Chapter V: Part 5

In answer to his call there flocked from far and wide to Calydon a great host of brave men, and mighty was the muster which gathered beneath the roof of Œneus for the hunting of the boar. Jason himself came, the leader of the Argonauts, and Castor and Pollux, the great twin brethren, whose stars are in the sky. There was Theseus, too, who slew the Minotaur, and Peirithous his friend, who went down with him to Hades, and tried to carry off Proserpine from the King of the Dead. And swift-footed Idas came, and Lynceus, his brother, whose eyes were so sharp that they could see into the center of the earth. Others were there besides, whose names are too many to tell, and Toxeus and Plexippus, the brothers of Althæa the queen, whom she loved as she loved her own son Meleager. In the great hall a sumptuous feast was spread, and loud was the laughter and bright were the faces, as one friend met another he had not seen for many a long day. The feast was well under way when one of the attendants whispered in the ear of the king that yet another guest had come for the hunting of the boar.

“Who is he?” asked the king.

“My lord, I know not,” the man replied.

“Well, keep him not standing without, at all events,” said Œneus, “but show him in here, and we will make him welcome with the rest.”

In a few moments the man returned, and held back the curtain of the great doorway for the newcomer to enter. All eyes were turned eagerly that way to see who it might be, and a murmur of surprise ran round the hall; for they saw upon the threshold no stalwart warrior, as they had expected, but a maiden young and beautiful. She was clad in a hunter’s tunic, which fell to her knee, and her legs were strapped about with leathern thongs. Crosswise about her body she wore a girdle, from which hung a quiver full of arrows, and with her right hand she leant on a great ashen bow like a staff. Her shining hair fell back in waves from her forehead, and was gathered up in a coil behind, and she held her head up proudly and gazed round on the company unabashed. The glow of her cheek and the spring of her step told of life in the open, and of health-giving sport over hill and dale, so that she might have been Diana herself come down from her hunting on the mountains.

She looked round the hall till her eyes fell on Œneus, the host, in the place of honor, and in no wise troubled by the silence which her coming had caused, she said: “Sire, for my late-coming I crave thy pardon. Doubtless some of thy guests have come from more distant lands than I, but, as ill-luck would have it, I chose to come by way of the sea instead of by the isthmus. For a whole day I ate out my heart with waiting till the wind fell, and I could cross over in safety.”

Concealing his surprise as best he could, Œneus answered: “Maiden, we thank thee for thy coming, and make thee right welcome in our halls. Yet we would know thy name who, a woman all alone, hast crossed barren tracts of land and stormy seas unflinching, and come to take part in a hunt which is no mere child’s sport, but a perilous venture, in which strong men might hesitate to risk their lives and limbs.”

As she listened to his words she smiled. “O king,” she said, “thou hidest thy surprise but ill. Yet am I not offended, nor will I make a mystery of who I am. My name is Atalanta, and I come from the mountains of Arcadia, where all day long I hunt with the nymphs over hill and over dale, and through the dark forests, following in the footsteps of her we serve, great Diana the huntress. At her command I stand before thee now, for she said to me, ‘Atalanta, the land of Calydon lies groaning beneath the curse, wherewith I cursed them because they forgot me, and gave me not my dues. But do thou go and help them, and for thy sake I will lay aside my wrath, and let them slay the monster that I sent against them. Yet without thee shall they not accomplish it, but the glory of the hunt shall be thine.’ Thus did she speak, and in obedience to her word am I come.”

When she had spoken, a murmur ran round the hall, and each man, determined in his mind that no mere woman should surpass him in courage and strength. The sons of Thestius, the queen’s brothers, especially looked askance at her, and their hearts were filled with jealousy and wrath; for there seemed no reason why she should not be a match for any man among them, in a trial where swiftness of foot and sureness of eye would avail as much as brute force. When Meleager saw their dark looks he was very angry that they should so far forget their good breeding as to fail in welcoming a guest, and he rose from his seat and went towards her.

“O maiden,” he said, “we make thee right welcome to our halls, and we thank thee because thou hast heard our appeal, and art come to help us in the day of our trouble. Come, now, and sit thee down, and make glad thy heart with meat and wine, for thou must need it sorely after thy long journeying.”

