Chapter XVI: The English Warship (3)

Having collected together the largest diamonds I could find, and put them into the leather bag in which I used to carry my provisions, I took the largest of the pieces of meat, tied it close round me with the cloth of my turban, and then laid myself upon the ground, with my face downward, the bag of diamonds being made fast to my girdle.

I had scarcely placed myself in this posture, when one of the eagles, having taken me up with the piece of meat to which I was fastened, carried me to his nest on the top of the mountain. The merchants immediately began their shouting to frighten the eagles; and when they had obliged them to quit their prey, one of them came to the nest where I was. He was much alarmed when he saw me; but recovering himself, instead of inquiring how I came thither, began to quarrel with me, and asked why I stole his goods. "You will treat me," replied I, "with more civility, when you know me better. Do not be uneasy; I have diamonds enough for you and myself, more than all the other merchants together. Whatever they have they owe to chance; but I selected for myself, in the bottom of the valley, those which you see in this bag." I had scarcely done speaking, when the other merchants came crowding about us, much astonished to see me; but they were much more surprised when I told them my story.

They conducted me to their encampment; and when I had opened my bag, they were surprised at the largeness of my diamonds, and confessed that they had never seen any of such size and perfection. I prayed the merchant who owned the nest to which I had been carried (for every merchant had his own) to take as many of his share as he pleased. He contented himself with one, and that, too, the least of them; and when I pressed him to take more, without fear of doing me any injury, "No," said he, "I am very well satisfied with this, which is valuable enough to save me the trouble of making any more voyages, and will raise as great a fortune as I desire."

I spent the night with the merchants, to whom I related my story a second time, for the satisfaction of those who had not heard it. I could not moderate my joy when I found myself delivered from the danger I have mentioned. I thought myself in a dream, and could scarcely believe myself out of danger.

The merchants had thrown their pieces of meat into the valley for several days; and each of them being satisfied with the diamonds that had fallen to his lot, we left the place the next morning, and traveled near high mountains, where there were serpents of a prodigious length, which we had the good fortune to escape. We took shipping at the first port we reached, and touched at the isle of Roha.

In this island is found the rhinoceros, an animal less than the elephant, but larger than the buffalo. It has a horn upon its nose, about a cubit in length; this horn is solid, and cleft through the middle. The rhinoceros fights with the elephant, runs his horn into his belly, and carries him off upon his head; but the blood and the fat of the elephant run into his eyes and make him blind, and he falls to the ground. Then, strange to relate, the roc comes and carries them both away in her claws, for food for her young ones.

I pass over many other things peculiar to this island, lest I should weary you. Here I exchanged some of my diamonds for merchandise. From thence we went to other islands, and at last, having touched at several trading towns of the continent, we landed at Bussorah, from whence I proceeded to Bagdad. There I immediately gave large presents to the poor, and lived honorably upon the vast riches I had brought, and gained with so much fatigue.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall,--

Over the mountains, winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic-window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat, left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill. And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!

BEOWULF AND GRENDEL

NOTE.--The oldest poem in the English language is Beowulf, which covers some six thousand lines. When it was written is not exactly known, but the original is still in existence in the British Museum. It was written in Anglo-Saxon and could not be read and understood by us to-day. It has, however, been translated and turned into modern English, and its quaintness of phrasing gives it a very peculiar charm of its own.

An old Anglo-Saxon poem bears little resemblance to ours. There is no rhyme, and the lines are not equal in length, and there does not seem to be much music in it. One of its poetic characteristics is alliteration; that is, several words in the same line begin with the same or similar sounds. It is a noble old poem, however, and of great interest, for it shows us what the old Saxon gleemen sang at their feasts for the entertainment of their guests, as they sat about the blazing fires in the huge, rude halls, drinking their mead.

The chief incident in the poem is Beowulf's battle with Grendel, and a description of that, taken indirectly from the poem, is the story that follows. After this combat Beowulf returned to his home, in time was made king, and after a stormy life died from wounds received in combat with a terrible fire fiend.

When the history of the Danes begins they had no kings and suffered much at the hands of their neighbors. Then by way of the sea, from some unknown land, came Scef, who subdued the neighboring tribes and established the Danish throne on a firm foundation. His son and his son's son followed him, but the latter sailed away as his grandfather had come, and the race of ruler gods was ended.

Left to themselves, the Danes chose a king who ruled long and well and left his son Hrothgar to make of them a wealthy and prosperous people.

After years of warfare, when the prosperity of Hrothgar was fully established, it came into his mind to build a great hall where he and his warriors and counselors could meet around one common banquet table and where, as they drank their mead, they could discuss means for increasing their power and making better the condition of their peoples. High-arched and beautiful was the great mead-palace, with towering pinnacles and marvelous walls, and the name that he gave to the palace was Heorot, the HART or, as some say, the HEART. When the noble building was finished, Hrothgar's heart was filled with joy, and he gave to his counselors a noble feast, at which he presented them with rings and ornaments and entertained them with music on the harps and the inspiring songs of the Skalds.

