hang her head and weep. So Perseus drew his diamond sword and smote
through her chains, and gathered her, set free, to his breast. But
when she had wept there a little space Andromeda thrust him away with
a sharp cry.
"Oh, leave me!" she wailed, "for I am the accursed one, the victim
offered to the angry gods. Come not between me and my doom, for I
suffer in the people's place."
"Never will I leave thee," answered Perseus, "and never shalt thou
suffer while I have strength to draw sword in thy defense."
But Andromeda only wept the more and begged him again to be gone, and
he, thinking to calm her, again entreated to hear the story of her sad
plight. So Andromeda told him why she was being offered up to the
monster, and as she finished speaking, her eyes, wandering seaward,
widened with horror, and she shrieked aloud: "It comes! it comes! Oh,
kind and godlike youth, fly ere it is too late! Leave me; let not
thine eyes behold my shameful end!"
But Perseus, kissing the tears from her face, laughed aloud and made a
mock of the great fish-beast which even now, like a leviathan of the
deep, could be seen plowing its way towards them across the sea.
[Illustration: PERSEUS AND ANDROMEDA]
"Shall I flee from a beast of the deep?" he asked. "Maiden, my father
was Jupiter, king of the gods, and the great goddess Minerva hath me
under her protection. From her I received this shield, and from
Mercury, swiftest of the gods, a cap of darkness, these sandals, and
this sword. Then, at Minerva's bidding, I sped northward through
regions where man nor beast hath trodden. There found I the Gray
Sisters, and snatched from them their one eye, keeping it till they
told me the way to the garden of the Hesperides. And from the maidens
in that garden I learned the secret dwelling-place of the gorgon
Medusa, the very sight of whose face turns all men to stone. Her, at
the bidding of Minerva, I slew, using the shield as a mirror and
looking not on the gorgon's face as I shore off her viper-crowned
head. Seven years have these adventures filled; very far have I
traveled and many perils known. And shall I now turn back from a beast
of the sea?"
And he laughed again, and his laughter rang so joyously through the
morning air that some comfort stole even into the sad heart of
Andromeda; but still she besought him to go.
"Many hath the sea-beast slain," she pleaded; "and why should he slay
thee? Shall two perish instead of one? Strong-limbed art thou and
brave; but what mortal shall stand against that strength? Never have I
known fairer or gentler man than thou, and why should'st thou die?
Seven years hath thy mother awaited thy homecoming, and shall her eyes
see thee nevermore?"
And when she had said this, Andromeda hid her face in her hair,
sobbing very bitterly as she added: "Surely some maiden longeth for
thee afar; and shall she go longing to her grave?"
But ere Perseus could answer there came a roar from the sea, and
looking down they saw that the monster was at hand. His great snout,
pouring forth fountains of sea-water, lay already on the rocks, his
vast scaly body, shells clinging to its scales and seaweeds dripping
down its sides, rolled like some water-logged hulk; his tail, curling,
coil upon coil, to the horizon, lashed the waters till they were white
with foam, and the sea-birds screamed as before him the fishes fled
leaping.
Then Perseus, pausing not an instant, drew forth from under his
goat-skin the fatal head of Medusa, the sight of which is death, and
gripping it by its viper locks, he swooped like a hawk upon the
monster as it rose to clamber up the beach. And the monster's great
eyes rolled upward, blinking and wicked; but when they saw the Medusa
they became fixed in a ghastly stare. And a great spasm ran through
the sea-beast from snout to tail--a shiver, and then no motion or
breath or sign of life, for that which had been a monster was now
nothing but a long black rock.
Then Perseus went back to Andromeda and showed her that her enemy was
indeed dead, and Andromeda, after all her sorrows, was now the
happiest maiden in the land. And all the people, hearing what had
happened, came down to the shore with laughter and dancing and
singing, and carried Andromeda and Perseus to the palace of the king
and queen, who sat sorrowing for their daughter, deeming her already
dead. And they, when they heard the glad tidings, rose up and embraced
their daughter who had come back to them, as it were, from the grave,
and gave her to Perseus to wife, begging him to stay with them for a
while before he carried home his bride.
