THE LIBRARY OF ROMANCE

A BOOK OF GIANTS

THE LIBRARY OF ROMANCE

A BOOK OF GIANTS
TALES OF VERY TALL MEN OF MYTH,
LEGEND, HISTORY, AND SCIENCE

BY

HENRY WYSHAM LANIER
AUTHOR OF "A BOOK OF BRAVERY," "THE ROMANCE OF PISCATOR," ETC.

"And there we saw giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight."—Numbers: xiii, 33.

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
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Copyright, 1922
By E. P. Dutton & Company

All Rights Reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Thanks are due to the Frederick A. Stokes Company for permission to use, in Part III, three tales from volumes published by them: Chapter XX, The Biter Bit, from "Hero Tales and Legends of the Serbians," by Vojislav M. Petrovic; Chapter XXI, The Peach's Son, from "Myths and Legends of Japan," by F. Hadland Davis; and Chapter XXIII, The Stone Giantess, from "The Myths of the North American Indians," by Lewis Spence.

In a number of cases the text of the original romance or "history" has been followed as closely as possible, to retain the flavor of the old tales.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Man in his youth was so fond of giants that, not finding them large or plentiful enough, he created a bounteous supply. He gave them precedence of himself. In the frozen North they came even before the gods: in the East, after the celestials but before the creation of the world; in Greece they sprang into being just after the Olympians and fiercely disputed the sovereignty of Zeus.

Many ancient gods were vast in size: witness, for instance, the colossal statues of Egypt, China or the South Seas. But the palm for bigness must go to those giant beings whom we find amid Chaos in the East: like that Tiamat from whom the Babylonian god Bel formed heavens and earth; and Purushu of the Hindu Vedas, whose severed head was sufficient for making the sky, his feet for the earth, his eye for the sun, and his mind for the moon.

Somehow, these are too large; nowadays one can hardly digest a giant like that. Even those huge and terrible beings with bodies of stone who once descended upon the Iroquois Indians seem more like Djinn or Rakshasas: they do not fascinate as does that monstrous black warder of the bridge at Mantrible, who was fifteen feet tall with "tuskes like a bore" and head "like a liberde."

The scholars quarrel over the question whether or not the very word originally meant "earth-born"; but

be that as it may, the giants exhibited in these pages (collected after wider search than even Mr. Barnum ever prosecuted for such prodigies) are all creatures of earth, at least in part. Their feet are on the earth, even if like Og, King of Bashan, their heads tower high enough to drink straight from the clouds.

They all have a semblance of human beings, as they should. If this seems doubtful remember Ea-Bani. His story is certainly the first to be put on record, for it was baked in clay at least 2500 years ago, the twelve tablets being found among King Assur-bani-pal's library at Nineveh. Ea-bani was a huge giant, who lived with the wild animals, and who defied every attempt to capture him—until King Gilgamesh abandoned force and sent a very beautiful woman to stand quietly near one of the hairy creature's lurking places. At first sight of her the colossal wild man falls in love; accompanies her meekly back to civilization: and, giving up his beloved forest, takes a humble second part in the subsequent stirring adventures of the King. No doubt about the human nature of that!

Considering that he made them, it does seem as if man had been somewhat unfair to the giants. In the beginning, they won enduring glory: Typhon conquered Zeus in hand-to-hand fight and drove the other gods to wander over Egypt disguised as animals; even Atlas had at least the dignity of holding up the heavens upon his head and hands forever. The Frost-giants more than once outwitted Thor and the other dwellers in Valhalla; and but the other day, historically speaking, Gargantua could swallow five pilgrims as a salad.

But what a humiliating portion has been allotted to the successors of these awe-inspiring monsters. First they made gods tremble; then they were slain by demigods and heroes; next they became a measure of the prowess of every knight of chivalry; presently they were the sport of the childish Jack the Giant-killer;—and now for a hundred years we have relegated them to our circuses and museums. Worst of all, the wise men insist that "giantism" is merely a disease.

It really isn't quite fair. Besides the inconvenience of being a giant—just think of the difficulty of getting enough to eat and clothes to wear—what a disgrace to have one's head inevitably cut off by some little whipper-snapper up to one's waist or knees. And then to be such a by-word for stupidity. Amycus, who used to kill each newcomer with a single blow, was at once dispatched by Polydeuces, the skilful boxer: that sort of an awkward ineffectiveness was bad enough; but what of Polyphemus, who had not sense enough to explain to his Cyclop brethren the transparent trick of Ulysses in calling himself "Noman"? One can't help feeling sorry for such helpless hulks.

And perhaps the unkindest cut of all is the true tale related by Patin, the famous French surgeon. "In the Seventeenth Century, in order to gratify a whim of the Empress of Austria, all the giants and dwarfs in the Germanic empire were assembled at Vienna. As circumstances required that all should be housed in one building, it was feared that the imposing proportions of the giants should terrify the dwarfs; and means were taken to assure the latter that they were perfectly

safe. But the result was most unexpected. The dwarfs teased, insulted and even robbed the giants to such an extent that the latter complained in tears to the officials; and sentinels had to be stationed to protect them from their tiny comrades."

However, the fascination of these Very Tall Men still continues. And these tales relate to the adventures of some of the famous of all ages and all lands.

Those lovers of the colorful old days, who mourn the departure of the giants before the sceptical eye of science and the camera, may be comforted to learn that in the rugged country of Northern Scotland the folk are better informed than we. There where Sutherland rocks meet the sea, east from Cape Wrath, the wise ancients will tell you that the giants are not really all dead, but only sleeping in the great Hall of Albyn. In proof whereof, know that a man of these parts once ventured into a great cave by the sea-shore. It opened to a vast and lofty apartment, where there were many huge men lying fast asleep on the stone floor. In the center of the room was a table, on which lay an ancient horn. The man put the horn to his lips and blew one blast. The enormous figures stirred. He blew a second time. One of the giants rubbed his eyes and said in a voice that rumbled through the cave:

"If you blow once more, we shall wake."

The man fled in terror. Though by singular bad luck he could never again find the mouth of that cave, it is something to know that our tall friends are there, only waiting for three bold blasts to return to us.

Part I
GIANTS OF THE MORNING
OF THE WORLD

A BOOK OF GIANTS

CHAPTER I
HOW ZEUS FOUGHT WITH TITANS AND GIANTS

We think of Zeus as the mightiest god of Greece, accompanied by his servants Force, Might and Victory,—the Cloud-gatherer, the Rain-giver, the Thunderer, the Lightning-hurler, the Sender of Prodigies, the Guider of Stars, the Ruler of other gods and men, whom even Poseidon the Earth-shaker must obey. The very name reverberates with majesty, power, dominion.

But the beginnings of this vast deity were in darkness and danger.

True, the reign of his father Kronos was that Golden Age when, in the fresh morning of the world, "Heat and Cold were not yet at strife, the Seasons had not begun their mystic dance, and one mild and equable climate stretched from pole to pole; when the trees bore fruit and the vine her purple clusters all the year, and honey-dew dripped from the laurel and juniper which are now so bitter; when flowers of every hue filled the air with perpetual fragrance, the lion gambolled with the kid, and the unfanged serpent was as harmless as the dove"; when over-curious Pandora not yet having released her boxful of ills,

men had neither care nor sickness nor old age, but, after centuries of blissful calm, faded like flowers and became kindly spirit-guardians of their successors.

