened his eyes and looked up at her, and when he saw her the fear and the madness died out of his face, and he smiled.
“The gods are kind,” he said. Once more heclosed his eyes, and Atalanta knew that he would open them never again. Gently she laid him with his head on the moss-covered roots of a tree, and sped away to the city to bear the news of his death. In the darkness of night they bore him through the forest, and all the people gathered together and watched from the walls the torchlit procession as it came slowly up the hill. By the side of his mother they laid him, and burned above them the torches of the dead, and the mourners, with heads bowed in grief, stood around.
Thus did it come to pass that the hunting of the boar ended in grief for the land of Calydon, and Atalanta went back to the Arcadian woodlands with a sore place in her heart for Meleager, who had died happy because his head was resting on her knee.
By Elsie Finnimore Buckley
Once upon a time there ruled in Arcadian Tegea a proud-hearted king named Schœnus. A tamer of horses was he, and a man mighty in the hunt and in battle. Above every other thing he loved danger and sport and all kinds of manly exercise. Indeed, these things were the passion of his life, and he despised all womenkind because they could take no part nor lot in them. And he wedded Clymene, a fair princess of a royal house, because he wished to raise up noble sons in his halls, who should ride and hunt with him, and carry on hisname when he was dead. On his wedding-day he swore a great oath, and called upon all the gods to witness it.
“Never,” he swore in his pride, “shall a maid child live in my halls. If a maid is born to me, she shall die ere her eyes see the light, and the honor of my house shall rest upon my sons alone.”
For many a long year no child was born to him, and when at last he had hopes of an heir, the babe that was born was a maid. When he saw the child his heart was cut in two, and the pride of a father and the pride of his oath did battle within him for victory.
The pride of his oath conquered, for he was afraid to break his word in the face of all his people. He hardened his heart, and gave orders that the child should be cast out upon the mountains to die of hunger and cold. So the babe was given to a servant, who bore it forth and left it on the slope of bleak Parthenium.
When Diana, the maiden goddess, saw the child cast forth to die, she was filled with anger against Schœnus, and swore that it should live. Wherefore she sent a she-bear to the place where the child lay, and softened the heart of the beast, so that she lifted it gently in her mouth and bore it to the cave where her own cubs lay hid. There she suckled it with her own young ones, and tended it night and day, till it grew strong and could walk, and the cave rang with its laughter as it played and gambolled with the young bears. When Diana knew that the child was old enough to live without its foster-mother, she sent her nymphs to fetch it away,and when they bore it to her she was well pleased to find it fair and strong.
“Her name shall be Atalanta,” she said to them. “She shall dwell on the mountains and in the woods of Arcadia, and be one of my band with you. A mighty huntress shall she be, and the swiftest of all mortals upon earth; and in time she shall return to her own folk and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts.”
Thus it came to pass that Atalanta lived with the nymphs in the woodlands of Arcadia. They taught her to run and to hunt, and to shoot with bow and arrows, till soon the day came when she could do these things as well as any of their band. Diana loved her, and delighted to do her honor; and when the land of Calydon cried to her for mercy, because of the boar she had sent to ravage it in her wrath, she decreed that none but Atalanta should have the glory of that hunt. The tale of how she came to Calydon, and how the boar was slain at last through her, I have told you before; and of how death came to Meleager, because he loved her, and would not let any man insult her while he stood idly by. By the fame of that hunt her name was carried far and wide through Greece, so that when she came to the funeral games of Pelias there was no need to ask who she was. She ran in the foot race against the swiftest in the land, and won the prize so easily that when she reached the goal the first man had scarce passed the turning-point, though he was no sluggard to make a mock of. When the games were over, she went back to Arcadia without a tear or a sigh, but her face and her memory livedin the heart of many a man whose very name she had not known.
The tale of how Atalanta went back to her own folk, and of how she was wooed and won, is as follows:
One day, when King Schœnus held a great hunt in the forest on the edge of his domain, it chanced that Atalanta had come to those parts; and when she heard the blare of the bugles and the barking of the hounds her heart leapt with joy. Full often had she joined in a hunt on the uplands of Arcadia, and run with the hounds.
So now she joined in the chase as the stag broke loose from cover, and her white feet flashed in the sunlight as she followed the hounds across the open moorland. King Schœnus, when he saw her, was glad.
“It is Atalanta, the maiden huntress,” he cried. “See that she be treated with due courtesy, for she is the only woman on earth who is fit to look a man in the face.”