As he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a place of honor between his father and himself, and saw that she had her fill of the good fare on the board. As he sat beside her and talked with her, his heart was kindled with love, for she was exceeding fair to look upon; and the more he thought upon the morrow’s hunting, the more loath was he that she should risk her life in it. At length he said:

“Atalanta, surely thou knowest not what manner of beast it is that we are gathered together to destroy. Thou hast hunted the swift-footed stag, perchance, through the greenwood, but never a monster so fierce as this boar that Diana has sent against us. I tell thee, it will be no child’s play, but a matter of death to some of us. Hast thou no mother or father to mourn thee if any evil chance befall, or any lover who is longing for thy return? Think well ere it be too late.”

But she laughed aloud at his words. “Thou takest me for some drooping damsel that sits at home and spins, and faints if she see but a drop of blood. I tell thee, I know neither father, nor mother, nor husband, nor brother, and I love but little the lot of womenkind. Never have I lived within four walls, and the first roof that covered me was the forest-trees of Mount Parthenius. Whence I came or how I got to Parthenius no one can tell, and I have no wish to find out. As for savage beasts, had I not the eyes of a hawk and the feet of a deer, I had not been safe ten seconds on the uplands of Arcadia. For there dwells a fierce tribe of centaurs—monsters half human and half horse—who have the passions of men and the strength of beasts. These pursued me over hill and dale, and I fled like the wind before them; but ever and anon I found time to turn and let fly from my bow a dart which fell but seldom short of the mark. So that after a time they gave up in despair, and molested me no more. So talk not to me of fierce beasts or of danger.”

And nothing that Meleager could say would turn her from her purpose. But across the board he saw the eyes of Toxeus and Plexippus, his mother’s brothers, fixed upon him, and their brows were dark and lowering as they frowned upon him and Atalanta. So he said no more, lest they should discover his secret and taunt him. As for Atalanta, a stone would have returned his love as readily as she. For a companion in the hunt she liked him full well, but to give up her maiden life for his sake was as far from her thoughts as the east is from the west.

When the morrow dawned, great was the bustle and confusion in the court of the palace, where all were to meet together for the hunting of the boar. Attendants ran this way and that to fetch and carry for their masters, and, as the huntsman blew his horn, the hounds barked impatiently, and strained, whining, at their leashes. At length, when all was ready, Althæa with her maidens came forth into the portico, and bade farewell to her guests, her husband, her brothers, and to Meleager, her son. “God speed thee, my son,” she said, as she looked proudly on him, “and good luck to thy hunting.”

Then she stood on the step and waved to them with a smile as they turned to look back at her before the curve of the roadway hid them from sight. But though a smile was on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and her heart within her was dark with a dim foreshadowing of evil. With a heavy step, she turned and went into the house, and as she passed the altar by the hearth she stopped and bowed her head. “Great Diana,” she prayed, “have mercy and bring my loved ones safely back to me this day.”

Then she went to her chamber and drew forth from its hiding-place the half-burnt brand on which her son’s life depended. “His life, at any rate, is safe,” she thought, “so long as this brand is in my keeping.” And she hid it away again where she knew no one could find it, and set to work restlessly, to while away the hours as best she could, till the hunters should come home.

They, meanwhile, had gone their way up the steep path which led into the mountains and deep into the heart of the forest, where they knew their prey was lurking. Soon they came upon the track of his hoofs leading to the dry bed of a stream, where the rushes and reeds grew high in the marsh-land, and the bending willows cast their shadow over the spot he had chosen for his lair. Here they spread the nets cautiously about, and stationed themselves at every point of vantage, and, when all was ready, let loose the hounds, and waited for the boar to come forth from his hiding-place. Not long did they have to wait. With a snort of rage he rushed out. The breath from his nostrils came forth like steam, and the white foam flew from his mouth and covered his bristly sides and neck. Quick as lightning, he made for the first man he could see, and the tramp of his hoofs re-echoed through the woods like thunder as he came upon the hard ground. As soon as he rushed out, a shower of missiles fell towards him from every side, but some were aimed awry or fell too far or too short of him, and those that touched him slipped aside on his tough hide; and he broke through the nets that had been spread to catch him, and galloped away unharmed, whilst two of the hunters, who stood in his path, and had not been able to rush aside in time, lay groaning on the ground with the iron mark of his hoof upon them. When the rest saw that he had escaped they gave chase with all speed, headed by Castor and Pollux, on their white horses, and Atalanta close beside them, running swiftly as the wind. Ahead of them the woodland track gave a sudden turn to the left, and the boar, rushing blindly forward, would have plunged into the undergrowth and bushes, and escaped beyond range of their darts. But Atalanta, seeing what must happen, stopped short in the chase. Quick as thought, she put an arrow to the string, and let fly at the great beast ahead; and Diana, true to her word, guided the arrow so that it pierced him in the vital part behind the ear. With a snort of pain and fury, he turned round upon the hunters and charged down towards them as they came up from behind, and great would have been the havoc he had wrought among them but for Meleager. As the brute bore down, he leaped lightly to one side, and, gathering together all his strength, buried the spear deep into the beast’s black shoulder, and felled him to the earth with the force of his blow. Immediately the others gathered round, and helped to finish the work that Meleager had begun, and soon the monster lay dead upon the ground.

