"I mean that if thou hadst not loved me, they would never have filled thy soul with longing to have them, and thou wouldst never have turned aside from the race."

"And, knowing this, thou didst stake thy life on my love?" she said.

"Knowing that, I staked my life on thy love," he answered.

"Then that was the one thing better than speed in the race?"

"Yes," he answered, "I learnt to trust in thy love."

There was silence for a moment between them, and then again Atalanta spoke.

"And whence came the apples?" she asked him.

"When I left thee at the parting of the ways," he said, "I travelled many a weary league by land, and on the road I pa.s.sed many a shrine of Aphrodite. But I never pa.s.sed them by without lifting up my hands in prayer to the G.o.ddess, for I knew that she could help me if she would, and I knew that to them that love truly she is ever kind in the end.

But I wandered till I was footsore and weary, and yet I had no sign.

At length I came to the seash.o.r.e, and took ship for the pleasant isle of Cyprus, which is her own dear home. There at last she came to me, walking on the waves of the sea, As I lay on the sh.o.r.e in the night-time, I saw her as a great light afar, and she drew near to me with the foam playing white about her feet. In her hand she bore three shining golden apples. And she came and stood beside me, and I hid my eyes at the sight of her beauty. But she spoke to me in a voice that was soft and kind, and the melody of it touched my heart like the melody of music.

"'Fear not, Meilanion,' she said; 'I have heard the cry of thy heart.

Here are three apples from mine own apple-tree. If she whom thou lovest loves thee in return, she cannot resist the spell of their golden brightness. When thou runnest against her, cast them one by one into the middle of the course. If she love thee she will turn aside to pick them up. For her they will be heavy as the gold they seem made of. For thee they will be light as the fruit whose form they wear.

Farewell, and good luck to thy race.'

"Thereupon darkness came over my eyes, and I could find no words to thank her. When I awoke I thought it had been a dream, but lo! by my side upon the sand lay the apples, shining in the sunlight."

"And thy vow?" asked Atalanta. "How camest thou to make such a vow?"

He laughed at her words.

"When a hare is hunted," he said, "thou knowest how he will double and turn, and take a line he has no mind to pursue to the end. So was it with me. Long ago in my father's house I heard of thee and of thy beauty, and how thou couldst cast such a spell upon the hearts of men that for thy sake they would fling away their lives. And a great desire came upon me to see this thing for myself, for I could scarce believe it. So I set forth alone to find thee, and hid my name from all men as I journeyed, for thus could I be more free to act as seemed best in mine own eyes. And I saw thee run in a race, and that glimpse was enough to tell me that I too one day must run with thee. Yet was I more wary than my rivals. I knew that to come as a suitor was the way to turn thy heart to stone. Wherefore I pretended to be bound by a vow, which would bring me as a pa.s.sing stranger before thee. Canst thou forgive the lie?"

She smiled into his face.

"It was a daring venture," she said.

"I knew I was as one who treads unknown paths on a moonless night," he answered. "Yet deep in my heart I felt that when a man desires one thing on earth above every other--when he loves that thing better than life itself, he is like to win it in the end, if he walk patiently step by step in faith. He will win that thing, or death in his struggle for it; and he is content that so it should be."

Such was the winning of Atalanta. As for the golden apples, she placed them in a precious casket, and guarded them jealously all her days, for a memorial of the race that she had failed to win.

Paris and OEnone

When Peleus the mortal married silver-footed Thetis, the fair nymph of the sea, great was the rejoicing among G.o.ds and men; for Peleus was a brave warrior and a mighty man, and well deserved to have for wife a child of the Immortals. To his marriage-feast he bade all the G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, and they left their seats on calm Olympus, and came down to Pelion where he dwelt, a band of shining ones, to do honour to the mortal whom they loved. One alone of them all he had not asked--Eris, the black-browed G.o.ddess of Strife, for at his wedding-feast he wished to have happiness and joy, and no dark looks to mar the gladness of his board. But he looked to find shame in the heart of one who knew not shame. As it was, she came unasked, and great was the sorrow that her coming brought, both to him and to his wife and all the fair land of h.e.l.las. For she sowed the seed of discord which blossomed to the blood-red flower of war, in which the mightiest and the best of two great nations fell through ten long years of strife, and among them was Achilles, the swiftest and bravest of mortal men, the son whom Thetis bore to Peleus to be a comfort to him in his old age, and to succeed him when he died. But as it was, Achilles died in battle far from his native land, in the prime and flower of his manhood.

Now the manner in which Eris wreaked her vengeance was in this wise.

When the marriage-feast was drawing to its close, and the gladdening wine had unlocked the lips and opened the hearts of the revellers, above all the din and clatter there rang through the hall a harsh, discordant laugh like the rattle of thunder before a storm. A dead silence fell upon them all, and every eye was turned towards the place from whence that fearful laugh had come. In the shade of the doorway stood a tall gaunt figure wrapped all about in black. Above her head she held a blood-red torch that flickered madly in the breeze, and cast upon her face the shadow of her wild elf-locks. Her cheeks were pale as ashes and her lips were thin and blue, but her eyes shone bright as red-hot coals. When she saw the hall silent and trembling before her, she laughed aloud once more and waved the torch above her.

