Chapter XIV: Part 14

Much was Queen Dido moved by the story, and much did she marvel at him that told it, and scarce could sleep for thinking of him. And the next day she spake to Anna, her sister, “O my sister, I have been troubled this night with ill dreams, and my heart is disquieted within me. What a man is this stranger that hath come to our shores! How noble of mien! How bold in war! Sure I am that he is of the sons of the gods. What fortunes have been his! Of what wars he told us! Surely were I not steadfastly purposed that I would not yoke me again in marriage, this were the man to whom I might yield. Only he—for I will tell thee the truth, my sister—only he, since the day when Sichæus died by his brother’s hand, hath moved my heart. But may the earth swallow me up, or the Almighty Father strike me with lightning, ere I stoop to such baseness. The husband of my youth hath carried with him my love, and he shall keep it in the grave.”

So she spake, with many tears. And her sister made answer, “Why wilt thou waste thy youth in sorrow, without child or husband? Thinkest thou that there is care or remembrance of such things in the grave? No suitors, indeed, have pleased thee here or in Tyre, but wilt thou also contend with a love that is after thine own heart? Think too of the nations among whom thou dwellest, how fierce they are, and of thy brother at Tyre, what he threatens against thee. Surely it was by the will of the gods, and of Juno chiefly, that the ships of Troy came hither. And this city, which thou buildest, to what greatness will it grow if only thou wilt make for thyself such alliance! How great will be the glory of Carthage if the strength of Troy be joined unto her! Only do thou pray to the gods and offer sacrifices; and, for the present, seeing that the time of sailing is now past, make excuse that these strangers tarry with thee a while.”

Thus did Anna comfort her sister and encourage her. And first the two offered sacrifice to the gods, chiefly to Juno, who careth for the bond of marriage.

Also, examining the entrails of slain beasts, they sought to learn the things that should happen thereafter. And ever Dido would company with Æneas, leading him about the walls of the city which she builded. And often she would begin to speak and stay in the midst of her words. And when even was come, she would hear again and again at the banquet the tale of Troy, and while others slept would watch, and while he was far away would seem to see him and to hear him. Ascanius, too, she would embrace for love of his father, if so she might cheat her own heart. But the work of the city was stayed meanwhile; nor did the towers rise in their places, nor the youth practice themselves in arms.

Then Juno, seeing how it fared with the queen, spake to Venus, “Are ye satisfied with your victory, thou and thy son, that ye have vanquished the two of you one woman? Well I knew that thou fearedst lest this Carthage should harm thy favorite. But why should there be war between us? Thou hast what thou seekedst. Let us make alliance. Let Dido obey a Phrygian husband, and bring the men of Tyre as her dowry.”

But Venus knew that she spake with ill intent, to the end that the men of Troy should not reign in the land of Italy. Nevertheless she dissembled with her tongue, and spake, “Who would not rather have peace with thee than war? Only I doubt whether this thing shall be to the pleasure of Jupiter. This thou must learn, seeing that thou art his wife, and where thou leadest I will follow.”

So the two, taking counsel together, ordered things in this wise. The next day a great hunting was prepared. For as soon as ever the sun was risen upon the earth, the youth of the city assembled with nets and hunting spears and dogs that ran by scent. And the princes of Carthage waited for the queen at the palace door, where her horse stood champing the bit, with trappings of purple and gold. And after a while she came forth, with many following her. And she had upon her a Sidonian mantle, with a border wrought with divers colors; of gold was her quiver, and of gold the knot of her hair, and of gold the clasp to her mantle. Æneas likewise came forth, beautiful as is Apollo when he leaveth Lydia and the stream of Xanthus, coming to Delos, and hath about his hair a wreath of bay-leaves and a circlet of gold. So fair was Æneas to see. And when the hunters came to the hills they found great store of goats and stags, which they chased. And of all the company Ascanius was the foremost, thinking scorn of such hunting, and wishing that a wild boar or a lion out of the hills should come forth to be his prey.

And now befell a great storm, with much thunder and hail, from which the hunters sought shelter.

But Æneas and the queen, being left of all their company, came together to the same cave. And there they plighted their troth one to another. Nor did the queen after that make secret of her love, but called Æneas her husband.

Straightway went Rumor and told these things through the cities of Libya. Now Rumor, men say, is the youngest daughter of Earth, a marvellous creature, moving very swiftly with feet and wings, and having many feathers upon her, and under every feather an eye and a tongue and a mouth and an ear. In the night she flieth between heaven and earth, and sleepeth not; and in the day she sitteth on some housetop or lofty tower, or spreadeth fear over mighty cities; and she loveth that which is false even as she loveth that which is true. So now she went telling through Libya how Æneas of Troy was come, and Dido was wedded to him, and how they lived careless and at ease, and thinking not of the work to which they were called.

And first of all she went to Prince Iarbas, who himself had sought Dido in marriage. And Iarbas was very wroth when he heard it, and, coming to the temple of Jupiter, spread his grief before the god, how that he had given a place on his coasts to this Dido, and would have taken her to wife, but that she had married a stranger from Phrygia, another Paris, whose dress and adornments were of a woman rather than of a man.

