"Monarch," said Fable, bending reverently before him, "Hail to thine eternal throne! Joyful news for thy wounded heart! An early return of wisdom! Awakening to eternal peace! Rest to the restless love!

Glorification of the heart! Life to antiquity and form to the future!"

The king touched her open forehead with the lily, "Whatever thou demandest shall be granted thee."

"Three times shall I pet.i.tion, and when I come the fourth time. Love will be before the door. Now give me the lyre."

"Erida.n.u.s," cried the king, "bring the lyre hither."

Erida.n.u.s streamed forth murmuring from his concealment, and Fable s.n.a.t.c.hed the lyre from his boiling flood.

Fable played a few prophetic strains. She sipped from the cup which the king ordered to be handed her, and hastened away with many thanks. She glided with a sweet, elastic motion over the icy sea, drawing joyful music from the strings.

The ice resounded melodiously beneath her step. She fancied the voices of the rocks of sorrow were the voices of her children seeking her, and she answered in a thousand echoes.

Fable soon reached the sh.o.r.e. She met her mother who appeared wasted and pale; she had grown thin and sad, and her n.o.ble features revealed the traces of a hopeless sorrow and of touching constancy.

"What has happened to thee, dear mother?" asked Fable; "thou seemest to me entirely changed; I should not know thee except by internal signs. I hoped once more to refresh myself at thy breast; I have pined after thee for a long time."

Ginnistan caressed her tenderly, and became calm and serene.

"I thought from the first," said she, "that the scribe would not take thee captive. It refreshes me to see thee. Poor and pinched are my affairs now; but I console myself with hoping that it will soon end.

Perhaps I am about to have a moment of rest. Eros is near; and when he sees thee and thou speakest with him, he may tarry some time. In the mean time come to my bosom. I will give thee what I have."

She took Fable upon her lap, proffered her breast, and while smiling upon the little one who was enjoying her feast, continued, "I am myself the cause that Eros has become so wild and inconstant. But yet I repent it not, for those hours have made me immortal. I believe that his fiery caresses have strangely transformed him. Long, silver-white wings covered his glittering shoulders, and the charming fulness of his form.

The strength, which swelling forth had so suddenly changed him from a youth to a man, seemed entirely to have withdrawn into his wings, and he had become again a boy. The silent glow of his face became like the dazzling fire of a will-o'-the-wisp, his holy seriousness had changed to dissembled roguishness, the significant calm to childish irresolution, the n.o.ble carriage to a droll agility. I felt irresistibly attracted to the wanton boy by an ardent pa.s.sion, and suffered with pain his sneering scorn, and his indifference to my most touching prayers. I perceived that my form was changed. My careless serenity had fled, and its place filled with sorrowful anxiety and shrinking timidity. I would have hidden myself with Eros from all eyes.

I had not the heart to meet his offending eye, and was overwhelmed with shame and humility. I had no thoughts but for him; and would have given my life to free him from his wantonness. Deeply as he had hurt my feelings, I was compelled to worship him.

"Since the time when he discovered himself and escaped me, I have continually been in pursuit of him, though I have conjured him touchingly and with hot tears to remain with me. He seems really intent on persecuting me. As often as I reach him, he flies away again. On every side his bow deals destruction. I have nought to do but to console the unhappy, and yet I myself need consolation. The voices of those who call me point out to me his path, and their mournful complaints, when I am compelled to leave them, deeply cut my heart. The scribe pursues us in a terrible rage, and revenges himself upon the poor wounded ones. The fruit of that mysterious night was a mult.i.tude of strange children, who look like their grandfather, and are named after him. Being winged like their father, they ever accompany him, to torment the poor ones whom his arrow wounds. But there comes the joyous procession. I must away. Farewell, sweet child. His presence excites my pa.s.sion. Be happy in thy designs."