Then Meleager, with his foot upon the boar’s head, spoke to the hunters. “My friends,” he said, “I thank you all for the courage and devotion you have shown this day. My land can once more raise her head in joy, for the monster that wrought such havoc in her fields lies dead here at my feet. Yet the price of his death has not been light, my friends.” And they bowed their heads in silence, as they remembered the two whom the boar had struck in his rush, one of whom was now dead. “Yet those who have suffered, have suffered gloriously, giving up themselves, as brave men must, for the sake of others, and their names shall surely not be unremembered by us all. Once more, my trusty comrades, I thank you, every man of you. As for thee, lady,” he continued, turning to Atalanta, “while all have played their part, yet the glory of the hunt is thine. But for thy sure hand and eye the beast might yet be lurking in the forest. Wherefore, as a token of our gratitude, I will give to thee the boar’s head as a trophy to do with as thou wilt.”

At his words a murmur of applause went round the ring of them that listened. Only the voices of Toxeus and Plexippus were not heard, for they were mad with jealousy and wrath, and as soon as there was silence they spoke.

“By what right,” asked Toxeus, “shall one bear off the trophy of a hunt in which each one of us has played his part?”

The insolence of his words and looks roused the anger of Meleager to boiling-point. All through the hunt the brothers had shown scant courtesy to Atalanta, and now their rudeness was past bearing.

“By the same right as the best man bears off the prize in any contest,” he answered quietly, though he was pale with rage.

“Happy is that one who has first won the heart of the judge, then,” said Plexippus with a sneer, as he looked at Atalanta.

By the truth and the falsehood of his words Meleager was maddened past all bearing. Scarce knowing what he did, he sprang upon him, and before anyone knew what he was about, he had buried his hunting-knife in the heart of Plexippus. When Toxeus saw his brother fall back upon the grass, he sprang upon Meleager, and for a moment they swung backwards and forwards, held each in the other’s deadly grip. But Meleager was the younger and the stronger of the two, and soon Toxeus too lay stretched upon the ground beside his brother, and a cry of horror went through the crowd of those who stood by. Pale and trembling, Meleager turned towards them.

“My friends,” he said, “farewell. You shall look upon my face no more. Whether I slew them justly or no, the curse of Heaven is upon me, and I know that night and day the Furies will haunt my steps, because my hand is red with the blood of my kinsmen. O fair fields of Calydon, that I have loved and served all my days, farewell for ever. Never more shall I look upon you, nor my home on the steep hill-side, nor the face of the queen, my mother; but I must hide my head in shame far from the haunts of men. As for thee, lady,” he said, turning to Atalanta, “their taunt was false, yet true. Right honorably didst thou win the trophy, as all these here will testify;” and he pointed to the hunters standing round. “Yet my soul leapt with joy when I found that into thine hand and none other’s I might give the prize of the hunt. Wherefore, think kindly on my memory, lady, when I am far away, for a brave man’s heart is in thy keeping. Farewell.”

And he turned and went away by the forest-path. So surprised were all the company that no man moved hand or foot to stop him. The first to speak was Atalanta. “Comrades,” she said, “do you bear home the dead and break the news as gently as may be to the queen, and I will follow him, if perchance I can comfort him, for the hand of Heaven is heavy upon him.”

The rumor had reached the city that the boar had been killed, but not without loss among the gallant band that had gone out against him, and with a heavy heart Althæa was waiting to know who it was that had fallen. In time she saw them returning home, and in their midst four litters carried on the shoulders of some. When she saw them, her heart stood still with fear, and as they came up and laid down the litters before the doorway she was as one turned to marble, and moved neither hand nor foot. When Œneus the king saw her, he took her gently by the hand. “Come within, lady,” he said; “the hunting of the boar has cost us dear.”

“Ah! tell me the worst at once,” she cried. “I can bear it better so. The suspense is maddening me.”