Far away in the marshes, in the dark and solemn land where dwelt the Jotuns, the giants who warred against God's people, lived the grim and ferocious Grendel, more terrible than any of his brethren. From out of the fastnesses of his gloomy home he saw the fair building of Hrothgar and grew jealous of the Danish king, hating the united people, for peace and harmony were evil in his sight.

The feast was long over, and the thanes and warriors slept in the banquet hall, worn out by their rejoicing, but dreaming only of the peaceful days to follow their long years of warfare. Into the midst of the hall crept Grendel, and seized in his mighty arms full thirty of the sleeping men and carried them away to his noisome home, where he feasted at leisure upon their bodies.

The next morning there was grief and terror among the remaining Danes, for they knew that no human being could have wrought such havoc and that no human power could prevail against the monster who preyed upon them.

The next night Grendel came again and levied his second tribute, and again there was mourning and desolation in the land. Thus for twelve years the monster giant came at intervals and carried away many of the noblest in the kingdom. Then were there empty homes everywhere in the land, and sorrow and suffering came where joy and peace had rested. Strange as it may seem, Hrothgar himself was never touched, though he sat the night long watching his nobles as they slept in the mead-hall, hoping himself to deliver them from the awful power that harassed them. But night after night Grendel came, and while Hrothgar remained unharmed he was equally powerless to stay the ravages of the giant. Hrothgar bowed his head in sorrow and prayed to his gods to send help before all his noble vassals perished.

Far to the westward, among strange people, lived a man, the strongest and greatest of his race, Beowulf by name. To him came the news of Grendel's deeds and of Hrothgar's sorrow, and his soul was filled with a fiery ambition to free the Danes. From among his warriors he selected fifteen of the boldest and strongest, and put out to sea in a new ship, pitched within and without, to seek the land of the Danes and to offer his help to Hrothgar. Over the white sea waves dashed the noble vessel, flinging the foam aside from her swanlike prow until before her showed the cliffs and wind-swept mountain sides of Denmark. Giving thanks to God for their prosperous voyage, they landed, donned their heavy armor and marched in silence to the palace Heorot.

Entering the hall with clanking armor they set their brazen shields against the wall, piled their steel-headed spears in a heap by the door, and bowed to Hrothgar, who, bowed with sorrow and years, sat silently among his earls. When Beowulf rose among his warriors he towered high above them, godlike in his glittering armor. Hrothgar looked on him in wonder, but felt that he saw in the mighty man a deliverer sent in answer to his prayer.

Before Hrothgar could recover from his surprise and delight, Beowulf stretched forth his powerful arms and spoke: "Hail, Hrothgar, king of the Danes. Many a time and oft have I fought with the Jotuns, evil and powerful, and every time have I overcome, and now have I come unto the land of the Danes to undertake battle with the fierce Grendel. No human weapon hath power against a Jotun, so here in your mead-hall leave I my weapons all, and empty-handed and alone will I pit my strength against the horrid Grendel. Man to man, strength to strength, will I fight, till victory is mine or death befalleth me.

"If I perish, give my companions my shroud and send it home by them in my new ship across the sea. Let there be no mourning for me, for to every man Fate cometh at last."

Hrothgar answered, "Noble you are, O Beowulf, and powerful, but terrible indeed is Grendel. Many a time at eventide have my warriors fearlessly vowed to await the coming of Grendel and to fight with him as you propose; but when morning came, the floor of Heorot was deep with their blood, but no other trace of them remained. Before, however, we accept your valiant offer, sit this night at meat, where, by our old and honored custom, we incite each other to heroic deeds and valorous behavior, when night shall come and Grendel claim his prey."

A royal feast it was that the old king gave that night, and the golden mead flowed from the twisted cups in living streams, while the Skalds sang the valorous deeds of heroic Danes of old.

Then rose Beowulf to speak. "To-night Grendel cometh again, expecting no one to fight him for many a time hath he levied his toll and escaped without harm. Here alone with myself will I keep vigil, and alone will I fight the foul fiend. To-morrow morning the sun will glorify my victory or I shall be a corpse in the dark and noisome home of the ogre."

The eye of the gray-haired king grew bright again as he listened to the brave words of Beowulf, and from her throne the queen in her bejeweled garments stepped down to Beowulf and presented him the loving-cup with words of gracious encouragement.

"No more shall Grendel feast upon the bodies of royal Danes, for to- night his foul body shall feel the powerful grip of my mighty hands," said Beowulf.

To their proper resting places in the hall stepped the Danish warriors, one by one, filing in a steady line past the great Beowulf, to whom each gave kindly greeting. Last of all came Hrothgar, and as he passed, he grasped the strong fingers of Beowulf and said, "To your keeping I leave my great hall, Heorot. Never before have I passed the duty on to any man. Be thou brave and valiant, and if victory cometh to thee no reward shall be too great for thy service."