And he rode eagerly after her. But the best horse in all that company was no match for Atalanta. Far ahead of them all she shot, like an arrow from the bow, and when at last the stag turned at bay in a pool, she was the first to reach him. When the rest had come up, and the huntsman had slain the stag, the king turned to her.
“Atalanta,” he said, “the trophy of this chase is thine, and my huntsman shall bear the head of the stag whithersoever thou shalt bid him. In token of our esteem, I beg thee to accept this ring. When thou lookest upon it, think kindly of an old manwhose heart is lonely, and who would fain have a daughter like thee.”
As he spoke he drew off a gold ring from his finger and held it towards her; the tears stood in his eyes and his hand shook as he looked on her fair young form, and remembered the babe he had cast out on the mountains to die. If she had lived she would have been at an age with Atalanta, and perchance as fair and as strong as she; and his heart was bitter against himself for the folly of his oath.
When Atalanta heard his words, she had a mind at first to refuse his gift. Many a man before had offered her gifts, and she had refused them every one; for she had no wish to be beholden to any man. But when she saw the eyes of the old king dim with tears, and how his hand shook as he held out the ring, her heart was softened, and yearned with a strange yearning towards him. Coming forward, she knelt at his feet and took the ring, and held his hand and kissed it.
“May the gods grant the prayer of thy heart, sire,” she said, “and give thee a daughter like unto me, but fairer and more wise than I!”
As he looked down on the hand that held his own the old king trembled more violently than before, for above the wrist was a birthmark like the birthmark above the wrist of the babe he had cast forth to die. And he knew that he made no mistake, for that mark had lived in his mind as though it had been branded with red-hot steel.
“Atalanta,” he said, “the gods have heard thy prayer. This is not the first time thy fingers have closed about mine.”
“What meanest thou, sire?” she asked.
“As many years ago as the span of thy young life,” he said, “I held in my arms a new-born babe, the child that the gods had given me, and its little hand with a birthmark above the wrist closed about my finger trustfully. But because of my foolish pride I hardened my heart. I cast away the gift of the gods and sent the child to die upon the mountains. But the birthmark on its wrist was branded on my brain so that I could not forget it. Never till this day have I seen that mark again, and now I see it on thy wrist, my child.”
He bowed his head as he spoke, and the tears from his eyes fell upon her hand, which lay in his as she knelt before him.
“Oh, my father!” she cried, and bent forward and kissed his hand.
When he found that she did not turn from him, though she knew what he had done, he was more deeply moved than before. “Atalanta,” he said, “when I cast thee forth to die, I gave back to the gods the life they had given me, and now I have no right to claim it again. Yet would thy presence be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come back to me, my child.”
Thus did the call come to Atalanta to return to her own folk, and the choice lay before her. On the one side was her free life in the forest, with Diana and her nymphs, the hunt, the fresh air, and all the things that she loved; on the other was life within the walls of a city, and the need to bow her head to the customs and the ways of men. Her heart misgave her when she thought of it.
“My lord,” she said, “will a young lion step into the cage of his own free will, think you?”
The old king bowed his head at her words. “Alas! what other answer could I look for?” he said. “I thank the gods that they have shown me thy fair face this day. Perchance, when we hunt again in these parts, thou wilt join us for love of the chase. Till then, my child, farewell.”
With trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on the forehead. Then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and mounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. When they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon her way. But her eyes were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights and sounds she loved so well, and that night she tossed restlessly upon her couch of moss. For before her eyes was the figure of an old man bowed with sorrow, and in her ear his voice pleaded, trembling with longing and love.
In the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream close by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head. Then she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver about her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till she came to the white road that led to the city. Then she turned and looked back at the forest.
“Dear trees and woods,” she said, “farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell in the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. When I have trodden the white road and gone up to the city, Ican live with you no more. As for thee, great Diana, who saved me in the beginning, I will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days, and a lover of the hunt.” So saying she stepped out bravely on the white highway, and went up into the city, till she came to the gate of the palace. When she had entered the hall, she stopped and looked about her. At first all seemed silent and deserted for the folk had gone their several ways for the work of the day; but at length she spied an old man sitting on a carved chair in one of the alcoves between the pillars. It was the king, her father. He sat with his head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the floor, and his face was sad and full of longing. And she went and knelt at his feet. The old man gazed for a moment in her face, as though he did not see her; then he started from his chair and laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Atalanta!” he cried.
“My father,” she said, “I have come back to thee.”