“Two of those who lie before thee are strangers who have given themselves for us,” he said. “One of them is sore wounded, and the other is gone beyond recovery. The other two, Althæa, are very near and dear to us—Toxeus and Plexippus, thy brothers.”

And he pointed to two of the bodies which lay side by side before her, with their faces covered. With a cry she drew back the coverings, and gazed upon the faces that she loved so well. As she looked, she saw the wounds that had killed them, and she knew now that it was no wild beast that had slain them, but the hand of man. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looked round on those who stood by, and the gleam of her eyes was terrible to see. “Deceive me no more,” she said, “but tell me how these two came to fall by the hand of man.”

“Lady,” said Œneus, “they sought a quarrel with one of our company, and in anger he slew them both.”

For a moment she was silent, then in a low voice, yet one that all could hear, she spoke. “My curse be upon him, whosoe’er he be. O Daughters of Destruction, wingless Furies, I bid you track his footsteps night and day. May no roof cover his head nor any man give him food or drink, but let him be a vagabond on the face of the earth till just vengeance overtake him. On thee, Œneus, do I lay this charge, and on my son Meleager, to avenge the death of these my kinsmen, who have been foully slain.”

In vain did Œneus try to stop her. She was as one deaf to his entreaties. When she had finished, she looked round for Meleager, and when she could not see him, she cried—“where is my son?”

“Lady,” said Œneus, “even now the wingless bearers of thy curse are hunting him through the forest.”

For a moment she swayed to and fro as though she would fall. “Ye gods, what have I done?” she muttered.

Then with a cry she turned and rushed through the doorway, across the deserted palace to her own chamber, and barring the door behind her, she took from its hiding-place the brand she had kept jealously so long. As on the day when the Fates had come to her, a bright fire was burning on the hearth, and deep into the heart of it she pushed the log with both her hands.

“O my son, my son!” she cried; “to think that I should come to this! But though the flame that devours thy life burns out my heart within me, yet must I do it. Thus only can I save thee from my curse. For the word, once spoken, never dies, and the Furies, once aroused, sleep never, night nor day. Wherefore Death alone can give thee peace, O Meleager, my first-born and my dearest.”

Œneus meanwhile had followed her, and stood without, asking her to open to him. But she cried out to him:

“All is well. I beg thee leave me. I would be alone.”

So he left her; and she stood watching the flames slowly eat the wood away, and at last, when the log fell apart in ashes, she sank down upon the floor, and with her son’s life hers too went out for grief.

Meleager meanwhile had gone blindly forward along the forest track, and from afar Atalanta followed him. For a time he went onward, straight as an arrow, never stopping, never turning. But when his mother’s curse was spoken, faster than the whirlwind the Furies flew from the realms of endless night, and came and crouched before his feet. With a cry he turned aside, and tried to flee from them, but wherever he looked they were there before him, and he reeled backward and forward like a drunken man. But soon his strength seemed to give way, and he fell forward on the grass, and Atalanta ran forward and took his head upon her knee. To her eyes they two were alone in the heart of the forest, for the foul shapes of the Furies he alone had seen. But now he lay with his eyes closed, faint and weak, and she thought that some time in the hunt he must have strained himself, and lay dying of some inward hurt that no man could heal, for on his body she could see not a scratch. So she sat in the gathering gloom with his head upon her lap. There was naught else she could do. At last, when his heart beat so faint that she thought it had stopped once for all, he opened his eyes and looked up at her, and when he saw her the fear and the madness died out of his face, and he smiled.

“The gods are kind,” he said. Once more he closed his eyes, and Atalanta knew that he would open them never again. Gently she laid him with his head on the moss-covered roots of a tree, and sped away to the city to bear the news of his death. In the darkness of night they bore him through the forest, and all the people gathered together and watched from the walls the torchlit procession as it came slowly up the hill. By the side of his mother they laid him, and burned above them the torches of the dead, and the mourners, with heads bowed in grief, stood around.

Thus did it come to pass that the hunting of the boar ended in grief for the land of Calydon, and Atalanta went back to the Arcadian woodlands with a sore place in her heart for Meleager, who had died happy because his head was resting on her knee.

THE WINNING OF ATALANTA

By Elsie Finnimore Buckley

Once upon a time there ruled in Arcadian Tegea a proud-hearted king named Schœnus. A tamer of horses was he, and a man mighty in the hunt and in battle. Above every other thing he loved danger and sport and all kinds of manly exercise. Indeed, these things were the passion of his life, and he despised all womenkind because they could take no part nor lot in them. And he wedded Clymene, a fair princess of a royal house, because he wished to raise up noble sons in his halls, who should ride and hunt with him, and carry on his name when he was dead. On his wedding-day he swore a great oath, and called upon all the gods to witness it.