And so the king departed, and silence fell over Heorot.

Left alone, Beowulf laid aside his iron mail, took off his brazen helmet and ungirded his trusty sword. Then unarmed and unprotected he lay down upon his bed. All about the palace slept, but Beowulf could find no rest upon his couch.

In the dim light of the early morn, forth from the pale mists of the marshes, stalked Grendel, up to the door of the many-windowed Heorot. Fire-strengthened were the iron bands with which the doors were bound, but he tore them away like wisps of straw and walked across the sounding tiles of the many-colored floor. Like strokes of vivid lightning flashed the fire from his eyes, making before him all things as clear as noonday. Beowulf, on his sleepless couch, held his breath as the fierce ogre gloated savagely over the bountiful feast he saw spread before him in the bodies of the sleeping Danes. With moistening lips he trod among the silent braves, and Beowulf saw him choose the strongest and noblest of them all. Quickly the monster stooped, seized the sleeping earl, and with one fierce stroke of his massive jaw, tore open the throat of the warrior and drank his steaming blood. Then he tore the corpse limb from limb and with horrid glee crunched the bones of his victim's hands.

Then spying the sleeping Beowulf he dropped his mangled prey and laid his rough hands on his watchful enemy. Suddenly Beowulf raised himself upon one elbow and fastened his strong grip on the astonished Jotun. Never before had Grendel felt such a grip of steel. He straightened his mighty back and flung the clinging Beowulf toward the door, but never for a moment did the brave champion relax his fierce grip, and the ogre was thrown back into the center of the hall. Together they fell upon the beautiful pavement and rolled about in their mighty struggles till the walls of the palace shook as in a hurricane and the very pinnacles toppled from their secure foundations. The walls of Heorot fell not, but the floor was strewn with broken benches whose gold trappings were torn like paper, while the two struggled on the floor in the wreck of drinking horns and costly vessels from the tables, while over all slopped ale from the mammoth tankards. Backward and forward they struggled, sometimes upon their feet and again upon the floor; but with all his fearsome struggles, Grendel could not break that grip of steel. At last, with one mighty wrench, Grendel tore himself free, leaving in the tightly locked hands of Beowulf his strong right arm and even his shoulder blade, torn raggedly from his body. Roaring with pain from the gaping wound which extended from neck to waist, the ogre fled to the marshes, into whose slimy depths he fell; and there he slowly bled to death. Fair shone the sun on Heorot the next morning when the warriors came from all directions to celebrate the marvelous prowess of Beowulf, who stalked in triumph through the hall with his bloody trophy held on high. Close by the throne of the king he hung Grendel's shoulder, arm, and hand, where all might see and test the strength of its mighty muscles and the steel-like hardness of its nails, which no human sword of choicest steel could mark or mar. With bursting heart, Hrothgar thanked God for his deliverance and gave credit to Beowulf for his valorous deed. First was the wreck of the savage encounter cleared away, then were the iron bands refastened on the door and the tables spread for a costly feast of general rejoicing. There amid the songs of the Skalds and the shouts of the warriors, the queen poured forth the sacred mead and handed it to Beowulf in the royal cup of massive gold. As the rejoicing grew more general, the king showered gifts upon Beowulf, an ensign and a helm, a breastplate and a sword, each covered with twisted gold and set with precious stones. Eight splendid horses, trapped in costly housings trimmed with golden thread and set with jewels, were led before Beowulf, and their silken bridles were laid within his hand. With her own hand the queen gave him a massive ring of russet gold sparkling with diamonds, the finest in the land.

"May happiness and good fortune attend thee, Beowulf," she said, "and ever may these well-earned gifts remind thee of those whom thou hast succored from deadly peril; and as the years advance may fame roll in upon thee as roll the billows upon the rocky shores of our beloved kingdom."

When the feast was over Hrothgar and his queen departed from the hall, and Beowulf retired to the When the feast was over Hrothgar and his queen departed from the hall, and Beowulf retired to the house they had prepared for him. But the warriors remained as was their custom, and, girt in their coats of chained mail, with swords ready at hand, they lay down upon the floor to sleep, prepared to answer on the instant any call their lord should make. Dense darkness closed upon the hall, and the Danes slept peacefully, unaware that danger threatened.

When midnight came, out of the cold waters of the reedy fastnesses in the marsh came Grendel's mother, fierce and terrible in her wrath, burning to avenge the death of her son. Like Grendel she wrenched the door from its iron fastenings and trod across the figured floor of Heorot. With bitter malice she seized the favorite counselor of Hrothgar and rent his body limb from limb. Then seizing from the wall the arm and shoulder of her son she ran quickly from the hall and hid herself in her noisome lair.

The noise of her savage work aroused the sleeping Danes, and so loud were their cries of anger and dismay that Hrothgar heard, and rushed forth to Heorot, where Beowulf met him.