And Jupiter saw that this was so, and he said to Mercury, who was his messenger, “Go speak to Æneas these words: ‘Thus saith the King of Gods and Men. Is this what thy mother promised of thee, twice saving thee from the spear of the Greeks? Art thou he that shall rule Italy and its mighty men of war, and spread thy dominion to the ends of the world? If thou thyself forgettest these things, dost thou grudge to thy son the citadels of Rome? What doest thou here? Why, lookest thou not to Italy? Depart and tarry not.’”

Then Mercury fitted the winged sandals to his feet, and took the wand with which he driveth the spirits of the dead, and came right soon to Mount Atlas, which standeth bearing the heaven on his head, and having always clouds about his top, and snow upon his shoulders, and a beard that is stiff with ice. There Mercury stood a while; then, as a bird which seeks its prey in the sea, shot headlong down, and came to Æneas where he stood with a yellow jasper in his sword-hilt, and a cloak of purple shot with gold about his shoulders, and spake: “Buildest thou Carthage, forgetting thine own work? The Almighty Father saith to thee, ‘What meanest thou? Why tarriest thou here? If thou carest not for thyself, yet think of thy son, and that the Fates have given to him Italy and Rome.’”

And Æneas saw him no more. And he stood stricken with fear and doubt. Fain would he obey the voice, and go as the gods commanded. But how should he tell this purpose to the queen? But at the last it seemed good to him to call certain of the chiefs, as Mnestheus, and Sergestus, and Antheus, and bid them make ready the ships in silence, and gather together the people, but dissemble the cause, and he himself would watch a fitting time to speak and unfold the matter to the queen.

Yet was not Dido deceived, for love is keen of sight. Rumor also told her that they made ready the ships for sailing. Then, flying through the city, even as one on whom has come the frenzy of Bacchus flies by night over Mount Cithæron, she came upon Æneas, and spake: “Thoughtest thou to hide thy crime, and to depart in silence from this land? Carest thou not for her whom thou leavest to die? And hast thou no fear of winter storms that vex the sea? By all that I have done for thee and given thee, if there be yet any place for repentance, repent thee of this purpose. For thy sake I suffer the wrath of the princes of Libya and of my own people; and if thou leavest me, for what should I live?—till my brother overthrow my city, or Iarbas carry me away captive? If but I had a little Æneas to play in my halls, I should not seem so altogether desolate.”

But Æneas, fearing the words of Jupiter, stood with eyes that relented not. At the last he spake: “I deny not, O queen, the benefits that thou hast done unto me, nor ever, while I live, shall I forget Dido. I sought not to fly by stealth; yet did I never promise that I would abide in this place. Could I have chosen according to my will I had built again the city of Troy where it stood; but the gods command that I should seek Italy. Thou hast thy Carthage; why dost thou grudge Italy to us? Nor may I tarry. Night after night have I seen my father Anchises warning me in dreams. Also even now the messenger of Jupiter came to me—with these ears I heard him—and bade me depart.”

Then, in great wrath, with eyes askance, did Dido break forth upon him: “Surely no goddess was thy mother, nor art thou come of the race of Dardanus. The rocks of Caucasus brought thee forth, and an Hyrcanian tigress fed thee. For why should I dissemble? Was he moved at all my tears? Did he pity my love? Nay, the very gods are against me. This man I took to myself when he was shipwrecked and ready to perish. I brought back his ships, his companions from destruction. And now, forsooth, comes the messenger of Jupiter with dreadful commands from the gods. As for thee, I keep thee not. Go, seek thy Italy across the seas: only, if there is any vengeance in heaven, thou wilt pay the penalty for this wrong, being wrecked on some rock in their midst. Then wilt thou call on Dido in vain. Aye, and wherever thou shalt go I will haunt thee, and rejoice in the dwellings below to hear thy doom.”

Then she turned, and hastened to go into the house. But her spirit left her, so that her maidens bare her to her chamber and laid her on her bed.

Then Æneas, though indeed he was much troubled in heart, and would fain have comforted the queen, was obedient to the heavenly word, and departed to his ships. And the men of Troy busied themselves in making them ready for the voyage. Even as the ants spoil a great heap of corn and store it in their dwellings against winter, moving in a black line across the field, and some carry the great grains, and some chide those that linger, even so did the Trojans swarm along the ways and labor at the work.

But when Dido saw it she called to Anna her sister, and said, “Seest thou how they hasten the work along the shore? Even now the sails are ready for the winds, and the sailors have wreathed the ships with garlands, as if for departure. Go thou—the deceiver always trusted thee, and thou knowest how best to move him—go and entreat him. I harmed not him nor his people; let him then grant me this only. Let him wait for a fairer time for his journey. I ask not that he give up his purpose; only that he grant me a short breathing space, till I may learn how to bear this sorrow.”

And Anna hearkened to her sister, and took the message to Æneas, yet profited nothing, for the gods shut his ears that he should not hear. Even as an oak stands firm when the north wind would root it up from the earth—its leaves are scattered all round, yet doth it remain firm, for its roots go down to the regions below, even as far as its branches reach to heaven—so stood Æneas firm, and, though he wept many tears, changed not his purpose.