Then he gathered her up in his arms. “Oh, my child, my child!” he said. “The gods are kind beyond my desert.”
“Thy voice cried out to me in the night-time,” she said, “and I could not shut my heart to thy pleading. The call of the free earth was strong, but the call of my blood was stronger.”
Thus did Atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the heart of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms. A great feast was held in the palace in her honor, and through all the city the people rejoiced because ofher. Suitors flocked from far and wide to seek her hand in marriage. But she treated them one and all with scorn, and vowed that she would never wed. At first her father smiled upon her, and looked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was not to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. So he gathered about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that among them all there would be one who could win her heart. But the months passed by, and still she vowed that she would never wed. All her delight was in running and hunting, and to ride by her father’s side. At length the king grew anxious.
“Surely, my child,” he said, “among all these princes there is one whom thou couldst love?”
“I shall never love any man but thee, my father,” she replied.
Nothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her resolve. But still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length she grew so wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that would rid her of all her suitors.
“My father,” she said, “I will wed any man who shall ask for my hand, if he will fulfill one condition.”
“My child,” cried her father, “I knew that in the end thou wouldst listen to reason. Tell me thy condition, that I may spread it abroad among those who are suing for thy hand.”
“Tell them,” she said, “that I will wed the first man among them who will run a race with me. If he win, I will be his bride, but if he lose, he must die.”
The king’s face fell when he heard her words. “Surely thou speakest in mockery, Atalanta,” he said. “No man in all the world can run as swiftly as thou canst, and they know it. Thou wilt drive thy suitors from thee; or if any be foolhardy enough to run with thee, they will run to a certain death.”
“No man will run to a certain death, my father,” she answered. “When they know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back to their own folk, and I shall be troubled with suitors no more.”
So he published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made. When they heard it there was great consternation among them, and they consulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a deputation to her to find out the meaning of her words.
“Lady,” they asked, “when thou speakest of death thou speakest perchance in parables. Those who run in the race with thee and are outstripped must give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no more. And this would be death indeed to them that love thee.”
But she laughed in their faces. “He who courts death may race with me at daybreak, and at sunset he shall drink the poison-cup without fail, and look neither on my face again nor the face of any living thing. Have I spoken plainly now?”
The next day there was great confusion in the halls of King Schœnus. There was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this way and that. Chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in the court, and baggage was piled high behindthe horses. And Atalanta laughed aloud at the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor came and kissed her hand and bade her farewell.
That night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been for many a long day. Yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in no haste to be gone.
“They are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition,” said the king.
Then Atalanta herself went and pleaded with them.
But they replied, “Lady, thou hast given the condition of thy marrying, and we are waiting to fulfil it.”
Thus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready for the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of them should be the first to run against her. In the early morning, before the sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded to the course to watch it. The man ran well and bravely, but his speed was as child’s play to Atalanta. She put forth her strength like a greyhound that is content to run for a while before the horses, but when he scents a hare, can leave them far behind. Even so did Atalanta run, and came in cool and fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in hot and panting behind her.
Thus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison cup because of his love for Atalanta. With a smiling face did he drink it, as a man drinks at a feast.
And now a time of darkness and mourning fellupon the land, and many a day in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some noble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without Atalanta. And Atalanta’s heart was sore within her, because of the rash condition she had made in her ignorance. When she would fain have recalled her words it was too late, for the suitors bound her to her promise.
“Either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let us take our chance of winning thee or death,” they said.
And she was forced to run with them. For in her heart she knew that even death was happier for a man than to win her without her love.
Thus were the words of Diana fulfilled when she said, “In time she shall return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts.”
One day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that a race was to be run. The night before he had slept in a village near by, and the people had told him the tale of Atalanta, and how on the morrow another suitor was to run to his death. But he scoffed at their words.
“No man would run to certain death,” he said, “were the maid as fair as Venus.”
“Go and see for thyself,” they replied. “Soon we shall hear that thou too wilt run in the race.”
“Never,” he said; “no woman can cheat my life from me.”
But they shook their heads unconvinced. “Many before thee have spoken likewise,” said they, “and yet they have run.”
“If I run, I will run to win,” he answered.
“Can a snail outstrip a deer?” they asked.
“It might so chance,” said he.
“Thou art mad,” they cried.
“Better to be mad on earth than sane in Hades,” he replied.
But they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their fingers on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at random.
“Well, well,” he said, with a laugh, “we shall see what we shall see.”