As soon as Hrothgar heard what had happened he turned to Beowulf and cried, "O, mighty champion of the Danes, yet again has grief and sorrow come upon me, for my favorite war companion and chief counselor has been foully murdered by Grendel's mother, nor can we tell who next will suffer from the foul fiend's wrath.

"Scarcely a mile from this place, in the depths of a grove of moss- covered trees, which are hoary with age, and whose interlacing branches shut out the light of the sun, lies a stagnant pool. Around the edges of its foul black water twine the snake-like roots of the trees, and on its loathsome surface at night the magic fires burn dimly. In the midst of the pond, shunned alike by man and beast, lives the wolf-like mother of Grendel. Darest thou to enter its stagnant depths to do battle with the monster and to deliver us from her ravages?"

Straightening his massive form and throwing back his head in fierce determination, Beowulf replied, "To avenge a friend is better than to mourn for him. No man can hasten or delay by a single moment his death hour. What fate awaiteth me I know not, but I dare anything to wreak vengeance on the foul murderer, and in my efforts to bring justice I take no thought of the future."

Then the king Hrothgar ordered a noble steed with arching neck and tossing mane to be saddled and brought forth for the noble Beowulf to ride. Shield bearers by the score accompanied him as he rode on the narrow bridle path, between those dark-frowning cliffs whose rugged trees dimmed the sun and made the journey seem as though it were in twilight. In such a manner came they to the desolate lake in the gloomy wood.

The sight that met the eyes of Beowulf was enough to chill the blood of any man. On the shore among the tangled roots of the trees crawled hideous poisonous snakes, while on the surface of the water rolled great sea dragons, whose ugly crests were raised in anger and alarm. From the turbid depths of the water, unholy animals of strange and fearful shapes kept coming to the surface and swimming about with threatening mien.

Undaunted by these sickening sights, Beowulf blew a mighty blast upon his terrible war-horn, at the sound of which the noisome animals slunk back to the slimy depths of the dismal pond. Clad in his shirt of iron mail, wearing the hooded helmet that had often protected his head from the savage blows of his enemies, and clasping in his hand the handle of his great knife, Hrunting, whose hardened blade had carried death to many a strong foeman, Beowulf fronted the awful lake.

Thus armed and protected, he plunged into the thickened oily waters, which closed quickly over him, leaving but a few great bubbles to show where he had disappeared. Into the depths of the dark abyss he swam until it seemed as though he were plunging straight into the jaws of death.

As his mighty strength neared exhaustion, Beowulf found the hall at the depth of the abyss, and there saw Grendel's mother lying in wait for him. With her fierce claws she grappled him and dragged him into her dismal water palace whose dark walls oozed with the slime of ages. Recovering his breath, and fierce at the assault, Beowulf swung his heavy knife and brought it down on the sea wolf's head. Never before had Hrunting failed him, but now the hard skull of Grendel's mother turned the biting edge of the forged steel, and the blow twisted the blade as though it were soft wire. Flinging aside his useless knife, Beowulf clutched the sea woman with the mighty grip that had slain her son, and the struggle for mastery began. More than once was Beowulf pushed nigh to exhaustion, but every time he recovered himself and escaped from the deadly grasp of the powerful fiend who strove to take his life. As he grew weaker, Grendel's mother seized her russet-bladed knife and with a mighty blow drove it straight at the heart of Beowulf. Once again his trusty shirt of mail turned the blade, and by a last convulsive effort he regained his feet.

As he rose from his dangerous position he saw glittering in his sight as it hung in the walls of water, the hilt of a mighty sword, which was made for giants, and which no man on earth but Beowulf could wield. Little he knew of its magic power, but he seized it in both hands, and swinging it about his head in mighty curves, struck full at the head of the monster. Savage was the blow, more mighty than human being ever struck before, and the keen edge of the sword crashed through the brazen mail, cleft the neck of the sea wolf, and felled her dead upon the floor. From her neck spurted hot blood which melted the blade and burned it away as frost wreathes are melted by the sun. In his hand remained only the carven hilt.

On the shore of the dark lake the Danes waited anxiously for the reappearance of Beowulf, and when blood came welling up through the dark waters they felt their champion had met his fate, and returning to Heorot, they sat down to mourn in the great mead-hall.

Then among them strode Beowulf, carrying in one hand the great head of the sea woman and in the other the blistered hilt of the sword, snake- shaped, carven with the legend of its forging. Beowulf related the story of his combat and added, "When I saw that Grendel's mother was dead I seized her head and swam upward again through the heaving waters, bearing the heavy burden with me; and as I landed on the shore of the lake I saw its waters dry behind me, and bright meadows with beautiful flowers take their place. The trees themselves put on new robes of green, and peace and gladness settled over all. God and my strong right hand prospered me, and here I show the sword with which the giants of old defied the eternal God, The enemies of God are overcome, and here in Heorot may Hrothgar and his counselors dwell in peace."