So Perseus stayed with Cepheus and Cassiopoeia and their dark-haired
Æthiopians for the space of a year, teaching them many things; and
after that he built himself a ship of cedar-wood, and in it he sailed
with Andromeda to Seriphos among the Isles of Greece, where his mother
had waited for him seven years. And after a little while Perseus
became King of Argos in the place of his grandfather Acrisius. Long
and glorious was his reign, and fair Andromeda bore him four sons and
three daughters. And when after many days Perseus died, the gods took
him up into the sky. Who has not seen on a starlight night Cassiopoeia
seated on her golden throne? There, too, is Perseus, still holding the
Medusa's head, and beside him is Andromeda, still stretching out her
starry arms to embrace her enstarred deliverer.
MELEAGER AND ATALANTA
BY H. P. MASKELL
When Meleager, son of Oeneus, King of Calydon, was born, his mother
Althæa dreamed that she had brought forth a burning brand. The three
Fates were present at the moment of his birth, and foretold his future
greatness. Clotho promised that he should have bravery and courage,
Lachesis uncommon strength, and Atropos that he should live as long as
the fire-brand on the hearth remained whole and unburnt. Althæa no
sooner heard this than she snatched the brand from the fire and
quenched it with water. Ever after she kept the brand in a safe place
with jealous care, knowing that on this depended the life of her dear
son.
Grown to manhood, Meleager soon became famous for his knightly
prowess. He sailed with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, and when
rebellious tribes made war against his father, he fought against their
army and scattered it.
A year came, long after famous as the harvest year. Never within the
memory of man had there been such plenteous crops in the land of
Calydon, and Oeneus the king made grateful offerings of first-fruits
to the gods: corn to Ceres, wine to Bacchus, and olive oil to Minerva.
All the gods received their tribute except Diana. Diana was forgotten,
and the goddess was filled with jealousy. She resented the insult to
her altars, and in revenge for the neglect sent a wild boar to ravage
the kingdom. This boar was huge as a full-grown ox, his eyes were
flaming and bloodshot, and the bristles stood up on his neck and
flanks like long spikes. It was terrible to see his foaming jaws and
large tusks--like an elephant's; when he roared his breath seemed to
burn up the very herbage. Wherever he went he destroyed the farmer's
hopes, trampling down the young shoots, devouring the corn in the ear,
breaking the vines, and stripping the olive trees. Neither dogs nor
shepherds could protect the sheep from being gored by his cruel tusks.
The country folk had to fly for their lives into the walled cities.
So Meleager invited a choice band of heroes to join him and help to
destroy the monster. Nearly all those who had joined in the quest for
the Golden Fleece came and brought others with them. But the foremost
in Meleager's eyes was the fair huntress Atalanta, daughter of Iasius.
Her robe flowed loose to the knee, held up over her left shoulder by
one golden brooch, and her hair was gathered into a single knot. At
her side hung an ivory quiver. It had been hard to tell whether she
were youth or maid, so strong and stalwart were her limbs and so
smooth her face. Meleager saw her, and loved her at first sight.
"Here," he cried, "is the one maid for me!" But this was no time or
place for love-making. The mighty hunt was about to begin.
The monster had been tracked to a dense jungle, and the heroes got
ready their nets and slipped the dogs. At length the pack gave tongue,
and the hunters raised a shout as the boar came crashing through the
wood, scattering the dogs right and left, some barking, some bleeding
from ugly wounds. Echion's spear only grazed a maple tree. Jason was
next to throw his swift lance, but it overshot the mark. The aim of
Alastus was more true, but the iron head snapped off as it hit one of
the mighty tusks, and the shaft failed to wound the brute.
Like a stone from a catapult the furious boar rushed madly on among
the youths; lightnings flashed from his eyes, and his breath was like
a furnace; two of the huntsmen were laid low, and a third received a
deadly wound; Nestor saved his life by catching in the nick of time
the branch of an oak tree. Having whetted his tusks on the trunk the
monster advanced once more, and gored another hero in the thigh.
Castor and Pollux, on their white horses, rushed with lances poised to
despatch him; they were too late, for the boar had found safe cover in
the jungle, where neither horse nor weapon could reach him.
Telamon, in his hot pursuit, was tripped up by a root. While Pelus was
helping him to rise, Atalanta fitted an arrow to her bow and let fly.
Diana, who loved the maiden, guided her aim. The shaft grazed the ear
of the beast, leaving the bristles streaked with red; and Meleager was
just as pleased as she herself at her success in drawing the first
blood. Pointing it out to his companions, he exclaimed, "The maid is
peerless in archery as in beauty! She puts us men to shame!"