The next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with the crowd, he made his way to the race-course, and found for himself a place where he could watch the whole sight with ease. The race was run, and ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung with black. But in the mind of the stranger an image remained which had not been there before—the image of a maid whose white feet flashed in the sunlight and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag swings in the breeze.
“Great Hercules!” he thought within himself, “to run shoulder to shoulder with her for a moment, even in a race for death, might be worth the while after all. I will make myself known at the palace, and see what the gods will give me.”
For some days he lay hid in the city, till he thought the time was ripe for him to go up to the palace of the king. Then he went for a walk along the highway, and when he was covered with dust and grime, he returned to the city and made his way at once to the palace.
When Atalanta saw a stranger at the board herheart sank within her, and she kept her eyes turned away, as though she had not seen him, for she made sure that he too had come to run in the race with her. It chanced that night that the company was scanty, and no man talked in private to his neighbor, but the conversation leapt from one end of the board to the other, as each one took his share in it and said his say. The stranger, too, took his part with the rest of them, in nowise abashed; and so shrewd were his words, and so full of wit, that soon he had a smile upon the face of each one at the table. For many a long day the talk had not been so merry nor the laughter so loud at the table of King Schœnus. Atalanta, too, forgot her constraint, and talked and laughed freely with the stranger; and he answered her back, as though it had been man to man, and showed no more deference to her than to the others of the company.
When the meal was over, the king approached the stranger, and Atalanta stood beside him.
“Sir,” said the king, “thy name and thy country are still hid from us, but we are grateful for thy coming, and would be fain for thee to stay as long as it shall please thee.”
“I thank thee, sire,” said the stranger, “but I am bound by a strange vow. I may not reveal my name, nor accept hospitality for more than one night from any man, till I come to a house where none other than the king’s daughter shall promise me her hand in marriage. From the tales I have heard in the neighboring country, I have learnt that I may not hope to end my vow beneath this roof—though indeed,” he said, turning to Atalanta,“I would fain press my suit if there were any chance of success.”
But Atalanta threw back her head at his words. “Thou hast doubtless heard the condition,” she said, “by the fulfilment of which alone a man may win my hand.”
“Alas, sir!” said the king, “I would press no man to try his luck in that venture.”
“Since that is so,” said the stranger, “I will go forth once more upon my journey at break of day, and see what luck the gods will give me. I thank thee for thy kindly hospitality this night, and beg thee to excuse me. I have travelled far, and would fain rest now, as I must go a long distance ere I can rest again.”
Thereupon he took his leave of King Schœnus and his daughter. But she, for all her pride, could not forget the man who seemed to bid her farewell with so light a heart.
It was her custom to rise early in the morning, before the rest of the household was stirring, and to go forth alone into the woods; and it was the lot of one of the slaves to rouse himself betimes to give her food ere she went, so that when she appeared, as was her wont, he thought nothing of it. The stranger had risen even earlier than she, and the slave was waiting upon him.
“Good-morrow, sir,” she said. “It is not often I have a companion when I break my fast.” Then she turned to the slave, “Thou mayest get thee back to thy bed,” she said, “and sleep out thy sleep in peace. I will see to the wants of our guest and speed him on his way.”
Thereupon Atalanta sat down at the board beside the stranger, and they fell to with all the appetite of youth and health; and as they ate they laughed and joked, and talked of strange lands they both had seen and adventures that had befallen them. In the space of one-half hour they were as good friends as though they had known each other all their lives.
When they had finished their meal the stranger rose. “I must bid thee farewell, lady,” he said.
“Nay, not yet,” she replied; “I will set thee on thy way, and show thee a road through the forest that will bring thee to the city thou seekest. I know every track and path as well as the wild deer know them.”
He tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen, and led him out from the palace by a side gate, which she unbarred with her own hands. Down through the sleeping streets they went, where the shadows of the houses lay long upon the ground, and out across the open downs into the shade of the forest. At length they came to a broad track that crossed the path they were in, and Atalanta stopped short and pointed to the right.
“From here,” she said, “thou canst not miss thy way. Follow the track till it lead thee to the highroad, and when thou strikest the highroad, turn to the left, and thou wilt come to the city thou seekest.”
Then she held out her hand to him. “I must bid thee farewell,” she said, “and good luck to the ending of thy vow.”
“Lady,” he said, and took her hand in his, “ifthou wilt, thou canst release me now from my vow.”
But she drew her hand away sharply and tossed back her head. “Many kings have daughters besides King Schœnus,” she said, “and any one of them could release thee from thy vow as well as I.”