“Never,” he swore in his pride, “shall a maid child live in my halls. If a maid is born to me, she shall die ere her eyes see the light, and the honor of my house shall rest upon my sons alone.”

For many a long year no child was born to him, and when at last he had hopes of an heir, the babe that was born was a maid. When he saw the child his heart was cut in two, and the pride of a father and the pride of his oath did battle within him for victory.

The pride of his oath conquered, for he was afraid to break his word in the face of all his people. He hardened his heart, and gave orders that the child should be cast out upon the mountains to die of hunger and cold. So the babe was given to a servant, who bore it forth and left it on the slope of bleak Parthenium.

When Diana, the maiden goddess, saw the child cast forth to die, she was filled with anger against Schœnus, and swore that it should live. Wherefore she sent a she-bear to the place where the child lay, and softened the heart of the beast, so that she lifted it gently in her mouth and bore it to the cave where her own cubs lay hid. There she suckled it with her own young ones, and tended it night and day, till it grew strong and could walk, and the cave rang with its laughter as it played and gambolled with the young bears. When Diana knew that the child was old enough to live without its foster-mother, she sent her nymphs to fetch it away, and when they bore it to her she was well pleased to find it fair and strong.

“Her name shall be Atalanta,” she said to them. “She shall dwell on the mountains and in the woods of Arcadia, and be one of my band with you. A mighty huntress shall she be, and the swiftest of all mortals upon earth; and in time she shall return to her own folk and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts.”

Thus it came to pass that Atalanta lived with the nymphs in the woodlands of Arcadia. They taught her to run and to hunt, and to shoot with bow and arrows, till soon the day came when she could do these things as well as any of their band. Diana loved her, and delighted to do her honor; and when the land of Calydon cried to her for mercy, because of the boar she had sent to ravage it in her wrath, she decreed that none but Atalanta should have the glory of that hunt. The tale of how she came to Calydon, and how the boar was slain at last through her, I have told you before; and of how death came to Meleager, because he loved her, and would not let any man insult her while he stood idly by. By the fame of that hunt her name was carried far and wide through Greece, so that when she came to the funeral games of Pelias there was no need to ask who she was. She ran in the foot race against the swiftest in the land, and won the prize so easily that when she reached the goal the first man had scarce passed the turning-point, though he was no sluggard to make a mock of. When the games were over, she went back to Arcadia without a tear or a sigh, but her face and her memory lived in the heart of many a man whose very name she had not known.

The tale of how Atalanta went back to her own folk, and of how she was wooed and won, is as follows:

One day, when King Schœnus held a great hunt in the forest on the edge of his domain, it chanced that Atalanta had come to those parts; and when she heard the blare of the bugles and the barking of the hounds her heart leapt with joy. Full often had she joined in a hunt on the uplands of Arcadia, and run with the hounds.

So now she joined in the chase as the stag broke loose from cover, and her white feet flashed in the sunlight as she followed the hounds across the open moorland. King Schœnus, when he saw her, was glad.

“It is Atalanta, the maiden huntress,” he cried. “See that she be treated with due courtesy, for she is the only woman on earth who is fit to look a man in the face.”

And he rode eagerly after her. But the best horse in all that company was no match for Atalanta. Far ahead of them all she shot, like an arrow from the bow, and when at last the stag turned at bay in a pool, she was the first to reach him. When the rest had come up, and the huntsman had slain the stag, the king turned to her.

“Atalanta,” he said, “the trophy of this chase is thine, and my huntsman shall bear the head of the stag whithersoever thou shalt bid him. In token of our esteem, I beg thee to accept this ring. When thou lookest upon it, think kindly of an old man whose heart is lonely, and who would fain have a daughter like thee.”

As he spoke he drew off a gold ring from his finger and held it towards her; the tears stood in his eyes and his hand shook as he looked on her fair young form, and remembered the babe he had cast out on the mountains to die. If she had lived she would have been at an age with Atalanta, and perchance as fair and as strong as she; and his heart was bitter against himself for the folly of his oath.