Stung to action by the taunt the heroes bestirred themselves, and
shouted to encourage each other, but their very number confused their
aim. Ancæus, swinging his battle-ax, rushed madly to his fate, crying,
"Make way for me, and I will show you how much better a man's weapon
is than a girl's arrow. Though he bear a charmed life, my right hand
shall finish the brute!" As he stood boasting the boar seized him and
gored him through and through and through, so that the earth around
was soaked with his red life-blood. Theseus stayed his dear friend,
Pirithoüs, son of Ixion, who was making straight for the enemy just as
rashly. Warning him that it was better to be valiant at a distance, he
hurled his heavy lance of cornel-wood pointed with brass. It was well
poised, but caught in a beech tree. Jason, too, hurled his javelin
again, but by an ill-chance struck an innocent hound and pinned him to
the earth.
Meleager's turn had now come, and he used his opportunity to good
effect. Of two spears the first only grazed the boar's flank, the
second transfixed the beast in the middle of the back. While it was
writhing in agony, twisting about, covered with foam and blood, the
conqueror lost no time. In a trice he had buried his gleaming blade
behind the shoulder. His comrades crowded around him with shouts of
joy. They marveled at the huge size of the boar as the carcass lay at
full length, scarcely believing it safe even yet to touch, but each
dipped his weapon in the blood. Meleager himself, placing his foot on
the monster's head, exclaimed, "Receive, Arcadian nymph, the spoil
that is thy right, for thou didst draw first blood! Only let me share
thy glory!" So saying, he laid at her feet the skin, thick with
stiffened bristles, and the head and monstrous tusks. The maiden was
graciously pleased to accept the offering, and the smile that she
bestowed on the giver more than repaid him for all his pains and
perils.
But his comrades were jealous of the favor bestowed on the young
hunter. They murmured amongst themselves, and said, "Who is this
upstart youth who, without asking our leave, bestows on his lady-love
the spoils that belong to us all?" And they snatched away the trophy.
This was more than the warlike prince could bear. Mad with anger and
indignation, he plunged his sword into the breast of his uncle
Plexippus (who had been the moving spirit in the protest), crying,
"This will teach thee not to snatch away another's honors." And before
long his blade was reeking with the blood of Toxeus, who seemed half
disposed to avenge his brother's death.
Meanwhile, Queen Althæa had heard of her son's victory over the
monster, and was on her way to the temples of the gods with
thankofferings, when she beheld the dead bodies of her brothers being
borne from the field. All her joy was turned to sorrow; with a shriek
of horror she hastened back home to put on mourning. But when she
learnt who was the author of their death, grief vanished and gave
place to a thirst for vengeance.
She bethought herself of the brand which the Fates had given her, and
which she had kept so carefully, knowing that her son's life depended
on it. Now this fatal wood was to be the means of punishing the son
for the murder of her brothers.
At her bidding a fire was kindled. Holding the fatal billet in her
ruthless hand, she moaned, "Ye Fates, I both avenge and commit a
crime. With death must death be repaid. He deserves to die, and yet
the thought of his death appalls me. Oh, that thou hadst been burnt,
unnatural son, when an infant, in that first fire!" So saying, with
trembling hands, she threw the fatal brand into the midst of the fire.
And the brand, as it was caught by the flames, seemed to utter a dying
groan.
Meleager, far away, was seized with sudden pains. He felt his entrails
scorched by secret fires; bravely he bore the torture. His one regret
was that he was doomed to die an inglorious death, and he envied the
fate of Ancæus. With his last breath he invoked a blessing on his aged
father, his brother, and dear sisters--aye, and on his cruel mother.
As the blaze kindled by Althæa rose and fell, so his torments waxed
and waned. Both lives flickered out, and his spirit vanished into the
light air.
In Calydon, young and old, noble and serf, were all lamenting. The
matrons tore their hair as they bewailed the untimely end of their
brave young prince. Aged Oeneus abased himself on the ground, with
dust on his white locks and wrinkled brow, bemoaning that he had lived
to see that day. To the anguished mother, too, came tardy repentance.
Natural affection had now gained the mastery over anger and revenge.