Yet amid this charming serenity Kronos could never forget the curse of his father Uranus whom he had overthrown, and the prophecy that he himself should in his turn be cast down by his own children.

"Wherefore being resolved to defeat that prophecy, he swallowed each child his wife Rhea brought forth, as soon as it was born. When Rhea had thus lost five babes,—Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades and Poseidon—and knew herself about to bear yet another, she made her prayer to Uranus her ancient sire, imploring counsel and aid.

"But only a faint, vast murmur thrilled through the sky:

"'My voice is but the voice of winds and tides, no more than winds and tides can I avail. Pray thou to thy puissant Mother: in me, dispossessed of godhead, is no succor more.'"

So the Titaness betook her to Earth, and the mighty Mother gave her counsel how to outwit grim Kronos. And Rhea fled through the swift, dark night to a secret thicket upon a hill of Arcadia. There was born a mighty babe, whom she called Zeus. At her prayer Mother Earth smote the mountain, and there gushed forth a bounding stream, in which she laved the infant. Then she gave him to the nymph Neda who bore him swiftly across the sea to Crete, hiding him in a cave upon a dense and wooded mountain named Ida.

She entrusted the child to Adrastea and Ida, nymphs

of the mountain, to be reared in secret. But Rhea took a huge stone and wrapped it in swathes, and brought it to Kronos, then sovereign of the gods, saying: "Behold, I have borne my lord another son."

"Naught said he, but snatched the stone and greedily swallowed it, nothing doubting that it was the new-born child. Thus his wife deceived him, for all his cunning."

Rhea might not so much as see her babe, lest Kronos should spy her from his throne on high; but the child throve, laid in a golden winnowing-fan for a good omen, tended by the gentle nymphs, and nourished on the wild honey they gathered for him and on the milk of a mountain goat. Around him danced the fierce Curetes, Earth-born warriors, who performed their war-dances, rattling and clashing their weapons whenever the infant cried, lest Kronos should overhear him.

"So the child Zeus increased daily in beauty and stature, nor was it long before he gave proof of his godhead in wondrous wise. Two years his goat foster-mother suckled him: snow-white she was, with jet black horns and hooves, the most beauteous of her kind, and her name was Amalthea. Then, on a day, while the young god played with her after his wont, he grasped one of her curved horns as she made pretence of butting, and broke it clean off.

"Tears stood in the creature's eyes, and she looked reproachfully on her fosterling. But the little god ran to her and threw his arms about her shaggy neck,

bidding her be comforted, for he would make amends; with that he laid his right hand on the goat's head, and immediately a new horn sprouted full-grown. And he took up the horn he had broken, and gave it to the nymphs, saying, 'Kindly nurses, in recompense of your care, Zeus gives you Amalthea's Horn which shall be to you a horn of plenty. As for her, when I come into my kingdom, I will be mindful of my foster-mother; she shall not die but be changed into one of the bright signs of Heaven.' Thus Zeus promised, and fulfilled his word in the aftertime, for faithful and true are the promises of the Immortals. But when the nymphs had taken the Horn of Amalthea, behold they found it brimful of all manner of luscious fruits, of the finest wheat flour, and sweet butter, and golden honeycomb. They shook all out, laughing in delight, and one cried: 'Here were a feast for the gods, had we but wine thereto!' No sooner said she this than the Horn bubbled over with ruby wine; for this was the magic in it, that it never grew empty, and yielded its possessors whatsoever food or drink they desired.

"Now when Earth saw that Zeus was come to the prime of his mighty youth, she sent to him one of the daughters of Oceanus named Metis, which is, being interpreted, 'Counsel.' And Metis came and stood before him in the Idaean Mount and said: 'I have an errand unto thee, O king that shalt be hereafter.'

"And Zeus said: 'Is it a foe's errand, or a friend's? Who sent thee hither, and who art thou?'

"And she said: 'Metis is my name, a daughter of

Oceanus the old, and my errand is from Earth, the All-Mother. She bids thee take this herb I bring and go straight to Kronos in his golden house on high; tell him not who or whence thou art, but cause him to swallow the herb unweeting, and it shall work mischief to him and good to thee. Delay not, for the hour is at hand when Kronos must pay full measure for the outrage he did his sire, as it is ordained.'

"'Tell me,' said Zeus, 'how knows Earth that such an hour is at hand, and by whom is the vengeance ordained?'

"Metis answered: 'There are Three Sisters, daughters of Primeval Night, Grey Virgins, older than Time, who sit forever in the shades of underground, spinning threads of divers colors from their golden distaffs; and the threads are the lives of gods and men. As the sisters twine them, sad-hued or bright, so is the lot of each living soul, mortal or immortal; there is none among the gods, nor shall be, that may escape the lot spun for him, nor avail to turn those spinners from their task. Hasting not, resting not, without knowledge, without pity, the Three Fates work on. But as they twirl the spindles, they sing the Song of the Morrow; and Earth, she only, understands that song; hence it is she knows what is coming upon Kronos.'

"Then Zeus arose and went up to the heavenly palace halls; there he found Kronos feasting, and quaffing honey-colored nectar, wine of the gods. Kronos asked him who he was, and Zeus answered: 'I am Prometheus, son of Iapetus thy brother, who

greets thee well by me.' Then Kronos bade him welcome, and they drank and caroused together. But when they had well drunk, Zeus put the herb of Earth into his father's cup, unmarked of him.

"And Kronos no sooner swallowed it than a marvel past thought befell; for he disgorged from his giant maw first the stone Rhea gave him (which stone was ever afterwards preserved as a pious memorial at Delphi) and then her two sons and daughters three, no longer babes but full-grown.

"Forthwith Zeus made himself known to his brethren, and the young gods seized their father and bound him in chains. But ancient Kronos cried for aid to his Titan kindred, with a voice like the tempest's roar; and they came swiftly in their might; and the young gods could not stand before them, but fled out of heaven to the cloudy top of Mount Olympus, that great peak robed in eternal snows."

There they abode as in a citadel, and thence it is that Zeus and the family of Zeus are called "the Olympians" to this day.

The Titans occupied Mt. Othrys to the south, and the broad plains of Thessaly in between show even yet the shattered rocks and rent surface from the struggle which ensued.

"For now there was war in heaven; ten years the Elder Gods fought against the Olympians and neither side could win the mastery. But one amongst the Titans would not fight against Zeus; for being endued with wisdom and foresight about all gods, he perceived that the day of Kronos must shortly have an

end and his sceptre pass to another. This was Prometheus, whom Asia, daughter of Oceanus, bore to Iapetus, son of Earth. Fain would he have dissuaded his father and brother from taking arms in a lost cause, and for the sake of one who, himself a usurper, must now reap as he had sown; but they would not heed, trusting in their own giant strength.