The king and his counselors gathered round about Beowulf, and looked with wonder and amazement on the head of the fierce sea monster and read with strange thrills of awe the wondrous history of the sword and the cunning work of its forgers.

Then to Beowulf, Hrothgar spoke in friendly wise, "Glorious is thy victory, O Beowulf, and great and marvelous is the strength that God hath given thee, but accept now in the hour of thy success a word of kindly counsel. When a man rides on the high tide of success he may think that his strength and glory are forever, but it is God alone who giveth him courage and power over others, and in the end all must fall before the arrows of death. God sent Grendel to punish me for my pride when I had freed the Danes and built my pinnacled mead-hall. Then when this despair was upon me he brought thee to my salvation. Bear then thy honors meekly, and give thanks to God that made thee strong. Go now into the feast and join thy happiness to that of my warriors."

That day the high walls of Heorot rang with the thunderous shouts of the warriors and echoed the inspiring words of the Skalds who sang of Beowulf's victory. When at last darkness settled o'er the towers and pinnacles of the palace, the grateful Danes laid themselves down to sleep in peace and safety, knowing that their slumber would never again be disturbed by the old sea woman or her giant progeny.

CUPID AND PSYCHE

Adapted by ANNA MCCALEB

Once upon a time, in a far-off country whose exact location no man knows, there lived a king whose chief glory and pride was in his three beautiful daughters. The two elder sisters were sought in marriage by princes, but Psyche, by far the most beautiful of the three, remained at her father's home, unsought. The fact was, she was so lovely that all the people worshiped her as a goddess, while no man felt that he was worthy to ask for her hand.

"Shall a mere mortal," they said, "venture to seek the love of Venus, queen of beauty?"

When Psyche learned of the name they had given her she was frightened, for she knew well the jealous, vengeful nature of the goddess of beauty. And she did well to fear; for Venus, jealous, angry, was even then plotting her destruction.

"Go," she said to her son Cupid. "Wound that proud, impertinent girl with your arrows, and see to it that she falls in love with some wretched, depraved human being. She shall pay for attempting to rival me."

Off went the mischievous youth, pleased with his errand; but when he bent over the sleeping Psyche and saw that she was far more beautiful than any one whom he had ever looked upon, he started hastily back, and wounded, not the maiden, but himself, with his arrow. Happy, and yet wretched in his love (for he knew his mother too well to fancy that she would relent toward the offending Psyche), he stole away; and for days he did not go near his mother, knowing that she would demand of him the outcome of his mission.

Meanwhile the old king, feeling that disgrace rested on his family because no man had come to seek Psyche in marriage, sent messengers to ask of the oracle [Footnote: An oracle was a place where some god answered questions about future happenings. The same name was also given to the answers made by the god. The most famous oracles were that of Jupiter at Dodona and that of Apollo at Delphi, the latter holding chief place. At Delphi there was a temple to Apollo built over a chasm in the mountain side from which came sulphurous fumes. A priestess took her seat on a tripod over this chasm, and the answers she gave to inquiries were supposed to be dictated by the god. These answers were almost always unintelligible, and even when interpreted by the priests were ambiguous and of little use. Nevertheless, the Greeks believed in oracles firmly, and never undertook any important work without first consulting one or more of them.] of Apollo whether he or his family had ignorantly offended any of the gods. Eagerly he watched for the return of the messengers, but as they came back the sight of their white faces told him that no favorable answer had been theirs.

"Pardon, O King," said the spokesman, "thy servants who bring thee ill news. We can but speak the words of the gods, which were these:

"'For hear thy doom; a rugged rock there is Set back a league from thine own palace fair; There leave the maid, that she may wait the kiss Of the fell monster that doth harbour there: This is the mate for whom her yellow hair And tender limbs have been so fashioned, This is the pillow for her lovely head.

"'And if thou sparest now to do this thing, I will destroy thee and thy land also, And of dead corpses shalt thou be the king, And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go, Howling for second death to end thy woe; Live therefore as thou mayst and do my will, And be a king that men may envy still.'" [Footnote: From William Morris's Earthly Paradise.]

Imagine the grief of the loving father at these words! Had the oracle but threatened punishment to him, he would have endured any torture before subjecting his child to such a fate; but as a king, he dared not bring ruin on all his people, who trusted him. Psyche, herself, numb with horror, commanded quietly that preparations be made for the procession which should accompany her to the rock described by the oracle. Some days later, this procession set out, the priests in their white robes preceding Psyche, who, in mourning garments, with bowed head and clasped hands, walked between her father and mother. Her parents bewailed their fate and clung to her, but she said only, "It is the will of the gods, and therefore must be."

At last the mountain top was reached, the last heart-breaking farewells were said, and the procession wound back toward the city, leaving Psyche alone. All the horror of her fate burst upon her as she stood on the bleak rock, and she raised her hands to heaven and cried. Suddenly, however, it seemed to her that the breeze which blew past her murmured in her ear "Do not fear"; and certainly she felt herself being lifted gently and carried over mountain and valley and sea. At last, she was placed on a grassy bank, in a pleasant, flower-bright valley, and here she fell asleep, feeling quite safe after all her fears.