When Atalanta heard his words, she had a mind at first to refuse his gift. Many a man before had offered her gifts, and she had refused them every one; for she had no wish to be beholden to any man. But when she saw the eyes of the old king dim with tears, and how his hand shook as he held out the ring, her heart was softened, and yearned with a strange yearning towards him. Coming forward, she knelt at his feet and took the ring, and held his hand and kissed it.

“May the gods grant the prayer of thy heart, sire,” she said, “and give thee a daughter like unto me, but fairer and more wise than I!”

As he looked down on the hand that held his own the old king trembled more violently than before, for above the wrist was a birthmark like the birthmark above the wrist of the babe he had cast forth to die. And he knew that he made no mistake, for that mark had lived in his mind as though it had been branded with red-hot steel.

“Atalanta,” he said, “the gods have heard thy prayer. This is not the first time thy fingers have closed about mine.”

“What meanest thou, sire?” she asked.

“As many years ago as the span of thy young life,” he said, “I held in my arms a new-born babe, the child that the gods had given me, and its little hand with a birthmark above the wrist closed about my finger trustfully. But because of my foolish pride I hardened my heart. I cast away the gift of the gods and sent the child to die upon the mountains. But the birthmark on its wrist was branded on my brain so that I could not forget it. Never till this day have I seen that mark again, and now I see it on thy wrist, my child.”

He bowed his head as he spoke, and the tears from his eyes fell upon her hand, which lay in his as she knelt before him.

“Oh, my father!” she cried, and bent forward and kissed his hand.

When he found that she did not turn from him, though she knew what he had done, he was more deeply moved than before. “Atalanta,” he said, “when I cast thee forth to die, I gave back to the gods the life they had given me, and now I have no right to claim it again. Yet would thy presence be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come back to me, my child.”

Thus did the call come to Atalanta to return to her own folk, and the choice lay before her. On the one side was her free life in the forest, with Diana and her nymphs, the hunt, the fresh air, and all the things that she loved; on the other was life within the walls of a city, and the need to bow her head to the customs and the ways of men. Her heart misgave her when she thought of it.

“My lord,” she said, “will a young lion step into the cage of his own free will, think you?”

The old king bowed his head at her words. “Alas! what other answer could I look for?” he said. “I thank the gods that they have shown me thy fair face this day. Perchance, when we hunt again in these parts, thou wilt join us for love of the chase. Till then, my child, farewell.”

With trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on the forehead. Then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and mounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. When they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon her way. But her eyes were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights and sounds she loved so well, and that night she tossed restlessly upon her couch of moss. For before her eyes was the figure of an old man bowed with sorrow, and in her ear his voice pleaded, trembling with longing and love.

In the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream close by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head. Then she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver about her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till she came to the white road that led to the city. Then she turned and looked back at the forest.

“Dear trees and woods,” she said, “farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell in the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. When I have trodden the white road and gone up to the city, I can live with you no more. As for thee, great Diana, who saved me in the beginning, I will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days, and a lover of the hunt.” So saying she stepped out bravely on the white highway, and went up into the city, till she came to the gate of the palace. When she had entered the hall, she stopped and looked about her. At first all seemed silent and deserted for the folk had gone their several ways for the work of the day; but at length she spied an old man sitting on a carved chair in one of the alcoves between the pillars. It was the king, her father. He sat with his head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the floor, and his face was sad and full of longing. And she went and knelt at his feet. The old man gazed for a moment in her face, as though he did not see her; then he started from his chair and laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Atalanta!” he cried.

“My father,” she said, “I have come back to thee.”

Then he gathered her up in his arms. “Oh, my child, my child!” he said. “The gods are kind beyond my desert.”

“Thy voice cried out to me in the night-time,” she said, “and I could not shut my heart to thy pleading. The call of the free earth was strong, but the call of my blood was stronger.”

Thus did Atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the heart of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms. A great feast was held in the palace in her honor, and through all the city the people rejoiced because of her. Suitors flocked from far and wide to seek her hand in marriage. But she treated them one and all with scorn, and vowed that she would never wed. At first her father smiled upon her, and looked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was not to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. So he gathered about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that among them all there would be one who could win her heart. But the months passed by, and still she vowed that she would never wed. All her delight was in running and hunting, and to ride by her father’s side. At length the king grew anxious.

“Surely, my child,” he said, “among all these princes there is one whom thou couldst love?”

“I shall never love any man but thee, my father,” she replied.

Nothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her resolve. But still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length she grew so wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that would rid her of all her suitors.

“My father,” she said, “I will wed any man who shall ask for my hand, if he will fulfill one condition.”