"At last Zeus sought counsel of Mother Earth and she spake this oracle unto him out of the cave that is in rocky Pytho—'He that will conquer in this strife, let him set free the captives in Tartarus.' For Earth had long borne Kronos a grudge, because he would not release the Hundred-handed and the Cyclopes from that abyss of darkness; therefore she willingly revealed to Zeus the secret of victory. But naught knew he of those giants or their fate, nor so much as the name of Tartarus, which none among the heaven-dwelling gods will utter for very loathing; so the saying of Earth was dark to him, and he was much disheartened. Then Prometheus, knowing what had befallen, came to Zeus on Olympus and said: 'Son of Kronos, though fight I may not against my kin, fight against thee I will not, for that were idle folly, seeing the Fates will have thee Lord of all. Let there be peace between me and thee, and I will interpret the oracle Earth has given thee.'

"And Zeus heard him gladly, and said: 'For this good turn, count me thy debtor and fast friend evermore.'

"Then straightway they two fared through the Underworld to the gates of unplumbed Tartarus,

where by the Titan's aid Zeus slew the snake Campé, their grisly warder, and delivered the captives."

And amazed was the leader of the younger gods at the sight of these monstrous first children of Earth. For each of the three Hundred-handed, Briareus, Cottus and Gyges, had moving ever from his shoulders a hundred arms, not brooking approach, while above this threatening display rose fifty heads. As for the Cyclopes, Brontes, Steropes and Arges, they resembled the Titans, save that each had a single round eye in the centre of his forehead. They had shown from birth such overbearing spirit and terrific strength, tossing whole hills with their forests about like balls, that even Uranus had feared them and thrust them into Tartarus ere they were grown.

Zeus rejoiced at these mighty allies. But fell fighters as they were, their greatest aid was not in their strength but their skill. For the Cyclopes made themselves a smithy in the glowing heart of Mt. Ætna, and there they wrought such gifts for their deliverers as only they could fashion. To Poseidon they gave his trident with prongs of adamant; and to Hades a cap of darkness whose wearer was invisible to gods and men; while for Zeus himself they forged the kingliest weapons of all: the thunderbolts and the blasting, zig-zagged lightning.

Then Zeus set before them all the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and addressed them:

"Hear me, illustrious children of Earth and Heaven, that I may speak what my spirit within my breast prompts me to speak. For a very long time have

we been fighting for the mastery, the Titan gods and we who are sprung from Kronos. Now show your invincible might against the Titans, in gratitude for your deliverance to the light from bondage in murky gloom."

The blameless Cottus answered: "Excellent Lord, we are aware that thy wisdom is most high, and thy mind, and that thou hast been to the immortals an averter of destruction. Wherefore we will now protect thy dominion in fell conflict, fighting stoutly against the Titans."

And all the gods applauded, female as well as male, and they rushed to combat. The Titans on their side were no less eager, and as the battle joined, the boundless sea re-echoed terribly, and earth resounded, and broad heavens groaned as it shook, and vast Olympus swayed on its base, and even to murky Tartarus came the hollow sound of feet and battle-strokes. And as the two sides came together, their great war-cry reached to the starry heaven above.

Now Zeus loosed his fury, and the bolts with thunder and lightning shot so fast and fiercely from his mighty hand that earth crashed in conflagration, and the forests crackled with fire; ocean's streams began to boil, while the vapor encircled the Titans, and the incessant, dazzling flashes bereft their eyes of sight, gods as they were.

Fearful heat spread everywhere, and it seemed as if earth and heaven were clashing together and falling into ruins. At the same time the winds spread abroad smoke and battle-cry and crash of missiles, as the

Hundred-handed, insatiable in war, advanced, hurling three hundred vast rocks at a time against the enemy.

Before this combination of terrors even the Titans could not stand. They were dashed from their battlements and fell like shooting stars nine days and nights to earth, then on down for nine days and nights more to Tartarus. Here were they bound and cast into that dismal abyss, behind a triple brazen wall built by Poseidon, around which Night is poured in three rows. And the Hundred-handed were set to guard them.

Kronos and a few others escaped to the North, and there made head for a time, sheltered against Zeus's thunderbolts in caverns of the hills. But there came to the Olympians two mighty twin Shapes, Force and Might, followed by their sister, beauteous-ankled Victory (from whose shoulders waved great eagle's wings)—all children of Styx; and those two illustrious ones announced to Zeus that henceforth they were his servants, and that their sister, Victory, would ever follow them.

So with these ministers, Zeus went forth once more; and the remainder of the Titans fled westward beyond the utmost limits of earth. But huge Atlas, brother of Prometheus, was overtaken, and him Zeus stationed on the very verge of the earth, before the clear-voiced Hesperides, sentencing him to bear forever on his shoulders the weight of the vast sky.

Having thus achieved the victory, Zeus gave to Hades dominion over the Underworld, to Poseidon the Sea, and took himself the realm of the Æther and the Earth, rewarding all those who had assisted

him, and especially honoring Styx, mother of Force, Might and Victory, so that thenceforth the most sacred and inviolable oath for an immortal was to swear by Styx.

Mother Earth was far from pleased at this outcome. Her imprisoned first-born children had been released only to have her other beautiful Titan sons and daughters take their places in Tartarus. In revenge she brought forth a brood of Giants to war with the young gods. These were huge and invincible creatures with ghastly faces and long, thick, matted hair hanging from their heads and chins; instead of feet they had scaly dragon's tails. Their birth-place was in Phlegra or Pallene. The most redoubtable among them were Porphyrion and Alcyoneus. The latter was immortal so long as he fought on the same part of the earth on which he was born, and he soon distinguished himself by carrying off the cattle of the Sun and Moon.

With these and their brethren—Enceladus, Pallas, Clytius, Polybotes, Hippolytus and others—were joined Otus and Ephialtes, children of Poseidon, who, says Homer, grew nine inches every month, and who when they were only nine years old had captured war-god Mars himself and held him prisoner more than a year.

Now the oracle revealed to the gods that the giants could be destroyed only in combat with a mortal. Gæa (Earth) had learned this, and sought by means of magic herbs to make her offspring invulnerable also to mortals.

But Zeus anticipated her: he forbade the Dawn,

the Moon and the Sun to shine, cut off the medicinal herbs with which Earth had plastered her offspring, and sent Athena to summon Heracles to take part in the combat.

This savage group of Giants then attacked the Olympians, hurling great masses of rock, tree-trunks lashed together, and blazing brands against the sky. But the distance was too great for them to do much damage, so they tried to scale Heaven itself. When their trees fastened together proved too short, Otus and Ephialtes set about another attempt: upsetting Mt. Ossa they began to roll it toward Mt. Olympus, intending to pile the lofty peak of Pelion on that, and thus reach their enemies.

Then Zeus rose in his majesty. With a thunderbolt he hurled the mountain back to its former place, the Olympians all dashed down, riding on the winds, and a mighty battle followed which lasted a whole day.

Heracles drew his great death-dealing bow and slew Alcyoneus with an arrow. But as soon as he touched the earth he rose with renewed life and strength. Whereupon wise Athena counseled the hero to grasp the monster by the foot and drag him out of Pallene, his birthplace. He did so, and Alcyoneus died.