On awaking, she strolled about the lovely garden in which she found herself, wondering to see no one, though on all sides there were signs of work and care and thought. At the door of a palace, more gorgeous than any she had ever seen before, she paused, but soft voices called "Enter, beautiful maiden," and gentle hands, which she saw not, drew her within the door. While she gazed in wonder at the wrought golden pillars, the ivory and gold furnishings, the mosaic of precious stones which formed the floor, a voice said, close beside her:

"Sovereign lady, let not fear oppress thee: All is thine on which thine eye doth rest. We, whose voices greet thee, are thy servants-- Thou art mistress here, not passing guest. In thy chamber, bed of down awaits thee; Perfumed baths our skilled hands prepare."

As she had slept in the garden, Psyche felt no need of rest, but passed at once to the refreshment of the bath. Then, for she had eaten nothing since the oracle's decree, she seated herself at the table and ate of the delicious dishes which the invisible hands presented to her. Swiftly the remaining hours of daylight passed, while the amazed and enraptured Psyche wandered about the palace and listened to the exquisite music which invisible performers furnished for her.

With the coming of the darkness, the voice which had spoken to her at her entrance said, "Our master comes!" And shortly after, he began to speak to her himself. At the first tones of his gentle, loving voice, Psyche forgot her fears, forgot the oracle; and when her unseen lover said, "Canst thou love me somewhat in return for all the love I give thee?" she answered, "Willingly!"

"Thou mayest have all the joys which earth and heaven afford; one thing only I ask of thee in return. I shall come to thee with the darkness, and never shalt thou try to see my face."

Psyche promised, and she kept her promise faithfully for a long time, though her longing to see the husband who was so good to her was great. During the hours when he was with her, she was perfectly happy, but through the long days, when she had nothing but the voices that had greeted her on her arrival, and her own thoughts for company, she longed and longed to see her sisters, and to send to her parents news of her happiness. One night when her husband came, she begged of him that he would allow her sisters to visit her.

"Art thou not happy with me, Pysche?" he asked sorrowfully. "Do I not fill thy heart as thou fillest mine?"

"I am happier with thee than ever happy girl was with seen lover," replied Psyche, "but my parents and my sisters are yet in sorrow over my fate, and my heart tells me it is selfishness for me to be so happy while they grieve for me."

At last, her husband gave a reluctant consent to her request, and on the very next day, the West Wind, [Footnote: The winds, four in number, were the sons of Aeolus, god of the storm and of winds. Their names were Boreas, the north wind; Zephyrus, the west wind; Auster, the south wind, and Eurus, the east wind.] who had brought Psyche to this retreat, brought her two sisters and set them down at her door. Joyfully Psyche led them in, and she commanded her invisible servants to serve them with the finest foods and entertain them with the most exquisite music. After the meal was over, the happy girl conducted them about the palace and pointed out to them all its treasures. She was not proud or boastful; she only wanted to show them how kind and thoughtful her husband was. But the sights that met their eyes filled them with envy, and when Psyche left the room to make some further plans for their comfort, one said to the other:

"Is it not unendurable that this girl, who was left unsought in our father's house for years, should be living in such splendor? I shall hate the sight of my own palace when I return."

"Yes," sighed the other, "all the polished oaken furnishings of which I was so proud will be worthless in my eyes after seeing Psyche's magnificent ivory and gold. And she is our younger sister!"

"Do you notice," said the elder sister, "that while she says much about what her husband does for her, she says nothing at all about him? But wait--here she comes--say nothing, and I will question her."

Happy, innocent Psyche, never doubting that her sisters were as pleased at her good fortune as she would have been at theirs, came to lead them to another room, but her sister detained her.

"Stay," she said, "we have something to ask of you. About all the splendors of your palace you have talked; you have told us at great length about your husband's goodness to you. But not a word about his looks or his age or his occupation have you said. See, sister! She blushes! Shy girl, she has been unwilling to speak of him until we spoke first."

"No doubt," said the other sister, "she has saved until the last her description of him, since he is the best part of her life here."

Poor Psyche knew not what to say. How should she confess that, after these many months, she had never seen her husband; that she knew not at all what manner of man he was?

"Why, he's a young man," she replied hesitatingly, "a very young man, and he spends much of his time hunting on the mountains."

"Has he blue eyes or brown?" asked the elder sister.

"I--why--O, blue eyes," said Psyche.

"And his hair," inquired the second sister, "is it straight or curling, black or fair?"

"It's--it's straight and--and brown," faltered poor Psyche, who had never before uttered a lie.

"Now, see here, my child," said the elder sister, "I can tell from your answers that you've never seen this precious husband of yours. Is not that the case?"

Psyche nodded, the tears running down her cheeks.