Then did Dido grow weary of her life. For when she did sacrifice, the pure water would grow black, and the wine be changed into blood. Also from the shrine of her husband, which was in the midst of her palace, was heard a voice calling her, and the owl cried aloud from the housetop. And in her dreams the cruel Æneas seemed to drive her before him; or she seemed to be going a long way with none to bear her company, and be seeking her own people in a land that was desert. Therefore, hiding the thing that was in her heart, she spake to her sister, saying, “I have found a way, my sister, that shall bring him back to me, or set me free from him. Near the shore of the great sea, where the Æthiopians dwell, is a priestess, who guards the temple of the daughters of Hesperus, being wont to feed the dragons that kept the apples of gold. She is able by her charms to loose the heart from care or to bind it, and to stay rivers also, and to turn the courses of the stars, and to call up the spirits of the dead. Do thou, therefore—for this is what the priestess commands—build a pile in the open court, and put thereon the sword which he left hanging in our chamber, and the garments he wore, and the couch on which he lay, even all that was his, so that they may perish together.”

And when these things were done—for Anna knew not of her purpose—and also an image of Æneas was laid upon the pile, the priestess, with her hair unbound, called upon all the gods that dwell below, sprinkling thereon water that was drawn, she said, from the lake of Avernus, and scattering evil herbs, that had been cut at the full moon with a sickle of bronze. Dido also, with one foot bare and her garments loosened, threw meal upon the fire and called upon the gods, if haply there be any, that look upon those that love and suffer wrong.

And now it was morning, and Queen Dido, from her watch-tower, saw the ships upon the sea. Then she smote upon her breast and tore her hair, and cried: “Shall this stranger mock us thus? Hasten to follow him. Bring down the ships from the docks, make ready sword and fire. And this was the man who bare upon his shoulders his aged father! Why did I not tear him to pieces, and slay his companions with the sword, and serve up the young Ascanius at his meal? And if I had perished, what then? for I die to-day. O Sun, that regardest all the earth, and Juno, that carest for marriage bonds, and Hecate, Queen of the Dead, and ye Furies that take vengeance on evil doers, hear me! If it be ordered that he reach this land, yet grant that he suffer many things from his enemies, and be driven from his city, and beg for help from strangers, and see his people cruelly slain with the sword; and, when he shall have made peace on ill conditions, that he enjoy not long his kingdom, but die before his day, and lie unburied on the plain. And ye, men of Tyre, hate his children and his people forever. Let there be no love or peace between you. And may some avenger arise from my grave who shall persecute the race of Dardanus with fire and sword. So shall there be war forever between him and me.”

Then she spake to old Barcé, who had been nurse to her husband Sichæus: “Bid my sister bathe herself in water, and bring with her beasts for sacrifice. And do thou also put a garland about thy head, for I am minded to finish this sacrifice which I have begun, and to burn the image of the man of Troy.”

And when the old woman made haste to do her bidding, Queen Dido ran to the court where the pile was made for the burning, and mounted on the pile, and drew the sword of Æneas from the scabbard. Then did she throw herself upon the bed, and cry: “Now do I yield up my life. I have finished my course. I have built a mighty city. I have avenged my husband on him that slew him. Happy had I been—yea, too happy! had the ships of Troy never come to this land.” Then she kissed the bed and cried: “Shall I die unavenged? Nevertheless let me die. The man of Troy shall see this fire from the sea whereon he journeys, and carry with him an augury of death.”

And when her maidens looked, lo! she had fallen upon the sword, and the blood was upon her hands. And a great cry went up through the palace, exceeding loud and bitter, even as if the enemy had taken Carthage or ancient Tyre, and the fire were mounting over the dwellings of men and of gods. And Anna, her sister, heard it, and rushing through the midst called her by name: “O my sister, was this thy purpose? Were the pile and the sword and the fire for this? Why wouldst thou not suffer that I should die with thee? For surely, my sister, thou hast slain thyself, and me, and thy people, and thy city. But give me water, ye maidens, that I may wash her wounds, and if there be any breath left in her, we may yet stay it.”

Then she climbed on to the pile, and caught her sister in her arms, and sought to staunch the blood with her garments. Three times did Dido strive to raise her eyes; three times did her spirit leave her. Three times she would have raised herself upon her elbow; three times she fell back upon the bed, looking with wandering eyes for the light, and groaning that she yet beheld it.

Then Juno, looking down from heaven, saw that her pain was long, and pitied her, and sent down Iris her messenger, that she might loose the soul that struggled to be free. For, seeing that she died, not by nature, nor yet by the hand of man, but before her time, and of her own madness, Queen Proserpine had not shred the ringlet from her head which she shreds from them that die. Wherefore Iris, flying down with dewy wings from heaven, with a thousand colors about her from the light of the sun, stood above her head and said: “I give thee to death, even as I am bidden, and loose thee from thy body.” Then she shred the lock, and Queen Dido gave up the ghost.