“Atalanta,” he said, “no king’s daughter save thee shall ever release me from my vow. From the first moment that I saw thee I loved thee.”
“Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art thou willing to run in the race?”
“Much good will my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup. Nay, nay,” he said; “I love thee too well to put my death at thy door. When I have some chance of winning the race, I will come back and claim thee. In the meantime, lady, farewell.”
And, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as looking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and anger.
Day after day passed by, and he came not. “He is a man of his word,” she thought at last. “Till he has some chance of winning he will not come back. And he is no fool. He knows he can never run as I can run. He will never come back.”
Yet for all this she watched for him. When she went forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way. The weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as Atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. When bychance she raised her eyes, there at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her thoughts.
“I have come back, lady,” he said.
“Oh!” she cried from her heart, “I am glad thou hast come back.”
Then he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence side by side along the path they had walked before. As they drew near to the edge of the forest, Atalanta was the first to speak.
“And thy vow,” she asked—“hast thou found release from it?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “I am come back to run the race, that I may win release.”
Once again the spirit of perversity came upon her. “Where hast thou learnt to run like the wind?” she asked.
“I have not learnt to run like the wind,” he replied. “I have learnt something better than that.”
“Few things are better in a race than swiftness,” she said.
“True,” he answered; “yet I have found the one thing better.”
“What is this strange thing?” she asked.
“When we have run the race, thou wilt know,” he said.
“I have grown no sluggard,” she said, with a toss of her head, as though to warn him that her speed was not a thing to be despised. So they came to the palace, and from the lowest to the highest the inmates greeted the stranger with joy. For he had won the hearts of them all by his wit and his genialsmile. But they sighed when they heard that he too had come to run in the fatal race.
“Alas!” said the old king, shaking his head, “I had rather not have looked upon thy face again than see thee back on such an errand.”
The young man laughed. “He who runs with a fair hope of winning runs swiftly,” he said. “The others were dragged down by the shackles of their own despair.”
“Thou dost not know my daughter,” said the king.
“Mayhap I know her better than thou thinkest, and better than thou knowest her thyself,” said the stranger.
No arguments or entreaties would turn him from his purpose. “I must win release from my vow,” he said. “I cannot live all my life a nameless wanderer. Yet will I not wed any woman I love not, for the sake of my release. Atalanta alone can save me, for I love none other.”
So the lists once again were prepared, and the course made smooth for the race. The folk were gathered together round the course, and Atalanta and the stranger stood ready and waiting for the word to be given. She had made it a condition of the race that her rivals should have a good start of her, and she stood with her eyes upon the stranger’s back, as he waited many paces before her. All too soon the word was given, and he sprang forward from his place, like a dog which has been straining at his leash springs forward when the hook is unloosed. And Atalanta, too, sprang forward; but whereas the man ran like a hunted thing thatstrains every muscle to save its life, she ran with the swinging grace of a wild deer that, far away from the hunters and hounds, crosses the springing turf of the lonely moor, fearless and proud, as he throws back his antlers in the breeze. Thus did Atalanta run, as though she had no thought of the race, or of the man who ran for his life. Yet, though she seemed to make no effort, she gained upon her rival at every step, and now she was running close behind him, and now she was almost shoulder to shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic. Then for a moment he slackened his pace, and it seemed that she would pass him, and on every side the people shouted out to him, “Run, run! Faster, faster! She will pass thee.”