"But he's so good to me," she whispered. "And I promised I wouldn't try to see him."

"Good to you! You deluded innocent, of course he's good to you! What did the oracle say? It's plain to be seen that the prophecy has come true and that you are wedded to some fearful monster, who is kind to you now that he may kill and devour you by-and-by."

At length, for they were older than Psyche, and she had always been accustomed to taking their advice, they convinced her that her only safety lay in discovering at once what sort of a monster had her in its possession.

"Now mind," they counseled her, "this very night conceal a lamp and a dagger where you can reach them easily, and as soon as he is asleep, steal upon him. You shall see what you shall see. And if he's the distorted monster we think him, plunge the knife into his heart."

Poor, timid Psyche! Left to herself, she scarce knew what to do. She kindled the lamp, then extinguished it, ashamed of her lack of faith in her kind husband.

But when she heard him coming, she again hastily lighted the lamp and hid it, with a sharp dagger, behind a tapestry. When her husband approached her she pretended weariness; she knew that if she allowed him to talk with her, her fears would melt away.

"My visit with my sisters has tired me. Let me rest," she pleaded, and her husband, always ready to humor any wish of hers, did not try to coax her into conversation. He threw himself upon the couch, and when his regular breathing told her that he really slept, Psyche arose tremblingly, took up her lamp and dagger and stole to his side. Lifting her lamp high she looked upon--the very god of Love, himself!

"I stood Long time uncertain, and at length turned round And gazed upon my love. He lay asleep, And ah, how fair he was! The flickering light Fell on the fairest of the gods, stretched out In happy slumber. Looking on his locks Of gold, and faultless face and smile, and limbs Made perfect, a great joy and trembling took me Who was most blest of women, and in awe And fear I stooped to kiss him. One warm drop From the full lamp within my trembling hand, Fell on his shoulder." [Footnote: From Epic of Hades by Lewis Morris]

Cupid awoke, looked with startled eyes at his wife, and reading aright the story of the lamp and the dagger, spread his wings and flew through the open window, saying sadly:

"Farewell! There is no love except with Faith, And thine is dead! Farewell! I come no more!"

Weeping and calling out to her husband, Psyche ran out of doors into the black, stormy night. To the edge of the garden she ran, and then, in her grief and terror she swooned. When she awakened, the palace and garden had vanished, but Psyche cared little for that; henceforth her only care was to seek her husband.

Encountering on her wanderings the kindly Ceres, Psyche implored her help; but Ceres could give her no aid except advice.

"The gods must stand by each other," she said. "If Venus is angered at thee, I can give thee no aid. This, though, thou mayst do: Go to Venus, submit thyself unto her, and perhaps thou mayst win her favor."

At the temple of Venus, Psyche encountered that goddess, the cause of all her misfortunes; and right glad was Venus to have the once proud maiden for her humble slave.

"Many are the tasks thou canst perform for me," said the disdainful goddess, "if them art not as stupid as thou art ugly. Here is a simple little task to begin upon."

She led Psyche to the storehouse of the temple and pointed out to her a great heap of grain--wheat, barley, poppy seeds, beans and millet.

"When I return at evening," she commanded, "have each sort of grain in a heap by itself."

The luckless girl knew that the work could not be accomplished in the time allowed her, and she made, therefore, no attempt to begin it. As she sat with her head in her hands, she heard a faint sound, as if the grain were being stirred about, and looking up, she saw that the ants had come in vast numbers and were sorting it out. Fascinated, she watched them, until long before evening the task was done.

"Thou couldst never have done this by thyself, lazy one," exclaimed Venus, on her return. "To-morrow I will see whether thou art indeed able to do anything. Beyond the river which flows past my temple are golden-fleeced sheep, roaming without a shepherd. Do thou bring to me a portion of their fleece."

In the morning Psyche set out, utterly discouraged, but afraid to linger in the temple of the angry goddess. When she approached the sheep, she trembled, for they were numerous, and very fierce. As she stood concealed in the rushes by the river bank, the murmuring reeds said to her:

"Wait! At noon the sheep will seek the shade. Then mayst thou gather of their fleece from the bushes under which they have ranged,"

With a thankful heart Psyche followed the directions, and at evening returned unharmed with the golden wool, which she presented to Venus. Again the goddess upbraided her.

"Well I know that of thine own self thou couldst never have done this," she cried wrathfully; nor did she stop to reflect that the fact that Psyche thus received aid, unasked, in her difficulties, was a proof that all things on earth loved and pitied her, Instead, she gave her yet another task.

"Take this casket; go with it to the realms of the dead, and ask of Proserpina that she loan me a little of her beauty. I have worried about the undutiful conduct of my son until I have grown thin and pale, and I would look my best at the assembly of the gods to-morrow night."

This was the most hopeless task of all. To go to the realms of the dead--what did it mean but that she must die?

"As well soon as late," sighed the poor girl; and she climbed to the top of a high tower, meaning to cast herself down. But even here, where no living thing seemed to be, a voice came to her ears.