THE RACE OF THE FOUR GALLEYS

By H. L. Havell

On the night when Dido was keeping her last sorrowful vigil Æneas lay sleeping on the deck of his galley, having made all things ready for a start next day. But in his dreams he saw the youthful form of Mercury standing by him, perfect in grace and beauty, and heard these warning words: “Canst thou sleep, Æneas, on the very brink of peril? Away, fly from this coast, before thy path is beset with sword and brand. A woman’s heart is a fickle and slippery thing.”

Æneas started from his couch in affright, and cried to his men: “Up, comrades; take your oars, and let us be gone. A second time I have heard the voice of a god, and again the word is _Fly!_” And, drawing his sword, he cut the rope which moored his vessel to the shore. Swiftly the benches were manned, the calm waters eddied and roared under their sturdy strokes, and the whole fleet, urged by one impulse, swept out to sea.

The wind blew fair, and the towers of Carthage were already sinking beneath the horizon, when a great column of smoke shot up from the direction of Carthage, checkered by tongues of fire. It was the funeral pyre on which Dido’s body was burning; but the Trojans knew not this, and thinking that perhaps it was a signal to summon the Tyrian fleet for pursuit they redoubled their efforts, until the smoke column dwindled to a speck, and vanished, and nothing remained in view but sea and sky.

Meanwhile the wind had shifted to the north, the sky became overcast, and the waves grew black and threatening. Palinurus, the captain of the royal vessel, after anxiously scrutinizing the signs of the weather, came to Æneas, and said: “My lord, if Jupiter himself were my warrant, I could not hope to reach Italy in this wind. Everything forebodes a storm, and my counsel is that we run for shelter to the friendly harbor of Eryx, on the north coast of Sicily, where we are sure of a brotherly welcome. It is close at hand, unless my seamanship is at fault.”

Æneas was well disposed on all accounts to take the advice of his pilot; for Eryx was a Trojan settlement, which they had already visited on their voyage from Epirus; and here too his father Anchises had found his last resting place. Accordingly the order was given, and, running before the wind, they soon reached the shelter of the high cliffs which guarded the harbor of Eryx.

As they approached the shore they saw a stalwart warrior standing ready to receive them, grimly attired in a bearskin, and bristling with weapons. “It is my old friend Acestes,” said Æneas, with a smile, “whose heart is as kind as his aspect is threatening.” True to this description of his character, Acestes hails his wandering countrymen with a hearty greeting, and entertains them with princely hospitality.

Next day was the anniversary of the death of Anchises, which was celebrated by Æneas and his men with splendid pomp, and offerings of blood and wine and milk at the tomb. When all rites had been duly paid Æneas made proclamation of a great series of games, to be held on the ninth day following, and invited all the subjects of Acestes to take part with the Trojans in the friendly contest.

On the day appointed a vast multitude assembled, and took their station on the cliffs to witness the first event, in which four of the Trojan galleys were to race to a rocky island, some distance from the shore, and back again to the mainland. The crews of the vessels—the _Pristis_, the _Chimæra_, the _Centaur_, and the _Scylla_—were mustered in their places; and the captains, brave in their purple uniforms, stood conspicuous on the after-decks, glancing critically at their brawny crews, who sat, stripped to the waist, grasping their oars, and waiting for the signal.

There was a breathless pause, then a loud blast from a trumpet rang out for the start, and the four galleys darted out with level prows for the open sea, while a tremendous roar went up from the host of spectators who thronged the cliffs. “She leads—the _Chimæra_ has the lead!” is the cry; and, in fact, the _Chimæra_, under her captain, Gyas, is forging ahead. She is a galley of the largest size, and built for speed. Next comes the _Scylla_, with her crew rowing powerfully and splendidly together; but she is broad in the beam, and a slow traveller. The third place is keenly contested between the _Pristis_[1] and the _Centaur_, whose figureheads may be seen alternately passing and repassing each other, and then again racing neck and neck.

The rocky island draws nearer and nearer, and they can see the green bough of ilex, placed there by order of Æneas, waving in the wind. The _Chimæra_ is still leading, and Gyas, her captain, calls to his helmsman. “Keep closer,” he orders; “you are steering too wide; let the oars graze the rocks on the port side.” But the cautious old seaman shakes his head, and steers in a wide curve, fearing the shoal water near the island. Close behind looms the tall prow of the _Scylla_, and they can hear the water hissing and foaming round her cutwater. “They are gaining!” shouts Gyas; and even as he speaks the huge galley, steered by a bold and skilful hand, takes the inside place, sweeps round the island, and gaining deep water, rushes triumphantly forward, bound for the shore. This was too much for the excitable Gyas; with tears of rage and grief he sprang upon the helmsman, and, snatching the tiller from his hand, with one vigorous thrust he flung the too cautious veteran into the sea. Presently a gray head emerged from the water, and the old man was seen swimming slowly towards the rocks, which he reached not without difficulty, and sat down with dripping garments and rueful countenance, gasping, and spitting out the brine. “Now give way, my men,” cried Gyas, putting the helm hard down, as so to bring the galley round to the very edge of the rocks.