At this Porphyrion in hot rage hurled the island of Delos at Zeus and rushed upon Heracles and Hera. As the giant laid hold of the goddess's swathing veils, she cried out for help, and the thunderbolt of Zeus and Heracles' arrow smote Porphyrion simultaneously.

As for the rest, Apollo shot out the left eye of Ephialtes, and Heracles the right. Dionysus killed Eurytus with his sacred wand, while Clytius was thrust through by Hecate or Hephæstus with glowing ironstone. Enceladus fled across the sea, but Athena seized a great triangle of rock and cast it upon him—and when trees and soil formed on this, it was called the island of Sicily.

As Virgil's wandering hero, Æneas, sings:

Here, while from Aetna's furnaces the flame

Bursts forth, Enceladus, 'tis said, doth lie,

Scorched by the lightning. As his wearied frame

He shifts, Trinacria, trembling at the cry

Moans through her shores, and smoke involves the sky.

Athena, terrible in her battle-wrath, next killed and flayed Pallas and put his skin over her own body while the combat lasted,—whence comes her name of Pallas Athene. Polybotes, chased by Poseidon over the sea, came to Cos; here the sea-god tore off a piece of the island and buried him under it, where now is Nisyron.

Hermes, concealed by the helmet of Hades, killed Hippolytus, while Artemis slew Gration. So the Fates ended Agrius and Thoon with brazen clubs. The rest Zeus crushed with thunderbolts, and Heracles finished with his deadly arrows.

Then in hot wrath Earth brought forth the most terrific monster yet seen. Typhon was he called, the greatest of Earth's children, half man and half animal: he was human to the loins and was so huge that he towered over the mountains while his head

knocked against the stars. His outstretched arms reached from sunrise to sunset, and a hundred dragon heads shot from his shoulders. Instead of legs he moved on vast, rustling snaky coils; his whole body was feathered; bristly hair floated in the wind from his head and chin, and fire streamed from his eyes.

Such a monster was Typhon.

Hurling clusters of rocks up at heaven, he ran with hisses and screams, while a red mass of flame bubbled from his mouth.

When the gods saw him charge on heaven, they fled to Egypt, where they wandered about in the shapes of animals, pursued by him.

Zeus hurled thunderbolts as long as he was afar off. When he came nearer, the god's iron sickle made him flee, and Zeus pursued him to the Caucasus that towers over Syria. There he came up with him, covered with wounds, and joined in a hand-to-hand grapple.

But Typhon held him off, wrapping his snaky limbs around him, snatched away the sickle, and cutting out the sinews of the god's hands and feet, put him on his shoulders and carried him across the sea to Cilicia.

Here in a cavern he threw him down, put away the sinews wrapped in a bear-skin, and set as a guard over the helpless god, Delphyne, a young she-dragon, half human, half animal.

But cunning Hermes stole away the sinews and secretly replaced them in Zeus's wrists and ankles. Then Zeus gathered himself together, and his former

powers came upon him, and he rose to his seat in heaven in a car drawn by winged horses.

Again he hurled his thunderbolts upon Typhon and pursued the monstrous giant to Mt. Nysa, where the Fates outwitted the fugitive: for, persuaded by them that he would thereby get greater powers, he ate of the ephemeral poison fruits.

Then the chase became more furious. They came to Thrace where Typhon fought with whole peaks of the Hamus Mountains; and when these were hurled back on him by the Thunderer, his blood gushed out over them so that these are called the "bloody mountains" to this day.

And at last, as Typhon was compelled to flee across the Sicilian sea, Zeus threw the towering mountain of Ætna on top of him and buried him there forever. Here he lies still, turning and groaning at times, while fires blaze up from the hurled lightnings.

After that there was nobody in heaven, earth or the underworld who dared dispute the supreme dominion of Zeus.

CHAPTER II
THE GIANT WHO SHINES IN THE SKY

In the days when the Olympians still walked at times among men, Zeus and Poseidon and Hermes once found themselves benighted in a lonely region of the rough Bœotian country.

As darkness fell, they passed a little hut by the roadside. The farmer stood in the doorway, enjoying the cool of the evening after his day's toil; and seeing the wayfarers plodding along, he invited them in to pass the night.

"My house is poor enough," said he, "but such as it is, it is yours."

The three gods entered. The farmer, Hyrieus by name, set food and drink before them, waited upon them, gave up his own pallet to make them comfortable and entertained these nameless wanderers like distinguished guests, all with the utmost simplicity and good feeling.

The Olympians were touched by this rough herdsman's fine hospitality. They consulted together in whispers when they had finished their meal.

Then: "Is there anything you wish for, host?" enquired Hermes as spokesman.

Hyrieus started. "Well," said he, "of course there is, but that's past mending."

"What is it?" persisted Hermes.

"I had a wife," said the herdsman, "whom I loved so that when she died I vowed never to marry again. So all these years I have lived alone, and alone I shall live till the end. Yet a man cannot help wishing for a son to drive away the loneliness of the winter evenings and to be a prop to him in his old age. Probably you will laugh at me for a foolish person: for I mean to keep my vow, and yet I wish for a son."

"Those who know do not laugh at honesty," replied Hermes. "And I say to you that he who gives all freely never fails to receive. I noticed that you killed your only ox to provide meat for our meal: bring me his hide."

Hyrieus stared at him, doubtful. He feared he was being made the butt of some jest. But the stranger's open smile promised something quite different. Much wondering, he went out into the darkness and after a while returned with the hide of the ox which he had sacrificed to hospitality. He did not regret the act, but he could not help thinking of the morrow as he handled the still warm skin of this faithful companion and servant. What would he do without its aid? And what did this mysterious person mean by his odd request? He spoke as a man having authority, however, and there was nothing for it save to obey and see what might befall.

Hermes took the hide, and bade him fetch a spade. The three mysterious visitors went out into the night. Hyrieus, peering out after them, saw them bury the ox skin in front of his house, with strange and secret

ceremonies. Without knowing why, he trembled. He trembled still more when they returned, for the strangers seemed to have become suddenly majestic, awe-inspiring.

The bearded one, who had not spoken hitherto, looked solemnly upon the herdsman. Instinctively the Bœotian fell into an attitude of worship.

"You shall have your wish," announced this one, in tones that filled the low-raftered room like a mighty wind. "Next spring you shall have a son—and such a son as mortal never yet had."

The three retired for the night. When Hyrieus woke, as usual, with the dawn, they had disappeared. He went about his labors, sorely increased by the loss of his ox, pondering deeply on what had occurred. Many a time he looked at the little patch of freshly-turned earth, but something forbade him to investigate. And then the fall rains came and obliterated the spot; and the winter snows covered all; and everything was as it had been, save for the insistent recollection in the farmer's heart. Many times he laughed at his folly; yet in the still evenings as he sat before his fire, he knew that he expected—something.

Winter passed at length. Spring painted the hills with yellow and white and pink blossoms. And its soft unfolding promises seemed to reinforce that secret hope, which defied reason, and which persisted in the heart of Hyrieus. As he sat outdoors in the long twilight evenings, instead of crouching close to his scanty fire, every sound of the reawakening earth had a new meaning. Even the still white calm of

snow-capped Parnassus, far to the west, seemed to presage some great happening. For the first time since his youth he really heard the shrill voices of the frogs in the neighboring marsh: it was as if even these tiny creatures were repeating the promise made him by his mysterious visitors. And then he would smile sadly at his senile credulity and, remembering the reality of the morrow's hard work, would plod stiffly into his solitary hut and seek on his pallet bed that dream land where all things are possible.