"Ha! ha!" she cried. "You give me a cold welcome, my masters. But I am kinder than you. I give, and take nothing in return. See here, I bring a seasoning to your feast, and much joy may you have of it."

Thereupon she drew from her bosom an apple all of gold, and hurled it in their faces on the board. It rolled along the table like a ball of light, and stopped in the centre before Peleus, the king of the feast.

The eyes of all the guests followed it full of amazement and delight, for it was wondrous fair to look upon.

"I see you like my gift," cried Eris. "Let her keep it who deserves it best. Farewell. I stay not where I came unbidden."

Then she turned upon her heel, and strode away into the blackness of the night.

When she had gone, Peleus put forth his hand and took the apple. It was all of pure gold, the outermost parts of white gold pale as straw, and the cheeks of red gold bright as poppies, and across it was written in shining letters, "For the Fairest."

As Peleus read the words aloud he looked slowly round the board.

"O lady G.o.ddesses," he asked, "to which of you shall I give it?"

Thereupon arose a strife of tongues, and all the harmony and good-fellowship of the feast was gone, for one said one thing and one another, and each one in her heart wished to have it for her own. But the claim of three stood out above that of all the rest.

"I am the Queen of Heaven," said Hera, "and the mother of G.o.ds and man. The apple is mine by right."

"I am the giver of knowledge and wisdom," said Pallas Athene, "and through me all things are perfected, and the wrong is put to right.

The apple should be mine."

"I am the G.o.ddess of Love," said Aphrodite, "I am life itself. My claim is the best of all."

As Peleus looked on them he knew not to which of them he should give it, for each in turn seemed fairest. And he was wily withal, and knew he could not give it to one without angering the other two against him. So he said,

"O lady G.o.ddesses, who am I that I should judge between you? Choose you your own judge from among the sons of men, and he shall give the apple to her he deems the fairest."

Then they consulted together, and chose Paris, the son of Priam, King of Troy; for he was the fairest of all mortal men, and would know how to judge between them. And they left the halls of Peleus with a smile upon their lips, but in their hearts was envy and hatred where there had once been sympathy and love; for the apple of discord had fulfilled the purpose of her who gave it.

Now Paris was the second son of Priam and Hecuba, and brother of Hector, the pride of Troy. The night before he was born his mother dreamed a dreadful dream--that she had given birth to a firebrand which set all Troy aflame. In terror she sent for her child Ca.s.sandra, the priestess of Apollo, whose word came always true. And she told her dream, and asked what it could mean. Then Apollo raised from Ca.s.sandra's eyes the veil that hides the future, and she told her mother the meaning of that dream.

"In mine ears," she cried, "there sounds the din of battle and the clash of arms. I see round Troy the foe-men's tents, and their ships drawn up upon the sh.o.r.e. I see Scamander's stream run red with blood.

Through the desolate streets slinks one whose manhood has departed, and who shuns the eyes of his fellow-men, for he prized a woman's arms above his country's honour. That man is the son that thou shalt bear, and he shall be the curse of Troy."

When Priam the king heard these words his heart was filled with anger.

"No son of mine," he cried, "shall bring shame and destruction on my city. When the child is born he shall be cast out upon the mountains to die ere his eyes can see the light."

So, notwithstanding his mother's entreaties, as soon as the child was born he was given to Agelaus the herdsman to cast out upon the hills.

And he took him up to Gargarus, the topmost peak of Ida, and there he left him to die of cold and hunger, or to be torn in pieces by the beasts of prey.

But when the Fates have spoken, their word shall surely come to pa.s.s, whatever man may do. And so it fell out now. A she-bear, whose cubs the hunters had killed, found the child, and for five days and five nights she suckled him, and kept him safe and warm. On the sixth day Agelaus pa.s.sed that way once more, looking to find the child dead, if any trace of him remained. But lo! nestled in the moss and fallen leaves, the babe lay sweetly sleeping. Then he marvelled greatly in his heart.

"Surely," he thought, "this can be no common babe, and it is the will of Heaven that he should live."

So he picked him up in his arms, and carried him home to his wife, for long had they prayed the G.o.ds in vain for children. And they brought him up as their own son, and called his name Paris. As soon as he could walk, he would go out with his foster-father on the mountains, and keep watch over the flocks and herds, and he grew to be a tall and comely lad. For he breathed the pure sweet air of heaven, and bathed in Ida's rippling streams. Nor did he lack courage and strength withal. If ever a mountain lion, made bold by hunger, came down upon the flocks and carried off a sheep or a goat, whilst the herdsmen fled in terror for their lives, he would up and fight him single-handed with his knife and his shepherd's staff, and it was not the lion that came off best in that fight. So famous did he become for his strength and prowess that all about the countryside men called him Alexander, defender of men.

Now it came to pa.s.s one summer's day that he had walked for many a long mile across the treeless downs, and at length he turned, hot and thirsty, into the shade of the forest. Soon he came upon a mountain stream that danced foaming over the stones, and he drank of its waters gladly, and bathed in a clear brown pool; then, tired out, he cast himself upon the bank and fell asleep.