free will, think you?”
The old king bowed his head at her words. “Alas! what other answer could
I look for?” he said. “I thank the gods that they have shown me thy fair
face this day. Perchance, when we hunt again in these parts, thou wilt
join us for love of the chase. Till then, my child, farewell.”
With trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on
the forehead. Then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and
mounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. When
they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon her way. But her eyes
were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights and sounds she loved so
well, and that night she tossed restlessly upon her couch of moss. For
before her eyes was the figure of an old man bowed with sorrow, and in
her ear his voice pleaded, trembling with longing and love.
In the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream
close by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head. Then
she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver about
her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest. Looking
neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till she came
to the white road that led to the city. Then she turned and looked back
at the forest.
“Dear trees and woods,” she said, “farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell in
the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. When I have
trodden the white road and gone up to the city, I can live with you no
more. As for thee, great Diana, who saved me in the beginning, I will be
thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days, and a lover of the
hunt.” So saying she stepped out bravely on the white highway, and went
up into the city, till she came to the gate of the palace. When she had
entered the hall, she stopped and looked about her. At first all seemed
silent and deserted for the folk had gone their several ways for the
work of the day; but at length she spied an old man sitting on a carved
chair in one of the alcoves between the pillars. It was the king, her
father. He sat with his head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the
floor, and his face was sad and full of longing. And she went and knelt
at his feet. The old man gazed for a moment in her face, as though he did
not see her; then he started from his chair and laid his hand upon her
shoulder. “Atalanta!” he cried.
“My father,” she said, “I have come back to thee.”
Then he gathered her up in his arms. “Oh, my child, my child!” he said.
“The gods are kind beyond my desert.”
“Thy voice cried out to me in the night-time,” she said, “and I could not
shut my heart to thy pleading. The call of the free earth was strong, but
the call of my blood was stronger.”
Thus did Atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the heart
of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms. A great
feast was held in the palace in her honor, and through all the city the
people rejoiced because of her. Suitors flocked from far and wide to
seek her hand in marriage. But she treated them one and all with scorn,
and vowed that she would never wed. At first her father smiled upon her,
and looked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was
not to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. So he gathered
about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that among them all
there would be one who could win her heart. But the months passed by, and
still she vowed that she would never wed. All her delight was in running
and hunting, and to ride by her father’s side. At length the king grew
anxious.
“Surely, my child,” he said, “among all these princes there is one whom
thou couldst love?”
“I shall never love any man but thee, my father,” she replied.
Nothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her resolve.
But still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length she grew so
wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that would rid her of
all her suitors.
“My father,” she said, “I will wed any man who shall ask for my hand, if
he will fulfill one condition.”
“My child,” cried her father, “I knew that in the end thou wouldst listen
to reason. Tell me thy condition, that I may spread it abroad among those
who are suing for thy hand.”
“Tell them,” she said, “that I will wed the first man among them who will
run a race with me. If he win, I will be his bride, but if he lose, he
must die.”
The king’s face fell when he heard her words. “Surely thou speakest in
mockery, Atalanta,” he said. “No man in all the world can run as swiftly
as thou canst, and they know it. Thou wilt drive thy suitors from thee;
or if any be foolhardy enough to run with thee, they will run to a
certain death.”
“No man will run to a certain death, my father,” she answered. “When they
know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back to their
own folk, and I shall be troubled with suitors no more.”
So he published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made.
When they heard it there was great consternation among them, and they
consulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a deputation
to her to find out the meaning of her words.
“Lady,” they asked, “when thou speakest of death thou speakest perchance
in parables. Those who run in the race with thee and are outstripped must
give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no more. And this would
be death indeed to them that love thee.”
But she laughed in their faces. “He who courts death may race with me at
daybreak, and at sunset he shall drink the poison-cup without fail, and
look neither on my face again nor the face of any living thing. Have I
spoken plainly now?”
The next day there was great confusion in the halls of King Schœnus.
There was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this way and that.
Chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in the court, and
baggage was piled high behind the horses. And Atalanta laughed aloud at
the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor came and kissed her
hand and bade her farewell.
That night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been
for many a long day. Yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in no
haste to be gone.
“They are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition,” said the king.
Then Atalanta herself went and pleaded with them.
But they replied, “Lady, thou hast given the condition of thy marrying,
and we are waiting to fulfil it.”