One morning he rose with even more than his usual reluctance to exchange for the hard grubbing reality the vague but delightful fancies which had filled the night. Force of habit made him swallow a few mouthfuls of his coarse breakfast. Mechanically he stepped outside towards the day's work that awaited him.

The sun was just rising over the low ridge that thrust itself into the bend of the Asopus River. Instinctively his gaze went towards the spot where the strange trio had performed their mysterious rites, past which gurgled a little stream.

He stopped short, startled out of his dreamy reverie. His eyes rounded in astonishment.

That spot of earth had remained bare, though all around it the lush grass and many-colored flowers had woven an intricate tapestry. It was this strange fact which had continually reinforced his wonder and his superstitious belief.

But overnight a sudden transformation had taken place. The whole space was one mass of asphodels in full bloom. The sun's level rays fell upon their

white blossoms, amid which the meandering threads of crimson looked like blazing hieroglyphics.

Hyrieus looked in bewilderment, mixed with a kind of awe. Slowly he advanced towards this bed of blossoms which had appeared so suddenly. Then he cried out.

For there, cradled in the asphodels, lay a babe—such a child as his eyes had never yet beheld. Shapely and beautiful, and of such size as made one think of the Heroes of legend, he slept peacefully.

Overcoming his timidity at last, Hyrieus gently picked up the sleeping infant. When the big blue eyes opened and a sleepy smile came over the child's face, the honest farmer's heart overflowed with joy at this realization of his wildest dreams. Marveling again at the weight of his burden, he took this earth-born son into his cottage, laid him on his own bed, and sat watching his slumber in a sort of ecstacy. From that time he was father and mother both to the child, carrying it with him when he went about his necessary labor afield, and watching over it with an anxious care into which his whole existence seemed concentrated.

The boy was well worth these pains and pride. He never cried; and he seemed perfectly happy and contented when couched in a nest of soft grass and dry leaves under the open sky, where his foster-father, as he toiled, could keep an eye on him. Moreover, the youngster grew like some sturdy young bull. He had no teething troubles; presently he was eating the same food that served Hyrieus himself—with all the

choicest portions for his share; and he found his legs almost as quickly as a young partridge.

In fact, by the time when ordinary children are beginning to toddle uncertainly, this boy, whom Hyrieus had named Orion, was as tall as his foster-father. Nor did he cease his prodigious growth when he reached the ordinary limits of mankind: not even Otus and Ephialtes, who rebelled against the gods and strove to set Mt. Ossa upon Pelion that they might scale Olympus itself,—not even these gigantic youths could compare with Orion. And we have the word of Odysseus who beheld them among the shades in Hades that those portentous twins were at nine years of age fifty-four feet in height and some thirteen across the shoulders.

He was as handsome as one of the immortals, too, this Orion. Well proportioned and graceful in spite of his size, he roamed the woods and fields with the agility and tirelessness of one of the wild creatures whose ways seemed to have an endless fascination for him.

Hyrieus began to fare better than ever before, for the boy would return from these expeditions with rabbits and hares, with quail, wood pigeons, partridges and ducks, which he had snared or caught with his hands by some sudden pounce after a long stalk.

Presently his foster-father showed him how to make a bow and arrows; and one day the youngster proudly appeared before the hut with a roebuck upon his shoulders. It was not long before he had learned to outwit the great red stags of the hills, to chase

successfully the long-horned wild goats, and even to bring back chamois from the precipitous fastnesses of rocky, fir-clad Mt. Cithæron, or the crags of two-peaked Helicon. By the time he had reached his early teens he was already a mighty hunter, who had met and vanquished the lynx, the wolf and the brown bear, who could stand up to the charge of an infuriated wild boar, and whose chief desire was to take in fair fight the lion skin he wished for a cloak.

Fierce as he was, however, in attacking some snarling wild beast with his great club, he was always gentle and thoughtful to his foster-father; and Hyrieus many a time blessed the day when his hospitality had fallen upon such fruitful soil. To be sure, as the good farmer grew old, his unbounded pride in the feats of this stripling cast at times a reflected glory upon himself: there were moments when he looked upon Orion's great muscles and the trophies of his strength and fleetness almost as if these were to be credited to his very own flesh and blood. Yet in the bottom of his heart there was ever a slight feeling of awe at this prodigy who had come to comfort his old age; and this was deepened when he learned of one strange power which the youth possessed.

Exulting in his own swiftness of foot, Orion was one day chasing a roebuck, endeavoring to run down the bounding little creature on equal terms. The deer made for the river, and finding itself hard pressed, sprang in and swam the wide stream. Orion, close behind, excitedly plunged in after his quarry; and though the water was far above his head, he actually

gained upon the deer in crossing, caught it on the opposite shore, and bore the carcass home in triumph. It seemed perfectly natural to him to be able to walk through the water, without touching bottom, almost as easily as on dry land; but Hyrieus was filled with astonishment at his story and could scarcely credit it until he saw the youth a few days later perform the same miraculous feat in the neighboring lake, advancing with great strides through fifty feet of water, only his head showing above the surface. Unknown to either of them, this was the natal gift of Poseidon, god of the sea and waters. Orion troubled himself little enough about whence it came or its singularity; but from that hour rivers and lakes were no obstacle to him, and when he roamed further and reached the great sea itself, he found himself master of even this, and able to travel through the salt surge and the heaving waves of Poseidon's own domain. Thereafter, the farthest confines of Greece, nay even Thrace, Macedon and remote Illyria, could not satisfy this passion for wandering. He learned to know the aspect of inaccessible Olympus from the north and west as well as the familiar one from the south. The unknown, with its new animals and fresh landscapes, ever called him on to wider and wider swings from his Bœotian home.

When he reached young manhood, all who beheld him agreed that he was handsomest among the sons of men—if indeed he were of human origin. The maidens of Tanagra, Thebes and Platæa did not say so much, but their eyes spoke for them when the swift-footed

young hunter sped past. As for him, he seemed to see none of them save Side, whose tall beauty and dignity marked her out among all the graceful girls of that land; and he only knew that when he looked upon her he was filled with a vague unrest.

The time came for the festival of the Great Dædala, when, once in sixty years, all the folk celebrated the reconciliation of Zeus and Hera.

From every corner of Bœotia the people gathered. In solemn procession, headed by the priests, they fared forth into an ancient forest, where giant oaks stood shoulder to shoulder so that their mighty boles were in sunless gloom.

The priest set some boiled meat on the ground. Breathlessly the great assemblage watched in silence as the birds dropped through the air to their feast.

Presently a raven appeared. A long sigh of expectant excitement went up from the crowd. The glossy black bird lit near the meat, and walked awkwardly towards it, cocking an impudent eye towards the motionless creatures who watched him so intently. Assured of their harmlessness, he seized a piece of this heaven-sent dinner and flapped away with his prize. Every gaze was focussed upon him.