Eros pa.s.sed on without Ginnistan, who hastened near him, beseeching but one look of tenderness. But he turned kindly towards Fable, and his little companions danced joyously around her. Fable was glad to see her foster-brother again, and sang a merry song to her lyre. Eros seemed as if desiring to recall some recollections of the past, and let fall his bow upon the ground. Ginnistan could now embrace him, and he suffered her tender caresses. At last Eros began to nod; he clung to Ginnistan's bosom and fell asleep, spreading over her his wings. The weary Ginnistan full of rejoicing turned not her eye from the graceful sleeper. During the song, tarantulas came forth from all sides, which drew a shining net over the blades of gra.s.s, and with sprightly movements accompanied the music upon the threads. Fable now consoled her mother, and promised to her speedy a.s.sistance. From the rocks fell back the soft echo of the music, and lulled the sleeper. From the carefully preserved vessel Ginnistan sprinkled some drops into the air, and the most delightful dreams descended upon them. Fable took the vessel and continued her journey. Her strings never were at rest, and the tarantulas followed the enchanting sounds upon their fast-woven threads.

She soon saw from afar the lofty flame of a funeral pile, which rose high above the green forest. Mournfully she gazed towards heaven; yet rejoiced when she saw Sophia's blue veil which was waving over the earth, forever covering the unsightly tomb. The sun stood in heaven, fiery-red with rage. The powerful flame imbibed its stolen light; and the more fiercely the sun strove to preserve itself, ever more pale and spotted it became. The flame grew whiter and more intense, as the sun faded. It attracted the light more and more strongly; the glory around the star of day was soon consumed, and it stood there a pale, glimmering disk, every new agitation of spite and rage aiding the escape of the flying light-waves. Finally, nought of the sun remained but a black, exhausted dross, which fell into the sea. The splendor of the flame was beyond description. It slowly ascended, and bore towards the North. Fable entered the court, which was desolate; the house had fallen. Briars were growing in the crevices of the window frames, and vermin of every kind were creeping about on the broken staircase. She heard a terrible noise in the chamber; the scribe and his a.s.sociates had been devoting her mother to the flames, but had been greatly terrified by the sudden destruction of the sun.

They had in vain struggled to extinguish the flame, and had not escaped unhurt. They vented their pain and anxiety in fearful curses and wailings. But more terrified were they, when Fable entered the chamber, and rushed upon them with a furious cry, letting her anger loose upon them. She stepped behind the cradle, and her pursuers rushed madly into the web of the tarantulas, which revenged themselves by a thousand wounds. The whole crowd commenced a frantic dance, to which Fable played a merry tune. With much laughter at their ludicrous performances, she approached the fragments of the altar, and cleared them away, in order to find the hidden staircase, which she descended with her train of tarantulas.

The Sphinx asked, "what comes more suddenly than the lightning?"

"Revenge," said Fable.

"What is most transient?"

"Wrongful possession."

"Who knows the world?"

"He who knows himself."

"What is the eternal mystery?"

"Love."

"With whom does it rest?"

"With Sophia."

The Sphinx bowed herself mournfully, and Fable entered the cave.

"Here I bring you tarantulas," said she to the old sisters, who again had lighted their lamp and were busily employed. They were overwhelmed with fear, and one of them rushed upon her with the shears to murder her. Unwarily she stepped upon a tarantula, which stung her in the foot. She cried piteously; the others came to her a.s.sistance, and were likewise stung by the irritated reptiles. They could not now attack Fable, and danced wildly about.

"Spin directly for us," cried they angrily to the little one, "some light dancing dresses. We cannot move in this stiff raiment, and are nearly melted with heat. Thou must soak the thread in spider's juice that it may not break, and interweave flowers, which have grown in fire; otherwise thou shalt die."

"Right willingly," said Fable, and retired to the side-chamber.

"I will get you three fine large flies," said she to the spiders, which had fixed their airy web about the ceiling and the walls; "but you must spin for me immediately three beautiful light dresses. I will bring you directly the flowers which must be worked upon them."

The spiders were ready and began to weave busily. Fable glided up the ladder, and proceeded to Arcturus.