"Desist, rash girl, from thy plan! Thou art not yet to die. If thou wilt observe carefully all the directions which I shall give thee, thou shalt fulfill thy cruel mistress's stern behest. From a cave in yonder hill there leads a path, straight into the earth. No man has ever trodden it. Along this shalt thou journey, bearing in thy hand sops for the three-headed dog of Pluto, and money for the grim ferryman, Charon. It is written that thou shalt succeed; only, thou shalt not open the box which hides the beauty of Proserpina."

The voice ceased, and Psyche climbed from her tower and set out on the arduous journey. Through long, long hours she toiled over the rough path in utter darkness. What was on either side of her, she knew not; no sound came to her except the far-off drip of water slipping through the rocks. At length, when she was ready to drop with fatigue and fear, a faint light appeared before her. Somewhat cheered, she walked on, and stepping from the vast tunnel in which she had been journeying, she found herself on the bank of a river. It was not such a river as she had seen gliding through the green fields and glittering over the rocks of her native country; it was a sluggish, inky-black stream, [Footnote: There were several great rivers in Pluto's realm. Phlegethon, a river of fire, separated Tartarus, the abode of the wicked, from the rest of Hades, while Cocytus, a salty river, was composed of the tears of the dwellers in Tartarus. But the most famous of the rivers were the Styx, by which the gods swore; the Lethe, a draught from which made one forget all that had ever happened and begin life anew; and the Acheron, a black, cold stream, over which the spirits of the dead had to be ferried before they could enter Pluto's realm. The ferryman was Charon; and since he would row no one over the river unless he were paid for it, the ancients placed under the tongue of the dead a small coin wherewith the fare might be paid.] which slid on without ever a ripple. A strange, gray light filled all the place, and showed to her a ferryboat, moored to the shore, and a grim-looking, old, long-bearded ferryman.

"Will you take me over the river?" asked Psyche, in a faint voice. The ferryman gave her no answer, but she ventured to step upon his craft, upon which he instantly shoved off. Without a sound they moved across the river, and when Psyche stepped off on the farther shore, she knew she was really in Hades, the dreadful realm of Pluto. Tossing back onto the boat the coin she had brought, she went on and on, until she came to a great gloomy tower of black marble. On the threshold stood Pluto's dog, three-headed Cerberus, and fiercely he barked at the poor frightened girl. However, the sop which she threw to him quieted him, and she passed on into the palace. There, on their black thrones, sat Pluto and Proserpina, king and queen of this hopeless realm.

"Great queen," said Psyche, bowing humbly before Proserpina's throne, "my mistress has sent me to borrow for her a little of thy beauty."

"Willingly will I lend it," said Proserpina, kindly, "not to please thy proud mistress, but to help thee, poor girl." And taking the little casket which Psyche had brought with her, she breathed into it, closed it hurriedly, and handed it to the waiting girl.

Gladly did Psyche leave this gloomy abode and set out on her homeward journey. The black path seemed not so long nor so frightful when she knew she was moving toward the light of day; and O, how happy she was when she saw the sunlight glimmering ahead of her! Out once more in the free light and fresh air, she sat down for a time to rest, and a great curiosity came upon her to know what the little casket in her hand contained.

"My beauty must have been growing less through these weeks of trouble and fright," she thought, "and perhaps if my husband saw me now he would not love me. It can do no harm for me to borrow just a little of the contents of this box."

She raised the lid, but from the box there came, with a rushing sound, the spirit of sleep. This spirit seized upon Psyche and laid her by the roadside in a sleep resembling death, and here she might have slept for all time, had not Cupid, wandering by, spied her. Bending over her, he kissed her; then he wrestled with the spirit of sleep until he had forced it to release Psyche, and to enter again the little casket from which her curiosity had loosed it.

"Psyche," he said, turning to his wife, who lay speechless with happiness at beholding him again, "once through thy curiosity I was lost to thee; this time thou wast almost lost to me. Never again must I leave thee; never must thou be absent from my sight."

Together, then, they hastened to Olympus, the dwelling of the gods: together they bowed before Jupiter's throne. The king of the gods, looking upon Psyche and seeing that she was beautiful as a goddess, listened favorably to their petition, and, calling for a cup of ambrosia, presented it to her and said:

"Drink, Psyche; so shalt thou become immortal, and fit wife for a god."

Venus, touched by her son's happiness, forgave his bride, and the young lovers, who had gone through so many griefs and hardships, lived happily forever in the beautiful palace presented to them by the king of the gods.

The myth of Cupid and Psyche is of much later date than most of the other myths; in fact, it is met with first in a writer of the second century of the Christian era. Many of the myths are material--that is, they explain physical happenings, such as the rising of the sun, the coming of winter, or the flashing of the lightning; but the myth of Cupid and Psyche has nothing to do with the forces of nature--it is wholly spiritual in its application.