"Wretch that I am!" she cried. "To the loss of my dear brothers, by my
own ruthless deed I have added the loss of my dearer son." Horrified
at her act, she could no longer bear to see the sun, and with a sword
put an end to her misery and shame.
THE STORY OF DÆDALUS AND ICARUS
BY M. M. BIRD
Athens is the eye of Greece, the mother of science and the arts, and
of all her world-famed artists none is more famous than Dædalus, the
sculptor, the architect, the first of air-men. It was he who taught
men to carve in wood the human form divine, as the images prove that
the Greeks named after him _dædala_. It was he who planned for Minos
the labyrinth of which you have read elsewhere; and it was he who
first made wings that men might fly like birds. Of this, his best and
greatest invention, how he came to contrive it, and how disastrously
it ended, you shall now hear.
When Theseus had slain the Minotaur, King Minos was exceedingly wrath
with his architect for betraying the secret of the labyrinth--a secret
that none but the king and its contriver knew. So Dædalus, and with
him his young son Icarus, was cast into prison, and there they
languished long. But Pasiphaë the queen, who loved not her sovereign
lord and loved her favorite artist, contrived their escape and hid
them in a sea-cave. Still the cave was little better than a prison. It
was dark and dank, and they dared only venture out at night for fear
their hiding-place should be discovered.
But though the artist's hands were idle, his busy brain was ever
plotting and scheming. One day, as he sat at the cave's mouth watching
the seagulls as they floated past on poised wings or mounted from the
waves and with a stroke of their pinions were high in air, there
flashed upon his brain the splendor of a sudden thought--With the
wings of a bird I too could fly!
At once the father and the son set to work to make themselves wings.
The osprey and the sea-eagle, whose aeries were on the rocky heights,
the father trapped with cunning snares, and from the combs of the wild
bees on the hillside the son collected wax. So with infinite pains,
and after endless failures, at last a pair of pinions were made. The
upper row of quills were bound together by strong threads of twine on
a framework of bone, and to them the bottom feathers were joined by
beeswax. Like all great inventors, Dædalus had conquered Nature by
imitating her.
At first young Icarus had watched his father with eager curiosity, but
like a boy, he had soon grown impatient, and, as Dædalus still
persevered, he looked upon him as a harmless lunatic. What, then, were
his delight and surprise when, one morning as he awoke, he beheld his
father floating in mid-air before the cave's mouth.
"Father," he cried, embracing him as he alighted, "what rapture! Let
me too try if I can fly. Make me a pair of wings, and together we will
escape from this island prison."
"My boy," the grave sire replied, "thou shalt surely try, but flight
is no easy matter, and thou must first learn thy lesson. Mark well my
words. Steer always a middle flight; there only safety lies. If you
fly low the sea spray will wet your flagging feathers, if high the sun
will melt the wax. Keep me in sight, and swerve not to the north or
south."
Icarus promised to obey, but so fired was he with the thought of
flying that he listened with half an ear, and soon forgot his father's
directions.
The second pair of wings were made and strapped with anxious care to
the son's shoulder-blades. And, as the parent birds eye their callow
nestlings when they essay their first flight, so Dædalus, as he
mounted upwards, oft looked back on the boy and again repeated his
warnings.
The people were stirring in the towns, the countrymen were out in the
fields after their beasts, and all the folk stayed in their morning
tasks to gaze at these two strange creatures that floated overhead.
"It is Dædalus and his son," they cried. "They have become gods."
Minos in his palace was told of the strange spectacle. From his
terrace he watched in impotent wrath the two dark specks far out to
sea, that thus escaped him.
At first Icarus kept close to his father, but soon he had lost all
sense of danger, and with the reckless wantonness of youth, determined
to go his own way. He reveled in the strong free strokes of his great
wings; he mounted ever higher and higher, till the sea was spread
below him like a blue plain, and the sandy islands showed like cloths
of gold.
Dædalus was winging his careful way lower down, below the scattered
clouds, close above the golden islets, and shouted to his son to
return. But Icarus, drunk with the delights of flight, mounted ever
higher, up into the fierce rays of Phoebus, the Sun-god, who held out
burning arms to the adventurous youth, beckoning him to race his fiery
car across the heavens.
The horrified father, floating on outspread wings over the Ægean Sea,
looked up to see his boy like a tiny speck in the sun's rays. He knew
the fierce heat of those rays; he knew that the wings were only
fastened on by wax that could not hold against that scorching heat.