"Monarch," said she, "the wicked dance, the good rest. Has the flame arrived?"

"It has come," said the King. "Night is pa.s.sed and the ice melts. My spouse appears in the distance. My enemy is overwhelmed. All things begin to exist. As yet I do not dare to show myself, for I am not alone King. Ask what thou wilt."

"I need," said Fable, "some flowers that have grown in fire. I know thou hast a skilful gardener, who understands rearing them."

"Zinc," cried the King, "give us flowers."

The flower gardener stepped from the ranks, bringing at vessel full of fire, and sowed shining seeds therein. Soon flowers sprang up. Fable gathered them in her ap.r.o.n, and returned. The spiders had been industrious, and nothing more was needed but to attach the flowers, which they immediately began to do with much taste and skill. Fable took good care not to pull off the ends which were yet hanging to the weavers.

She carried the dresses to the wearied dancers, who had sunk down dripping with perspiration, and were taking a moment's breath after their unwonted exertions. She dextrously undressed the haggard beauties, who were not backward in scolding their little servant, and put on the new dresses, which fitted excellently. While thus employed, she praised the charms and lovely character of her mistresses, who seemed really pleased with her flatteries, and the splendor of their new appearance. Having in the mean time rested themselves, they recommenced their mazy whirl, whilst they deceitfully promised little Fable a long life and great rewards. Fable returned to the chamber, and said to the spiders, "you can now eat in peace the flies which I hare brought to your web."

The spiders were soon impatient at being pulled back and forth by the distracted movements of the dancers, for the ends of the threads were still in them. They therefore ran out and attacked the dancers, who would have defended themselves with the shears, had not Fable quietly removed them. They therefore submitted to their hungry companions; who for a long time had not tasted so rich a feast, and who sucked them to the marrow. Fable looked out from the cleft in the rock, and saw Perseus with his great shield of iron. The shears flew to it, and Fable asked him to trim with them the wings of Eros, and then with his shield to immortalize the sisters, and finish the great work.

She now left the subterraneous kingdom, and flew rejoicing to Arcturus's palace.

"The flax is spun. The lifeless are again unsouled. The living will govern, the dead will shape and use. The Inmost is revealed, and the Outermost is hidden. The curtain will soon be lifted, and the play commence. Once more I pet.i.tion thee; then will I spin days of eternity."

"Happy child," cried the monarch with emotion, "thou art our deliverer."

"I am only Sophia's G.o.d-daughter," said the little one. "Permit Turmaline, the flower gardener, and Gold to accompany me. I must gather up the ashes of my foster-mother; the old Bearer must again arise, that the earth may not lie in chaos, but renew her motion."

The king called all three, and commanded them to accompany the little Fable. The city was light, and in the streets was the bustle of business. The sea broke roaring upon the high cliff, and Fable went over in the king's chariot with her companions. Turmaline carefully gathered the dispersing ashes. They traversed the earth till they came to the old giant, upon whose shoulders they descended. He seemed lamed by the touch, and could not move a limb. Gold placed a coin in his mouth, and the flower-gardener pushed a dish under his loins. Fable touched his eyes and poured out her vessel upon his forehead. Soon as the water flowed from his eyes into his mouth, and over his body into the dish, a flash of life made all his muscles quiver. He opened his eyes and rose vigorously. Fable jumped up to her companion on the swelling ground, and kindly bade him good morning.

"Art thou again here, dear child?" said the old man, "thou of whom I have so continually dreamed? I always thought that thou wouldst appear before the earth and my eyes became too heavy. I have indeed been sleeping long."

"The earth is again light, as it always was for the good," said Fable.

"Old times are returning. Shortly thou wilt again be among thine old acquaintances. I will spin out for thee joyous days, nor shalt thou want an help-meet. Where are our old guests, the Hesperides?"

"With Sophia. Their garden will soon bloom again, its golden fruits send forth their odor. They are now busy gathering together the fading plants."