Meanwhile Mnestheus in the _Pristis_, and Sergestus in the _Centaur_, were still rowing a keen race, and as they neared the turning point the _Centaur_ was leading by half a length. Seeing the wild steering of the _Chimæra_, which was yawing and losing way under the unskilful hand of Gyas, Mnestheus strode up and down the gangway, calling loudly to his crew: “Now show your mettle, my braves! Ye who have fought at Hector’s side, and defied a thousand perils on land and sea, save your captain from the dishonor of coming in last.” His men respond gallantly to the call; the huge hull of the _Pristis_ trembles under their mighty strokes, and the white wake boils and foams behind them. And as they strain and tug at their ponderous oars, with parched throats and heaving chests, suddenly a loud crash announces that fortune has come to their aid; for the _Centaur_, taking the curve too short, has stuck fast on a projecting ridge, and hangs, with shattered prow and broken oars, on the rocks. While the crew are busy with long poles, trying to get her off, the rival _Pristis_ sweeps triumphantly past her, clears the dangerous shallows, and enters deep water again, homeward bound. And first she passes the _Chimæra_, who has lost her helmsman, and cannot keep a straight course; then hard after the _Scylla_ she flies, and seems gaining on her with every stroke.

Nearer and nearer creeps the _Pristis_; louder and louder grow the shouts of the waiting multitude on the shore, whose feelings have been wound up to the wildest excitement by the sudden changes of fortune and the startling incidents of this memorable race. Already the prow of the _Pristis_ is overlapping the stern of the _Scylla_, when a sudden fury seems to enter into the crew of the leading vessel, and, as if thrust forward from below by a giant’s hand, she makes a great bound in advance of her pursuer, and gains the harbor.

The race was over, and the victorious captains, crowned with laurel, were flaunting their honors proudly before their admiring comrades. Cloanthus, the captain of the _Scylla_, received as first prize a rich mantle, with a double waving border of Tyrian purple, on which was embroidered the story of the rape of Ganymede—a living picture, showing the lovely boy, seized in the midst of his woodland sports, and borne skyward in the talons of a gigantic eagle; while below him were seen his dogs, leaping and baying in wild excitement, and a group of aged attendants, with hands uplifted, and lips parted in speechless dismay.

A hundred eyes were curiously scanning this rare device when a loud laugh from the crowd on the shore announced the return of the unlucky _Centaur_. Like a wounded snake, crushed by the wheel of a passing wagon, she came crawling slowly through the harbor mouth, and landed her crestfallen crew, among whom was Menœtes, the _Chimæra’s_ helmsman, still damp from his involuntary bath.

[1] Shark.

THE FOOT RACE

By H. L. Havell

Æneas now led the way to a level, grassy plain, surrounded by hills, and displayed the prizes for the next event, which was the foot race. Every competitor was to receive two arrows, the choice workmanship of Cretan armorers, and a battle-axe chased with silver; and besides these three special prizes were offered—a war horse, splendidly caparisoned, for the first; a quiver of Thracian arrows, with a rich baldric of gold work fastened by a jewelled buckle, for the second; and for the third a helmet won in battle from the Greeks.

Quite a crowd of runners assembled at the starting-place; and conspicuous among them was seen Euryalus, a boy of great beauty, and Nisus, his friend, who loved him as a father. The long line was brought level, the signal was given, and away they went, Nisus taking the lead, followed at a long interval by Salius, a youth of Greek descent; Euryalus, again at some distance, held the third place; and after him came Helymus, a Sicilian, hotly pursued by Diores, a Trojan of the royal race of Priam.

Nisus, still keeping the lead, was already within sight of the goal, when he unwarily trod on a muddy place, wet with the blood of oxen which had been offered in the late sacrifice. He stumbled, reeled, recovered himself, and then fell headlong in the mire. But even at that moment he did not forget his friend Euryalus, but, staggering to his feet, flung himself in the way of Salius as he came up, and both rolled together on the ground. The field was thus left open for Euryalus, who flew past the winning-post an easy victor, amidst a thunder of applause, for his youth and beauty had won all hearts. Helymus came in second, and Diores third.

Æneas was engaged in bestowing the prizes on the three winners, as the custom was, at the conclusion of the race, when Salius came up, and began to stun the ears of the judges with his complaints. “The first prize is mine,” he protested, laying his hand on the bridle of the horse, in spite of the tearful remonstrances of Euryalus and the loud clamor of Diores, who saw himself threatened with the loss of his prize. The dispute was stopped by the authority of Æneas, and the ruffled Salius was soothed by the gift of a magnificent lion-skin with gilded claws. Hereupon Nisus came limping up, daubed from head to foot with mud. “If you pity the fallen,” said he to Æneas, “what am I to have as a consolation prize?” Æneas smiled graciously at the rueful figure of Nisus, and presented him with a shield, richly chased by a Grecian artist; and thus both winners and losers were sent away happy and satisfied.

THE BOXING MATCH

By H. L. Havell

A young bull, with gilded horns, and a fine sword and helmet, were next displayed, as prizes for the boxing match. This was a terrible and murderous struggle, fraught with peril to life and limb; for the boxers fought with their hands encased in gloves of hard leather, often weighted with iron and lead, called the _cæstus_. One champion alone appeared ready to bear his part in this heroic sport; he was a Trojan named Dares, and the son of the famous boxer Amycus, who had been killed by Pollux during the voyage of the Argonauts. The fame of Dares was well known among his comrades, and no one seemed inclined to dispute his supremacy in the ring. Accordingly Dares, who had been showing off his muscle before the crowd, and dealing tremendous buffets to an imaginary antagonist, strutted up to Æneas, and, laying his hand on the bull, claimed him as his lawful prize.