“My child,” cried her father, “I knew that in the end thou wouldst listen to reason. Tell me thy condition, that I may spread it abroad among those who are suing for thy hand.”

“Tell them,” she said, “that I will wed the first man among them who will run a race with me. If he win, I will be his bride, but if he lose, he must die.”

The king’s face fell when he heard her words. “Surely thou speakest in mockery, Atalanta,” he said. “No man in all the world can run as swiftly as thou canst, and they know it. Thou wilt drive thy suitors from thee; or if any be foolhardy enough to run with thee, they will run to a certain death.”

“No man will run to a certain death, my father,” she answered. “When they know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back to their own folk, and I shall be troubled with suitors no more.”

So he published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made. When they heard it there was great consternation among them, and they consulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a deputation to her to find out the meaning of her words.

“Lady,” they asked, “when thou speakest of death thou speakest perchance in parables. Those who run in the race with thee and are outstripped must give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no more. And this would be death indeed to them that love thee.”

But she laughed in their faces. “He who courts death may race with me at daybreak, and at sunset he shall drink the poison-cup without fail, and look neither on my face again nor the face of any living thing. Have I spoken plainly now?”

The next day there was great confusion in the halls of King Schœnus. There was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this way and that. Chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in the court, and baggage was piled high behind the horses. And Atalanta laughed aloud at the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor came and kissed her hand and bade her farewell.

That night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been for many a long day. Yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in no haste to be gone.

“They are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition,” said the king.

Then Atalanta herself went and pleaded with them.

But they replied, “Lady, thou hast given the condition of thy marrying, and we are waiting to fulfil it.”

Thus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready for the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of them should be the first to run against her. In the early morning, before the sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded to the course to watch it. The man ran well and bravely, but his speed was as child’s play to Atalanta. She put forth her strength like a greyhound that is content to run for a while before the horses, but when he scents a hare, can leave them far behind. Even so did Atalanta run, and came in cool and fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in hot and panting behind her.

Thus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison cup because of his love for Atalanta. With a smiling face did he drink it, as a man drinks at a feast.

And now a time of darkness and mourning fell upon the land, and many a day in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some noble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without Atalanta. And Atalanta’s heart was sore within her, because of the rash condition she had made in her ignorance. When she would fain have recalled her words it was too late, for the suitors bound her to her promise.

“Either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let us take our chance of winning thee or death,” they said.

And she was forced to run with them. For in her heart she knew that even death was happier for a man than to win her without her love.

Thus were the words of Diana fulfilled when she said, “In time she shall return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts.”

One day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that a race was to be run. The night before he had slept in a village near by, and the people had told him the tale of Atalanta, and how on the morrow another suitor was to run to his death. But he scoffed at their words.

“No man would run to certain death,” he said, “were the maid as fair as Venus.”

“Go and see for thyself,” they replied. “Soon we shall hear that thou too wilt run in the race.”

“Never,” he said; “no woman can cheat my life from me.”

But they shook their heads unconvinced. “Many before thee have spoken likewise,” said they, “and yet they have run.”

“If I run, I will run to win,” he answered.

“Can a snail outstrip a deer?” they asked.

“It might so chance,” said he.

“Thou art mad,” they cried.

“Better to be mad on earth than sane in Hades,” he replied.

But they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their fingers on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at random.

“Well, well,” he said, with a laugh, “we shall see what we shall see.”

The next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with the crowd, he made his way to the race-course, and found for himself a place where he could watch the whole sight with ease. The race was run, and ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung with black. But in the mind of the stranger an image remained which had not been there before—the image of a maid whose white feet flashed in the sunlight and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag swings in the breeze.

“Great Hercules!” he thought within himself, “to run shoulder to shoulder with her for a moment, even in a race for death, might be worth the while after all. I will make myself known at the palace, and see what the gods will give me.”

For some days he lay hid in the city, till he thought the time was ripe for him to go up to the palace of the king. Then he went for a walk along the highway, and when he was covered with dust and grime, he returned to the city and made his way at once to the palace.

When Atalanta saw a stranger at the board her heart sank within her, and she kept her eyes turned away, as though she had not seen him, for she made sure that he too had come to run in the race with her. It chanced that night that the company was scanty, and no man talked in private to his neighbor, but the conversation leapt from one end of the board to the other, as each one took his share in it and said his say. The stranger, too, took his part with the rest of them, in nowise abashed; and so shrewd were his words, and so full of wit, that soon he had a smile upon the face of each one at the table. For many a long day the talk had not been so merry nor the laughter so loud at the table of King Schœnus. Atalanta, too, forgot her constraint, and talked and laughed freely with the stranger; and he answered her back, as though it had been man to man, and showed no more deference to her than to the others of the company.