As he lit on the lower branch of a huge oak some distance off, a tremendous shout from hundreds of throats rang through the gloomy forest. Everyone rushed to the tree thus selected. Amid songs and clamor, men with axes cut down this giant growth. And when it crashed to earth, another shout alarmed the birds and beasts for miles about.

Swiftly the skilled axemen hewed out an image from a section of the trunk. With deft fingers the women dressed this image in snowy bridal garments.

When all was ready, it was lifted into a clumsy wain, with solid hewed-out wheels, drawn by a white bullock. Beside it was seated the most beautiful virgin as bridesmaid; and Orion's heart throbbed violently as he saw the stately Side take her place in this seat of honor.

The wain started back out of the wood, followed by a piping and dancing throng of worshippers. At the edge of the forest they were met by another procession, escorting the thirteen other images which commemorated all the Little Dædala festivals since the last great celebration.

Chanting and dancing, the whole multitude moved down to the Asopus River; after a ceremony of purification, they set out for Mt. Cithæron.

Here the fourteen wains were dragged to the very summit of the mountain. The images were placed on the altar of square blocks of wood, and brush-wood was heaped over all. After sacrifices had been performed,—a he-goat to Zeus, and a cow to Hera—a torch was set to this sacred pile, and in a moment the whole was a vast pillar of fire, leaping a hundred feet into the air and visible for miles and miles in every direction.

It was a prodigious and awe-inspiring spectacle. But Orion saw only Side in her calm and lofty beauty. For the first time he realized that there were other

things necessary to his happiness besides chasing the red deer and the snarling wolf.

He sought her parents and demanded her. And when they found that Side, so sure of herself and so scornful of all suitors, had lost her heart to this tall, impetuous youth, they gave their consent.

The wedding was the occasion of another celebration almost as joyous as one of the lesser Dædala, for all the countryside was proud of the unmatched beauty of Side, and Orion's renown had spread far and wide.

Each guest seemed to vie with all the others in complimenting Side, who had never looked more lovely or more unapproachable than in her bridal array. So loud and extravagant was this chorus of praise that it aroused the jealousy of some of her comrades.

"After all," broke out a black-eyed maiden spitefully, "she is the daughter of crooked-legged Alpheus. One might think, to hear them go on, that it was Hera herself who was being married to this wild man."

Orion, beside his bride, heard the taunt, and turned upon the speaker.

"I have never seen Hera," said he. "But I have seen Side—and she is beyond compare with any mortal I know. Until I behold the Goddess face to face and find I am mistaken, I shall believe that even on Olympus there is none that can challenge my bride."

The guests gasped and drew back a space at this audacious sacrilege. Side, however, smiled, well pleased. For in her secret heart she thought her

ardent lover spoke but the truth, and that had she been in Hera's place there would have been no need of the reconciliation with Zeus, for which the Dædala was held.

The large-eyed Queen of Heaven heard the rash speech and saw the presumption of this earth-born maiden. Her majestic brows knit in anger—and it was as if a cloud passed across the face of the sun. Sternly she refused the wedding sacrifice to herself, the Perfecter and Fulfiller, and all the folk were aghast at this portent.

But Side still smiled, serene in her blind conceit.

"Am I not perfect enough for you to worship?" said she softly to Orion.

His ardent answer was interrupted by a crash of thunder from the clear sky. Swiftly a great darkness fell upon the smiling plain. The merrymakers were blanched with fear as this blackness engulfed everything. They spoke in strained whispers. Darker and darker it grew, till one could not see his terrified neighbor's face. Even the murmurings ceased. All waited for some dread happening, they knew not what.

The silence was pierced by a sudden scream.

"Side!" cried Orion. "Side! Where are you?" He rushed wildly about, upsetting all in his path.

There was the sound of a rushing wind, nothing more. Then the gloom lifted as mysteriously as it had come.

But the bride was nowhere to be found. The wedding party crept to their homes. No earthly eye ever again beheld the presumptuous Side. The wise ones

whispered that the enraged Hera had cast her into Hades for her sacrilege. Once more Orion roamed the forests, more fiercely than ever.

It chanced one day, as he crashed through the thick bushes beside a river in hot chase of a noble stag, that he came suddenly upon a group of seven nymphs who, garlanded with flowers, were dancing upon the carpet of green moss.

They ceased their song at sight of him and huddled together behind the tallest in affright. This one, however, looked at him in bold defiance. She was Maia, eldest of these seven daughters of Atlas, and such was her beauty that it had already touched the heart of the Father of the Gods himself. Straight and slender she stood, gazing under level brows at the intruder as if challenging him to approach one under the protection of Zeus.

There was something about her proud carriage and the perfect oval of her face that made Orion think of his lost Side. The stag was forgotten. Impulsively he stepped forward to speak to her.

As this giant youth, with his torn and shaggy skin garment, and all flushed with the excitement of his chase, came closer, even Maia's bravery forsook her. She gave a cry of alarm, and all the seven turned and fled through the forest. Orion pursued them, as instinctively as he would have dashed after a startled roe. But to his surprise and chagrin they proved almost as fleet-footed as himself. He would hear them ahead, or catch a glimpse of them between the tree trunks, and plunge toward the spot—only to be baffled

time and again. At length, after hours of pursuit, he was compelled to own himself beaten and give up for the time.

The next day found him casting about like any deerhound for this elusive quarry. Yet they were as wary as he, and while he sighted them across a valley and renewed his efforts to the utmost, he never succeeded in drawing even as close as the first time, since the frightened nymphs had a trick of twisting and turning when hard pressed that always succeeded in carrying them out of sight and hearing.

This went on day after day till it became his main occupation, and while hunting game the thought of the fair Maia ever kept him on the alert. More than once he almost outwitted her and her sisters, and his determination became only hotter as time passed.

At last his opportunity came—five years after that first memorable meeting. From a hilltop he spied the group in the lush meadow by the river, pelting each other with anemones. Cautiously he crept along back of the ridge till he reached a point where he felt sure he could cut them off from the protecting forest. Then he leaped to his feet and started down the steep hillside as he had never run before.

Watchful from many alarms, they saw him almost immediately. With shrieks of terror they fled up the gentle slope. As he had foreseen, it became a race to see which should first reach the nearest tongue of forest that thrust towards the river.

Breathless but triumphant, Orion found himself at the edge of the tangled thicket. The group of maidens

halted fifty feet away, all except Maia weeping and crouching to the ground. In the open they were absolutely at his mercy.

Slowly he advanced towards them, wondering more than ever at the grace and charm of the leader, who faced him this time with less defiance, yet without any of the despair shown by her sisters. She called aloud upon Zeus for aid.

Closer and closer Orion approached, with never a word. Then with the same swift motion in which he was wont to pounce upon a trembling hare, he caught at his prize—and remained in this position, staring stupidly at seven white pigeons that fluttered away just out of his grasp and soared upward till they disappeared into the blue of the sky.

Zeus had listened to the prayer of Maia, and in his sovereign power he caught up all the seven into the firmament and translated them into stars, the shining Pleiades.