But he was not to be allowed to triumph so easily. Among the spectators there stood a man already advanced in years, but of gigantic stature and massive build. Acestes, who was standing near him, now addressed him in terms of reproach: “Entellus, wilt thou suffer this braggart to carry off the prize without a blow? Hast thou forgotten thy divine master, Eryx? Or fearest thou the face of this blustering bully?” “I fear no man,” answered Entellus; “but I am old, and my joints are stiff, while that fellow is young and lusty. The greedy knave, he cares for nothing but the prize! What do you think of these?” he cried, stepping into the ring, and flinging down a ponderous pair of _cæstus_ of tough bull’s hide, stiffened with lead and iron. Dares recoiled at the sight of these frightful weapons, and refused to face an opponent armed in such fashion. “What would you have thought if you had seen the gauntlets with which Hercules fought?” asked Entellus, turning to Æneas, who had picked up the formidable gloves, and was examining them with amazement. “These which you see were worn by your brother Eryx when he stood up against Hercules. But I will take no advantage; lend me another pair, and we will fight with equal weapons.”

The change was made, Entellus stripped, and took up his station in the middle of the arena confronting Dares, who, powerful as he was, looked a mere stripling as he faced the athletic veteran. Then the boxers raised themselves to their full height, with heads drawn back, and the battle began. Dares was far superior in speed and agility, while Entellus, who could have crushed him in his arms, was slow on his feet, and short of wind. There was a rapid interchange of blows, and the air rang with the clatter of the hard gauntlets, as Dares manœuvred nimbly round his huge antagonist, who stood rooted like an oak in his place, parrying the blows. Suddenly Entellus saw an opening, and put in a heavy stroke, with all the force of his ponderous right arm. Dares stepped lightly aside, and Entellus, carried forward by the impetus of his own blow, lost his balance, and came down with a sounding thud on the turf. A shout of mingled triumph and dismay greeted the fall of the Sicilian champion, and his friends rushed forward to help him to his feet.

But, neither dulled nor dismayed by his fall, that mighty man returns keener to the battle, and kindles strength with rage. All the vigor of his youth comes back to him, and he chases Dares headlong round and round the ring, now with his right hand raining blows, now with his giant left. No rest, no pause; like hailstones rattling on the roof, so shower the strokes of those iron hands on the head of the hapless Dares. At last Æneas interposed, and stopped the unequal combat. Dares was borne, shattered and fainting, from the ring, and Entellus, crowned with the victor’s wreath, took possession of the bull. “Now mark,” he said, “Æneas, and learn, ye Trojans, what force was in this arm in the days of my prime, and what death Dares has escaped.” Saying this, he planted himself firmly in front of the bull, and slowly drawing back his gauntleted fist poised it like a club, and dashed it with all his force between the horns of the beast. The skull was splintered as if by a sledge-hammer, and prostrate, lifeless, quivering, on earth lay the bull. “That was the blow which I designed for Dares,” said the giant, “but the bull is a worthier sacrifice to the shade of my master Eryx. I have fought my last round, and now I will hang up my gauntlets in his shrine.”

THE CONTEST OF THE ARCHERS

By H. L. Havell

“Now, gallant archers, try your skill,” said Æneas, pointing to a tall mast, which had been set up in the middle of the plain, with a dove fluttering above it fastened by the leg with a slender cord. Lots were drawn to determine the order of shooting, and the archers, among whom were Mnestheus, winner of the third prize in the boat race, Eurytion, brother of the famous Pandarus, and the aged Acestes, took up their stations. The first arrow struck the mast. Then Mnestheus, who had drawn the second place, took steady aim, but, missing the bird, chanced to sever the cord which bound her to the mast; up flew the dove, and remained hovering in the air above their heads. Eurytion now raised his bow high above his head, and, calling on his brother’s name, sent an arrow straight into the air, and brought down the bird, just as she was preparing for a distant flight.

“You have left me no mark to aim at,” said Acestes; “but see, there is vigor left still in these old arms of mine.” And he drew his arrow to the head, and sent an arrow whizzing towards the cloud. Then followed a strange portent, which kept all the prophets busy for many a day; for as they watched the flying shaft, it burst into flames, and, shooting across the sky with a trail of light, burnt away, and vanished from view like a meteor in the nights of winter. “Hail, fiery messenger of Heaven’s will!” cried Acestes joyfully. “And hail to thee, father and friend!” repeated Æneas, grasping his hand. “Thine was the best shot of all, and I will bestow on thee a gift of honor, since by thy hand was wrought this wonder, and Jove himself has blessed thine archery.” And he gave him a silver goblet, embossed with choice designs, which was a treasured heirloom in his family.