Thus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready for
the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of them
should be the first to run against her. In the early morning, before the
sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded to the course
to watch it. The man ran well and bravely, but his speed was as child’s
play to Atalanta. She put forth her strength like a greyhound that is
content to run for a while before the horses, but when he scents a hare,
can leave them far behind. Even so did Atalanta run, and came in cool and
fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in hot and panting behind her.
Thus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison cup because
of his love for Atalanta. With a smiling face did he drink it, as a man
drinks at a feast.
And now a time of darkness and mourning fell upon the land, and many
a day in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some
noble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without Atalanta. And
Atalanta’s heart was sore within her, because of the rash condition she
had made in her ignorance. When she would fain have recalled her words it
was too late, for the suitors bound her to her promise.
“Either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let us
take our chance of winning thee or death,” they said.
And she was forced to run with them. For in her heart she knew that even
death was happier for a man than to win her without her love.
Thus were the words of Diana fulfilled when she said, “In time she shall
return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts.”
One day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that a
race was to be run. The night before he had slept in a village near by,
and the people had told him the tale of Atalanta, and how on the morrow
another suitor was to run to his death. But he scoffed at their words.
“No man would run to certain death,” he said, “were the maid as fair as
Venus.”
“Go and see for thyself,” they replied. “Soon we shall hear that thou too
wilt run in the race.”
“Never,” he said; “no woman can cheat my life from me.”
But they shook their heads unconvinced. “Many before thee have spoken
likewise,” said they, “and yet they have run.”
“If I run, I will run to win,” he answered.
“Can a snail outstrip a deer?” they asked.
“It might so chance,” said he.
“Thou art mad,” they cried.
“Better to be mad on earth than sane in Hades,” he replied.
But they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their fingers
on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at random.
“Well, well,” he said, with a laugh, “we shall see what we shall see.”
The next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with the
crowd, he made his way to the race-course, and found for himself a place
where he could watch the whole sight with ease. The race was run, and
ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung with black.
But in the mind of the stranger an image remained which had not been
there before—the image of a maid whose white feet flashed in the sunlight
and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag swings in the breeze.
“Great Hercules!” he thought within himself, “to run shoulder to shoulder
with her for a moment, even in a race for death, might be worth the while
after all. I will make myself known at the palace, and see what the gods
will give me.”
For some days he lay hid in the city, till he thought the time was ripe
for him to go up to the palace of the king. Then he went for a walk along
the highway, and when he was covered with dust and grime, he returned to
the city and made his way at once to the palace.
When Atalanta saw a stranger at the board her heart sank within her, and
she kept her eyes turned away, as though she had not seen him, for she
made sure that he too had come to run in the race with her. It chanced
that night that the company was scanty, and no man talked in private to
his neighbor, but the conversation leapt from one end of the board to the
other, as each one took his share in it and said his say. The stranger,
too, took his part with the rest of them, in nowise abashed; and so
shrewd were his words, and so full of wit, that soon he had a smile upon
the face of each one at the table. For many a long day the talk had not
been so merry nor the laughter so loud at the table of King Schœnus.
Atalanta, too, forgot her constraint, and talked and laughed freely with
the stranger; and he answered her back, as though it had been man to man,
and showed no more deference to her than to the others of the company.
When the meal was over, the king approached the stranger, and Atalanta
stood beside him.
“Sir,” said the king, “thy name and thy country are still hid from us,
but we are grateful for thy coming, and would be fain for thee to stay as
long as it shall please thee.”
“I thank thee, sire,” said the stranger, “but I am bound by a strange
vow. I may not reveal my name, nor accept hospitality for more than one
night from any man, till I come to a house where none other than the
king’s daughter shall promise me her hand in marriage. From the tales
I have heard in the neighboring country, I have learnt that I may not
hope to end my vow beneath this roof—though indeed,” he said, turning
to Atalanta, “I would fain press my suit if there were any chance of
success.”
But Atalanta threw back her head at his words. “Thou hast doubtless heard
the condition,” she said, “by the fulfilment of which alone a man may win
my hand.”
“Alas, sir!” said the king, “I would press no man to try his luck in that
venture.”
“Since that is so,” said the stranger, “I will go forth once more upon my
journey at break of day, and see what luck the gods will give me. I thank
thee for thy kindly hospitality this night, and beg thee to excuse me. I
have travelled far, and would fain rest now, as I must go a long distance
ere I can rest again.”