And lo! as he looked, the speck grew larger and larger, and headlong
down the sky he beheld Icarus falling, falling, his limp wings sagging
from his shoulders, his frantic arms struggling to spread them and
stay his fall. The drooping wings could not uphold him; he came
whirling down the hissing air, and his agonized father watched his
helpless boy fall into the blue waves beneath. For a moment he saw him
struggle feebly, and then, like a bubble, he sank, and the unruffled
waters lay calm and smiling as before.
By the sad sea shore of the Ægean, where he landed after that
disastrous flight, Dædalus raised a cenotaph to his lost son, and
thereon he laid the wings, once the artist's pride, and now the
father's bane. "Icarus, O my Icarus!" he cried; and still those waters
echo the name of Icarus.
SCYLLA, THE DAUGHTER OF NISUS
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
In Crete, the greatest and most powerful of the isles of Greece and
the cradle of Jupiter, there once stood a splendid palace where lived
the wealthy King Minos. To this palace came as guests one day Nisus,
King of Megara, and his fair daughter Scylla; and there they abode
many days, with every day fresh delights sought out by King Minos to
give them pleasure. And Scylla, like a fond and foolish maiden, was
dazzled by the pomp and by the flattery of King Minos, and he seemed
to her the greatest and wisest of living men, and she would fain have
tarried there forever, hearkening to his words and admiring all his
riches.
But King Nisus would not longer stay, and they departed, bearing with
them rich gifts from the generous king, and returned to their own
castle at Megara. Very small and mean did her home seem to Scylla now,
and often would she climb to the top of a turret that looked over the
sea, and thence she would gaze and gaze towards the south, and her
thoughts would fly back to the fair island of Crete with its cities
and its palaces, and its strong and noble king, till she envied the
birds that skimmed past her turret on swift, light wings. They could
fly to Crete whenever they would, and settle on the palace eaves; but
the princess must sit still in her high turret, and hide even her
longing away within her heart.
The days passed by, and Nisus went no more to Crete, but Androgeos,
son of King Minos, came to Megara and abode there some little space,
and the king and the princess welcomed him kindly for his father's
sake. After his visit Androgeos would not sail back straight to his
father's halls; he was minded first to see the great city of Athens,
the eye of Greece. King Nisus warned him that the road across the
mountains was difficult and dangerous, and that many robbers hid among
those hills; but the prince would not be warned. He went his way, and
the next news of him that came was that he had been set upon by
bandits and murdered.
"He should have hearkened to the counsel of older and wiser men," said
King Nisus. "I grieve for the youth, but he brought it on himself."
But when Minos the king heard that his son Androgeos was dead, he was
stricken with a great grief, and he sent to King Nisus demanding
blood-money, since the prince was slain in the lands of the Megarians.
But Nisus refused to pay.
"It was no fault of mine," he said; "and I shall make no reparation
for the death of one whose blood is on his own head."
Then was King Minos wroth, and threatened to make good in person his
rightful claim.
So it chanced on a day when the Princess Scylla looked forth from her
turret over the sea, as her custom was, she saw great ships, with
bellying white sails, drawing near from the south; and as they rose
upon the heaving billows, the sunbeams glinted back from many a shield
and spear, for they carried the mailed warriors of King Minos coming
to wrest from King Nisus blood-money for the death of Androgeos, son
to King Minos, who had been slain by robbers on the lands of King
Nisus.
Then stepped forth from one of the ships the herald of King Minos, and
he came into the palace of Megara and proclaimed his master's will to
all that stood there.
But Nisus the king frowned upon the herald. "I will pay no
blood-money," he said. "Go your ways to your master and tell him so.
Better were it for him to be satisfied with this answer of mine and to
turn and hie him home. Little use is it for mortal men to strive
against those who are protected by the undying gods. I care not for
the wrath of King Minos, and the spears of his warriors have no more
power to hurt my people than the bulrushes that children gather in the
fields and break in mimic warfare with each other."
"Thou speakest in riddles, King Nisus," replied the herald; "but my
master is of kin to the immortals, and it cannot be that they will let
him quail before a petty king like thee."
So the herald turned and went back to his ships; and when King Minos
heard that King Nisus refused to pay the blood-money, he made him
ready for battle.