The great multitude now stood hushed in expectation, for the most brilliant event of the day was reserved to the last. As soon as the arena was cleared Æneas gave a sign to Epytides, the faithful guardian and companion of the young Iulus; and presently a murmur arose on the outskirts of the crowd, swelling to a great shout, as a troop of youthful horsemen rode into the arena in three divisions. In each division were twelve boys, all armed with javelins, all crowned with olive wreaths, and all wearing chains of gold. At the head of each band rode its boyish captain. First was seen the son of Polites, named after his grandsire Priam, mounted on a brave chestnut with white markings on forehead and fore-hoof; then followed the second line, led by Atys, whose name descended to a noble Roman house—little Atys, loved in his boyhood by the young Iulus; and last and fairest of all came Iulus himself, riding a gallant steed of Arab race, which he had received as a gift from the fair hand of Dido.

Loud was the applause among the Trojans as they watched that pretty pageant of childish chivalry and traced their fathers’ likeness on the blushing faces of the happy boys. Having ridden slowly round the arena they drew up in a body, facing the spot where Æneas and the Trojan nobles were seated round their host. Then Eyptides gave the signal with a loud crack of his whip, and, parting again into three separate troops, they couched their weapons, and made a mimic charge, but, avoiding the shock at the moment of meeting, rank passed through rank, wheeled again, and returned to the encounter. And so they threaded all the mazes of a warlike dance, in which attack and retreat, rally, and hand-to-hand assault, were pictured in living colors on the level green.

THE SIBYL SPEAKS TO ÆNEAS

By Alfred J. Church

Æneas finally came to the land of Italy, nigh unto Cumæ, which was the dwelling-place of the Sibyl. The men turned the forepart of the ships to the sea, and made them fast with anchors. Then they leapt forth upon the shore, and kindled a fire; and some cut wood in the forest, or fetched water from the stream. But Æneas went up to the great cave of the Sibyl, where, by the inspiration of Apollo, she foretelleth things to come.

Now the temple was a marvellous place to look upon. On the doors thereof was set forth, graven in stone, the death of Androgeos, and the men of Attica choosing by lot seven of their children who should be given as a ransom yearly; and, rising from the sea upon the other side, the land of Crete. Likewise the Labyrinth was there and its winding ways; but Icarus they saw not, for when his father would have wrought the manner of his death in gold his hands failed him: twice he strove, and twice they failed. And when Æneas would have looked further, the priestess said, “Linger not with these things, but slay forthwith seven bullocks from the herd, and seven sheep duly chosen out of the flock.” And when they came to the cave—now there are a hundred doors, and a voice cometh forth from each—the Sibyl cried, “It is time. Lo! the god, the god!” And even as she spake her look was changed and the color of her face; also her hair was loosened, and her breast panted, and she waxed greater than is the stature of a man. Then she cried, “Delayest thou to pray, Æneas of Troy? delayest thou? for the doors open not but to prayer.” Nor said she more. Then Æneas prayed, saying, “O Phœbus, who didst always pity the sorrows of Troy, and didst guide the arrow of Paris that it slew the great Achilles, I have followed thy bidding, journeying over many lands, and now I lay hold on this shore of Italy, which ever seemed to fly before me. Grant thou that our ill fortune follow us no more. And all ye gods and goddesses who loved not Troy, be merciful to us. And thou, O prophetess, give, if it may be, such answer as I would hear. So will I and my people honor thee forever. And write it not, I pray thee, upon leaves, lest the winds carry them away, but speak with thy voice.”

And for a while the prophetess strove against the spirit; but at the last it mastered her, and the doors flew open, and she spake, saying, “The perils of the sea thou hast escaped, but there await thee yet worse perils upon the land. The men of Troy shall come to the kingdom of Lavinium. Fear not for that; yet will they fain not have come. I see battles, and the Tiber foaming with blood, and a new Xanthus and Simoïs, and another Achilles, himself also goddess-born. Juno also shall be ever against thee. And thou shalt be a suppliant to many cities. And the cause of all these woes shall be again a woman. Only yield not thou, but go ever more boldly when occasion shall serve. Little thinkest thou that thy first succor shall be from a city of the Greeks.”

And when she had ended these words, Æneas made answer: “O lady, no toil or peril shall take me unawares; for I have thought over all things in my heart. But one thing I ask of thee. Here is the door of the dwellings of the dead. Fain would I pass thereby, that I may visit my father. I carried him on my shoulders out of the fires of Troy, and with me he endured many things by land and sea, more than befitted his old age. Likewise he bade me ask this boon of thee. Do thou therefore pity both father and son, for thou hast the power, if only thou wilt. Did not Orpheus bring back his wife from the dead, having his harp only? Also Pollux goeth many times this same path, redeeming his brother from death. And why should I tell of Theseus and Hercules? And I also am of the lineage of Jupiter.”

Then the Sibyl spake, saying, “Son of Anchises, it is easy to go down to hell. The door is open day and night. But to return, and struggle to the upper air, that is the labor. Few only have done it, and these of the lineage of the gods and dear to Jupiter. Yet if thou wilt attempt it, hearken unto me. There lieth hid in the forest a bough of gold which is sacred to the Queen of Hell. Nor may any man go on this journey till he have plucked it, for the queen will have it as a gift for herself. And when the bough is plucked, there ever groweth another; and if it be the pleasure of the gods that thou go, it will yield to thy hand. But know that one of thy companions lieth dead upon the shore. First must thou bury him and after offer due sacrifice, even black sheep. So shalt thou approach the dwellings of the dead.”