But he put his hand into the opening of his tunic, and drew forth something from his breast. Then his hand swung up above his head, and from it there flashed a dazzling fiery apple. Up and down through the air it flashed like a meteor, and rolled along the grass, till it stopped far away in the center of the course, and lay shining like a jewel in the rays of the sun. Every eye was turned from the race to watch its gleaming flight, and Atalanta stopped short and watched it too. When she saw it stop still in the middle of the course, flashing and sparkling in the grass, a great desire sprang up in her heart to have it—a desire that she could not resist. And she darted aside out of the path of the race and went and picked up the shining golden apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic. Meanwhile the stranger had lost no time, and whenAtalanta came back to the spot she had left, he was far ahead upon the course, and she had to run with a will if she wished to overtake him. But once again she gained upon him, and the space between them grew less and less, till they were running well nigh shoulder to shoulder. And once again he saw the gleam of her tunic beside him; and again he slackened his speed for a moment, and sent a second gleaming apple into the air. Once more the desire sprang up in Atalanta’s heart, and, leaving the course, she picked up the second apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic beside the first. By the time she had returned to the path the stranger had rounded the turning-point and was well on his way towards the goal, and she put forth all her strength to overtake him. But the ease of her running was gone. She ran as one who runs bearing a burden, yet she would not cast away the golden apples in her bosom; for though they hampered her, she gained upon her rival, and for the third time they were running almost shoulder to shoulder. And again, the third time, the same thing happened, and Atalanta left the course to pick up the shining fruit. This time when she returned to her place the stranger was close upon the goal, and all around the people were shouting and waving their hands. With all the strength that was left in her she made a great spurt to overtake him. If she would cast away the golden apples, she might yet win the race; but the same mad desire which had spurred her to pick them up forbade her now to let them go. As she ran they seemed to grow heavier and heavier in her bosom;yet she struggled and panted on, and step by step did she gain upon him, though her eyes were darkened to all but his form and the goal ahead. On every side the people shouted louder than before, for they knew not now which of them would win. As they drew near to the goal they were again almost shoulder to shoulder, and the stranger saw once more the flash of Atalanta’s tunic beside him, while there were yet some paces to run. Then he gave a great spurt forward, and leapt away from her side. She tried to do likewise, but her strength was gone. She had made her last effort before. Thus did it come to pass that the stranger ran in first to the goal, and, running close upon his heels, Atalanta fell breathless into his arms as he turned to catch her. She had run twice as far as he, but what matter if he had not outsped her. He had won the race. The tears shone in her eyes, but he knew they were not tears of grief; and in the face of all the people he kissed her.
Thus was Atalanta, the swiftest of all mortals, beaten in the race by the stranger, and learnt from his lips what it was that he had found on his travels that had made speed of no avail in the race.
For after they had come back to the city, surrounded by the joyous folk, and had passed hand in hand beneath the gateway; after he had revealed to them all that he was Milanion, the son of Amphidamas, and the old king had fallen on his neck and given him his blessing, because he proved to be the son of his own boyhood’s friend, and the man of all others he would have chosen for his son-in-law—afterall this, when the speeches and the merrymaking were over, they two walked on the moonlit court of the palace.
“Tell me their secret,” she said, and held out the fruit in her hands.
“Their secret lies in thy heart, Atalanta,” he answered.
“What meanest thou?” she asked.
“When I left thee at the parting of the ways,” he said, “I travelled many a weary league by land, and on the road I passed many a shrine of Venus. But I never passed them by without lifting up my hands in prayer to the goddess, for I knew that she could help me if she would, and I knew that to them that love truly she is ever kind in the end. But I wandered till I was footsore and weary, and yet I had no sign. At length I came to the seashore, and took ship for the pleasant isle of Cyprus, which is her home. There at last she came to me, walking on the waves of the sea. As I lay on the shore in the night-time, I saw her as a great light afar, and she drew near to me with the foam playing white about her feet. In her hand she bore three shining golden apples.
“‘Fear not, Milanion,’ she said; ‘I have heard the cry of thy heart. Here are three apples from mine own apple-tree. If she whom thou lovest loves thee in return, she cannot resist the spell of their golden brightness. When thou runnest against her, cast them one by one into the middle of the course. If she love thee she will turn aside to pick them up. For her they will be heavy as the gold they seem made of. For thee they willbe light as the fruit whose form they wear. Farewell and good luck to thy race.’
“Thereupon darkness came over my eyes, and I could find no words to thank her. When I awoke I thought it had been a dream, but lo! by my side upon the sand lay the apples, shining in the sunlight.”
“And thy vow?” asked Atalanta. “How camest thou to make such a vow?”
He laughed at her words. “Long ago in my father’s house I heard of thee and how thou couldst cast such a spell upon the hearts of men that for thy sake they would fling away their lives. And a great desire came upon me to see this thing for myself, for I could scarce believe it. So I set forth alone to find thee, and hid my name from all men as I journeyed, for thus could I be more free to act as seemed best in mine own eyes. And I saw thee run in a race, and that glimpse was enough to tell me that I too one day must run with thee. Yet was I more wary than my rivals. I knew that to come as a suitor was the way to turn thy heart to stone. Wherefore I pretended to be bound by a vow, which would bring me as a passing stranger before thee. Deep in my heart I felt that when a man desires one thing on earth above every other—when he loves that thing better than life itself, he is likely to win it in the end, if he walk patiently step by step in faith. He will win that thing, or death, in his struggle for it; and he is content that so it should be.”