When the meal was over, the king approached the stranger, and Atalanta stood beside him.

“Sir,” said the king, “thy name and thy country are still hid from us, but we are grateful for thy coming, and would be fain for thee to stay as long as it shall please thee.”

“I thank thee, sire,” said the stranger, “but I am bound by a strange vow. I may not reveal my name, nor accept hospitality for more than one night from any man, till I come to a house where none other than the king’s daughter shall promise me her hand in marriage. From the tales I have heard in the neighboring country, I have learnt that I may not hope to end my vow beneath this roof—though indeed,” he said, turning to Atalanta, “I would fain press my suit if there were any chance of success.”

But Atalanta threw back her head at his words. “Thou hast doubtless heard the condition,” she said, “by the fulfilment of which alone a man may win my hand.”

“Alas, sir!” said the king, “I would press no man to try his luck in that venture.”

“Since that is so,” said the stranger, “I will go forth once more upon my journey at break of day, and see what luck the gods will give me. I thank thee for thy kindly hospitality this night, and beg thee to excuse me. I have travelled far, and would fain rest now, as I must go a long distance ere I can rest again.”

Thereupon he took his leave of King Schœnus and his daughter. But she, for all her pride, could not forget the man who seemed to bid her farewell with so light a heart.

It was her custom to rise early in the morning, before the rest of the household was stirring, and to go forth alone into the woods; and it was the lot of one of the slaves to rouse himself betimes to give her food ere she went, so that when she appeared, as was her wont, he thought nothing of it. The stranger had risen even earlier than she, and the slave was waiting upon him.

“Good-morrow, sir,” she said. “It is not often I have a companion when I break my fast.” Then she turned to the slave, “Thou mayest get thee back to thy bed,” she said, “and sleep out thy sleep in peace. I will see to the wants of our guest and speed him on his way.”

Thereupon Atalanta sat down at the board beside the stranger, and they fell to with all the appetite of youth and health; and as they ate they laughed and joked, and talked of strange lands they both had seen and adventures that had befallen them. In the space of one-half hour they were as good friends as though they had known each other all their lives.

When they had finished their meal the stranger rose. “I must bid thee farewell, lady,” he said.

“Nay, not yet,” she replied; “I will set thee on thy way, and show thee a road through the forest that will bring thee to the city thou seekest. I know every track and path as well as the wild deer know them.”

He tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen, and led him out from the palace by a side gate, which she unbarred with her own hands. Down through the sleeping streets they went, where the shadows of the houses lay long upon the ground, and out across the open downs into the shade of the forest. At length they came to a broad track that crossed the path they were in, and Atalanta stopped short and pointed to the right.

“From here,” she said, “thou canst not miss thy way. Follow the track till it lead thee to the highroad, and when thou strikest the highroad, turn to the left, and thou wilt come to the city thou seekest.”

Then she held out her hand to him. “I must bid thee farewell,” she said, “and good luck to the ending of thy vow.”

“Lady,” he said, and took her hand in his, “if thou wilt, thou canst release me now from my vow.”

But she drew her hand away sharply and tossed back her head. “Many kings have daughters besides King Schœnus,” she said, “and any one of them could release thee from thy vow as well as I.”

“Atalanta,” he said, “no king’s daughter save thee shall ever release me from my vow. From the first moment that I saw thee I loved thee.”

“Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art thou willing to run in the race?”

“Much good will my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup. Nay, nay,” he said; “I love thee too well to put my death at thy door. When I have some chance of winning the race, I will come back and claim thee. In the meantime, lady, farewell.”

And, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as looking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and anger.

Day after day passed by, and he came not. “He is a man of his word,” she thought at last. “Till he has some chance of winning he will not come back. And he is no fool. He knows he can never run as I can run. He will never come back.”

Yet for all this she watched for him. When she went forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way. The weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as Atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. When by chance she raised her eyes, there at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her thoughts.

“I have come back, lady,” he said.

“Oh!” she cried from her heart, “I am glad thou hast come back.”

Then he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence side by side along the path they had walked before. As they drew near to the edge of the forest, Atalanta was the first to speak.

“And thy vow,” she asked—“hast thou found release from it?”