Then Æneas departed from the cave, and Achates went with him, and much they wondered who it might be that was dead. And when they came to the shore, lo! Misenus lay there, than whom no man was more skilful to call men to battle with the voice of the trumpet. Hector’s companion he had been in old time and then followed Æneas. And now, blowing his trumpet on the shore, he had challenged the gods of the sea to compare with him; wherefore a Triton caught him and plunged him into the sea, so that he died. Then did Æneas and his companions prepare for the burial, cutting ilex and oak and mountain-ash from the wood. But when Æneas beheld the forest, how vast it was, he said, “Now, may the gods grant that in this great forest the bough of gold discover itself.” And as he spake, lo! two doves flew before his face, and settled on the grass, and he knew them to be the birds of his mother, and cried saying, “Guide me now to the bough of gold, and thou my mother help me as before.” Then the birds flew so that he could still see them with his eyes, and he followed after them.

But when they came to the mouth of Avernus, they sat both of them on the tree. And lo! the bough of gold glittered among the branches and rustled in the wind. Right gladly did Æneas break it off, and carry it to the dwelling of the Sibyl.

In the meantime the men of Troy made a great burial for Misenus on the shore, building a pile of wood, and washing and anointing the body. Also they laid the body on a bier, and on it the garments which he had worn being yet alive. Then others, with faces turned away, held a torch to the wood, whereon also were burnt incense and offerings of oil. And when the burning was ended they quenched the ashes with wine. And Corynæus gathered the bones into an urn of bronze, and purified the people, sprinkling them with water with a bough of an olive-tree. Then Æneas made a great mound, and put thereon the trumpet of the man and his bow; and the mountain is called Misenus, after him, to this day.

But when the burial was ended he did as the Sibyl had commanded. A great cavern there is, from which cometh so evil a stench that no bird may fly across. There they brought four black oxen, and the priestess poured wine upon their heads and cut hairs from between the horns. And when they had burned these they slew the oxen, holding dishes for the blood. And Æneas offered a black lamb to the Furies and a barren heifer to the Queen of Hell, smiting them with his sword. Then they burned the entrails with fire, pouring oil upon them. Then did the ground give a hollow sound beneath them, and the dogs howled, for the goddess was at hand. And the priestess cried, “Go ye who may not take part in this matter. And thou, Æneas, draw thy sword from its sheath and follow. Now hast thou need of all thy strength and courage.” Then she plunged into the cave, and Æneas went with her.

THE DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD

By Alfred J. Church

So they went together through the land of shadows, like unto men who walk through a wood in a doubtful light, when the moon indeed hath risen, but there are clouds over the sky. And first they came to where, in front of the gates of hell, dwell Sorrow and Remorse, and pale Disease and Fear, and Hunger that tempteth men to sin, and Want, and Death, and Toil, and Slumber, that is Death’s kinsman, and deadly War; also they saw the chambers of the Furies, and Discord, whose hair is of snakes that drip with blood. And in this region there is an ancient elm, in the boughs whereof dwell all manner of dreams, and shapes of evil monsters, as many as have been, such as were the centaurs, half man, half horse, and Briareus with the hundred hands, and others also. These Æneas, when he saw them, sought to slay, rushing upon them with the sword, but his guide warned him that they were shadows only.

After this they came to the river of hell, whereon plies the boatman Charon. A long white beard hath he and unkempt; and his eyes are fixed in a fiery stare, and a scarf is knotted upon his shoulder, as is a pilot’s wont. An old man he seemeth to be, but hale and ruddy. Now there was ever rushing to the bank a great crowd, wives and mothers, and valiant men of war, boys and girls dead before they were given in marriage, and young men laid on the funeral pile before their parents’ eyes. Thick they were as the leaves that fall to the earth at the first frost of autumn, or as the swallows, when they gather themselves together, making ready to fly across the sea to the lands of the sun. And of these Charon would take some into his boat; but others he would forbid, and drive from the shore. This when Æneas saw, he marvelled, and said: “O lady, what meaneth this concourse at the river? What seek these souls? Why be some driven from the bank and some ferried across?”

And the Sibyl made answer: “This river that thou seest is the Styx, by which the gods in heaven swear, and fear to break their oath. Those whom thou seest to be driven from the bank are such as have lacked burial, but those who are ferried across have been buried duly; for none pass this stream till their bodies have been laid in the grave, otherwise they wander for a hundred years, and so at last may cross over.”

Much did Æneas pity their ill fortune, and the more when he beheld Orontes and his Lycians whom the sea had swallowed up alive before his eyes. Here likewise there met him his pilot Palinurus, to whom, when he knew him, for indeed he scarce could see him in the darkness, he said: “What god took thee from us and drowned thee in the sea? Surely, in this one matter, Apollo hath deceived me, saying that thou shouldst escape the sea and come to the land of Italy.”