For the second time in his life Orion realized with dull resentment that there were unseen powers beyond his own. Like some wounded wolf he sought a couch in a cave, beneath a great overhanging rock in the nearby ravine, and lay there nursing his grievance.

When he finally came forth, the fair land of Hellas had become distasteful to him. He set forth to find some country beyond the seas where he might still be mightiest of all, and where naught could remind him of these rebuffs.

Wide were his wanderings across the mighty sea. Even to Scylla and Charybdis he came, and there left

perpetual memorials of his might. For on the Sicilian coast, where fell Charybdis threatened every mariner, he built a sickle-shaped strip of protecting rock that formed the safe harbor of Zancle, where, thanks to this shelter, the great city of Messina was to rise. Also, across the strait from hideous, six-headed Scylla he hurled into the open sea a rocky mass that juts from the shore as the promontory of Pelorus—whereon he reared a temple to his protector Poseidon, in which the inhabitants religiously adored the sea-god for thousands of years thereafter. For a time he dwelt in the mountains of Hera, whence fiery Ætna could be seen to the north, rumbling and spouting forth flame as the colossal Enceladus still struggled beneath its weight.

But, he could not long be content in any one place; so when he had mastered all the difficulties of rugged Sicily, he set forth once more.

This time he fared eastward again till he came into the smiling waters of the Ægean, and reached the craggy isle of Chios, where fig tree, palm and vine grew under the soft Ionian sky.

King Œnopion ruled this land of ease and plenty, and his daughter Merope was famed through all Ionia for her beauty.

Hardly had Orion beheld this princess when he found his heart burn within him at the sight or thought of her. Boldly he demanded her in marriage.

But King Œnopion, proud of his lineage as son of Dionysus and Ariadne, thought it far from fitting that his daughter should wed this wandering woodsman,

superhuman as his strength might be. Not venturing to express his feeling openly to his formidable, self-invited guest, he still managed to delay giving a decisive answer.

After the fashion of lovers of all times, Orion made offering of his special capacities. The wild creatures of Chios had a hard time, for not only must skins and furs and venison be laid at the feet of the beautiful Merope, but he caught at the suggestion of the King that he should free the island from the lions and other dangerous beasts which then ravaged it and held all the inhabitants in terror.

To Œnopion's disappointment he proved fiercer than the bears and lions, even than the dreaded sharks of the sea. Instead of being devoured as the King had hoped, he brought back one trophy after another, always demanding, with outdoor directness, the thing he had set his heart on.

His scanty patience was exhausted long before the wily monarch's stock of pretexts. His nature and habit had ever been to seize what he wanted: in his usual headlong fashion he attempted openly to carry off Merope by force; and failing in his first effort, made no secret of his intention to try again.

The wily Œnopion concealed his resentment and bade the headstrong suitor to a banquet. In friendly fashion he plied him with heady wine from the luscious grapes of Ariusia.

Then, when even his giant strength was relaxed, the royal slaves set upon him, blinded him, and cast him out upon the seashore to perish.

As the salt spray dashing over his face brought him to full consciousness, he roared aloud in pain and wrath. The people in the city miles away trembled at that sound; and Œnopion regretted to the bottom of his cowardly heart that he had not slain this giant when he was in his power.

Orion bathed his face in the lapping waves and got slowly on his feet. His first instinct was to grope his way back to the palace and take swift revenge upon the King for his treachery. But a few faltering steps convinced him of the folly of attempting this in his helpless state.

He turned again toward the sea, in which he now felt almost as much at home as on land. Keeping the fresh breeze full in his face, and calling aloud upon Poseidon, he waded into the waves. With no clear idea of where he was going, he set forth.

Northward he fared, finding relief in his mighty strides through the cool waters, and in the wind that blew full upon his fevered eyes. Hour after hour he sped on tirelessly, his thoughts still in such a ferment of rage that he could make no calm or reasoned plan.

Without knowing it, he arrived off the western point of Lesbos. Suddenly there broke upon his fantastic plans for revenge a mighty pulsing beat, which came muffled, from far away, through water and air. Instinctively he proceeded towards the sound; and as he advanced it grew ever louder, till he fancied it seemed like the clangor of a vast anvil under the strokes of some super-smith.

In fact he was approaching the isle of Lemnos,

where dwelt and labored the cunningest of all smiths, the lame god Hephæstos. Here, in a cavern stretching down beneath the ocean floor, he had had his workshop ever since Zeus had hurled him from Olympus, and here he wrought such marvels as the arms of Achilles, the sceptre of Agamemnon, and the fatal necklace of Harmonia.

Guided by the ringing hammer strokes, Orion at length reached this subterranean forge and told his story. The immortal craftsman was moved to see such bodily perfection marred and helpless through loss of sight.

He called one of his workmen. "Take Cedalion with you," he said. "He will guide you to the spot where the Sun rises. I know Helios well: did I not make the golden boat which carries him back each night, along the border of the earth, to the East once more? Before his gleaming eyes every darkness must retreat; for the All-seer pierces through any blackness. It is from him alone that you may recover your eye-sight."

Overjoyed at any definite hope, Orion placed Cedalion on his shoulders, hastened up from the cavern, and once more plunged into the rolling breakers.

Directed by him he carried, he journeyed eastward, eastward ever. Past many a strange land he sped, holding to the mark as a homing-pigeon holds towards his distant remembered cote.

Long and weary was the way; but nothing mattered save to press on towards the god of light. And at last he reached that lovely bay in the ultimate East

where Helios mounts the sky each morn behind his snow-white steeds.

Here he placed Cedalion on his feet again. The latter prostrated himself face to earth, lest he be smitten by the terrible brilliance of the Sun-god. But Orion stood erect, awaiting the coming of the Day.

The brooding night trembled and drew back. Through the morning mist appeared Eos, goddess of the dawn and herald of her brilliant brother. New-risen from her ocean-couch, with ruddy hair streaming above her saffron-colored mantle, she advanced in her golden chariot, while her rosy fingers sprinkled dew upon the earth from the vase she carried. The dawn breeze struck mysterious notes of music from her tresses like those of an Æolian harp.

Orion could not see this gracious vision as he stood there stark and expectant. Yet some influence of the colorful morning freshness which faced him softened his countenance into a smile of pleasure.

And as Eos looked upon the perfectness of his strong, beautiful youth, she loved him. Bending down, she pressed a kiss upon his forehead, whispering: "Be of good heart. Helios comes."

She passed on. The heavens blazed with purple and crimson and gold streamers, shooting up to the zenith from the coronal of the rising Sun-god.

Out of the rippling blue waters of the bay lifted his majestic visage. The intolerable gleam of his eyes fell full upon the sightless orbs of Orion.

Instantly the blinded giant saw once more. But seeing, he was constrained for the first time in his

life to bow his head before that fiery glance. When the god had whirled on upward, he picked up the trembling Cedalion, set him on his shoulders again, and turned back towards Lemnos, for his wrath still burned hotly against Œnopion. Yet amid his grim thoughts of vengeance, ever and again there sounded those faint music-breaths that had come to him when Eos passed by; and ever and again he would feel her soft lips against his brow.

Like some dripping sea monster, he stepped upon the beach of Chios. Overbearing all who would stay him, he drove on towards the palace. Œnopion, however, had been warned of his coming and had hastily hid himself in a labyrinthine cavern beneath the ground. Search as he might, Orion could not discover his enemy, and was reluctantly forced to forego the retribution he had planned.

He thought then to leave this ill-omened isle. But the next morning Eos, who had not forgotten him, carried him off to Delos. Since her Titan husband had been slain by the lightnings of Zeus, she claimed the right to marry this handsome hunter. But the council of the gods rejected her plea. She dared not resist this supreme decree, so sorrowfully she left him.

Now this tiny isle of Delos had been the birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. Formerly called Ortygia, it had floated hither and thither before the winds; but when Leto came to give birth to these twin children of Zeus, and found no refuge elsewhere in all the world, the mighty ruler of Olympus fixed it firmly in its place by four chains of adamant; and forever after

it was sacred to the three divinities, though more particularly to Apollo.

Little reverence or awe was there in Orion's mind, however, when he found himself alone upon this rocky islet. He realized that for a third time invisible powers had come between him and the woman he thought his; worst of all, there was no one against whom he could direct the hot resentment that flexed every mighty muscle of his body.

His consuming wrath made some action a necessity. He started up the craggy slope of Mt. Cynthos, bursting through the tangled thicket, leaping from one boulder to another, striding across deep clefts in the rock,—with a vague idea that from the commanding summit of the hill he might spy one of these hidden enemies who thus thwarted him.

As he squeezed through a narrow pass at the foot of a riven face of rock, his hunter's eye caught the black spot marking a cave entrance; and the grizzly hairs at the opening told him it was a wolf's den. He paused instinctively and peered into the gloom of the cavern. A chorus of high yapping barks proclaimed the presence of a family of cubs.

He hesitated a moment, wondering if he could force his broad shoulders through the opening. Then he sprang to his feet and faced about, as he heard behind him a snarl that threatened instant danger.

A few feet away, the head of a huge she-wolf protruded from the glossy green leaves of the dense laurel. The creature had just dropped a fawn it had been bringing home, and the bleeding carcass lay unheeded

at the edge of the thicket. Its green eyes blazed with deadly intention; the long hair on its neck bristled up straight around the blood-spotted jaws into a Medusa's head of terror.

Orion had barely time to throw up one guarding arm, when the fierce brute sprang at his throat. Even the wild boar at bay has no fury comparable with that of the hunting wolf-mother, protecting her young. But for the giant's instinctive defensive movement, it might have gone badly even with him. As it was, the dripping teeth caught hold of a fold of his skin garment, and he staggered against the rock wall at the impact of the animal landing on his shoulder.

This death-grapple quite suited the hunter's own savage mood. His eyes blazed as balefully as those of the wolf. With a motion as swift as that of a panther he gripped the animal's upper jaw with his right hand. Heaving it free from his shoulder, his left hand caught the lower jaw before those wicked fangs had time to close upon his fingers.

Then, putting forth his full might, he fairly tore the struggling beast's jaws asunder, and dashed it lifeless against a boulder.

He was a superb figure as he stood there in the full vigor of his aroused powers. It might have been one of the Titan brood defying any force of earth or heavens. Yet instead of being monstrous, he was beautiful—manhood in its perfection though enlarged far beyond common humanity.

"Well done!" said a clear voice behind him. "A fitting end for the fawn-killer."

Orion turned—and to his surprise, his limbs trembled as they had not done at sight of the attacking brute.

A tall maidenly figure stood beside a cypress tree whose twisted roots disappeared into a rock crevice. She held a bow, and her right hand still gripped the long arrow which she had clearly been holding sighted against the wolf, ready to discharge the instant the man seemed to be getting the worst of the struggle.

Her embroidered chiton was girt to the knees; her long hair, intricately woven about her head was bound by a fillet on which shone a silver crescent; upon her feet were Cretan sandals, whose crossing thongs were held by embossed silver clasps. Slender, youthful, alive with vitality, with sparkling great eyes and smiling lips, she seemed, as she replaced the arrow in her quiver, to breathe forth that very spirit of the forest which had ever drawn Orion into the most intimate depths of nature's wildnesses. Indeed, as he gazed stupidly at this radiant creature, she appeared like the very embodiment of all his deepest longings, unexpressed and even unrealized by himself.

"Ai!" she exclaimed. "Never have I seen such a one among the sons of men. I am Artemis. Henceforth we shall hunt together, you and I."

For the first time in his life Orion felt humble. It was not that she named herself daughter of Zeus: but to have the companionship of this Shining One in the life he loved was a boon which no strength of his could win; and his heart beat with lowly gratitude.

Then the self-sufficient man reasserted himself.

"Let us go," said he. "There is no creature of the woods that can escape or defy me."

The goddess smiled, as if pleased with his boastfulness. "This isle will hardly contain such hunters as we. Let us go to Crete. There are mountains that dwarf Ossa and Pelion. There we may range from the perpetual snow of Ida to the olive-filled vales of Iardanos."

Joyfully Orion strode beside her down the rugged side of Cynthos. He hoped they might encounter some monster, that he might at once protect his companion and show his power. And Artemis, perceiving his thought, smiled again in pleasure.

Southward, across the sea they journeyed to the land of Minos. And here they spent long golden days in roaming over the length and breadth of this isle of mountains and caves and upland pasture plateaus and fertile sea-level valleys. They waged relentless war against the killers that preyed upon the wild herds whom Artemis held under her protection: till to this day it is recorded that not a wolf can be found in Crete, plentiful as they still are in neighboring lands.

Orion was well content. Life had become an infinitely richer thing than he had ever imagined, even when he had thought it at the full. For once he was willing to wait patiently for that which he most desired.

For this Comrade was the true woman he had ever sought. Daughter of Zeus though she was, terrible as was her wrath, proud as she might be of her title of Parthenos, he felt sure she belonged to him, and

that each new day's varied experience bound them together the more indissolubly.

And it is written that the Goddess herself felt the bond. She recognized her mate according to the decrees of nature. And she made no secret of her intention to wed this earth-born one.

Then bright Apollo, twin brother of the huntress, waxed wroth and determined to avert this disgrace. And because even he hesitated to thwart her openly, he had recourse to guile.

It chanced towards dusk one summer's eve that Artemis stood by the seashore. Contrary to his wont, Orion had gone off alone on an expedition to a neighboring island.

He was now returning, progressing through the water with mighty strides, but so distant that his head seemed but a tiny speck upon the horizon.

Suddenly Apollo descended to his sister's side. Playfully he began to rally her upon her vaunted skill with the bow, at which he himself was unexcelled.

When her pride was aroused, he declared that she could not hit that black spot which seemed to move toward them—probably a porpoise.

Quickly the piqued Goddess seized an arrow from the quiver on her shoulder. Steadily she drew her bow till the arrow-head touched her finger. Firmly she loosed it. The string gave a mighty twang. The shaft sped seaward, true to the mark.

Artemis turned in triumph, but Apollo had vanished. A vague uneasiness filled her breast. The surf seemed

to beat against the sands in lamentation, growing louder and yet louder.