Thereupon he took his leave of King Schœnus and his daughter. But she,
for all her pride, could not forget the man who seemed to bid her
farewell with so light a heart.
It was her custom to rise early in the morning, before the rest of the
household was stirring, and to go forth alone into the woods; and it was
the lot of one of the slaves to rouse himself betimes to give her food
ere she went, so that when she appeared, as was her wont, he thought
nothing of it. The stranger had risen even earlier than she, and the
slave was waiting upon him.
“Good-morrow, sir,” she said. “It is not often I have a companion when I
break my fast.” Then she turned to the slave, “Thou mayest get thee back
to thy bed,” she said, “and sleep out thy sleep in peace. I will see to
the wants of our guest and speed him on his way.”
Thereupon Atalanta sat down at the board beside the stranger, and they
fell to with all the appetite of youth and health; and as they ate they
laughed and joked, and talked of strange lands they both had seen and
adventures that had befallen them. In the space of one-half hour they
were as good friends as though they had known each other all their lives.
When they had finished their meal the stranger rose. “I must bid thee
farewell, lady,” he said.
“Nay, not yet,” she replied; “I will set thee on thy way, and show thee a
road through the forest that will bring thee to the city thou seekest. I
know every track and path as well as the wild deer know them.”
He tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen, and led him out from
the palace by a side gate, which she unbarred with her own hands. Down
through the sleeping streets they went, where the shadows of the houses
lay long upon the ground, and out across the open downs into the shade of
the forest. At length they came to a broad track that crossed the path
they were in, and Atalanta stopped short and pointed to the right.
“From here,” she said, “thou canst not miss thy way. Follow the track
till it lead thee to the highroad, and when thou strikest the highroad,
turn to the left, and thou wilt come to the city thou seekest.”
Then she held out her hand to him. “I must bid thee farewell,” she said,
“and good luck to the ending of thy vow.”
“Lady,” he said, and took her hand in his, “if thou wilt, thou canst
release me now from my vow.”
But she drew her hand away sharply and tossed back her head. “Many kings
have daughters besides King Schœnus,” she said, “and any one of them
could release thee from thy vow as well as I.”
“Atalanta,” he said, “no king’s daughter save thee shall ever release me
from my vow. From the first moment that I saw thee I loved thee.”
“Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art thou willing to run in the
race?”
“Much good will my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup. Nay,
nay,” he said; “I love thee too well to put my death at thy door. When I
have some chance of winning the race, I will come back and claim thee. In
the meantime, lady, farewell.”
And, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as
looking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and anger.
Day after day passed by, and he came not. “He is a man of his word,” she
thought at last. “Till he has some chance of winning he will not come
back. And he is no fool. He knows he can never run as I can run. He will
never come back.”
Yet for all this she watched for him. When she went forth into the road,
or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way.
The weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came
and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as
Atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. When by chance she raised
her eyes, there at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer
to her thoughts.
“I have come back, lady,” he said.
“Oh!” she cried from her heart, “I am glad thou hast come back.”
Then he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence
side by side along the path they had walked before. As they drew near to
the edge of the forest, Atalanta was the first to speak.
“And thy vow,” she asked—“hast thou found release from it?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “I am come back to run the race, that I may win
release.”
Once again the spirit of perversity came upon her. “Where hast thou
learnt to run like the wind?” she asked.
“I have not learnt to run like the wind,” he replied. “I have learnt
something better than that.”
“Few things are better in a race than swiftness,” she said.
“True,” he answered; “yet I have found the one thing better.”
“What is this strange thing?” she asked.
“When we have run the race, thou wilt know,” he said.
“I have grown no sluggard,” she said, with a toss of her head, as though
to warn him that her speed was not a thing to be despised. So they came
to the palace, and from the lowest to the highest the inmates greeted the
stranger with joy. For he had won the hearts of them all by his wit and
his genial smile. But they sighed when they heard that he too had come
to run in the fatal race.
“Alas!” said the old king, shaking his head, “I had rather not have
looked upon thy face again than see thee back on such an errand.”
The young man laughed. “He who runs with a fair hope of winning runs
swiftly,” he said. “The others were dragged down by the shackles of their
own despair.”
“Thou dost not know my daughter,” said the king.
“Mayhap I know her better than thou thinkest, and better than thou
knowest her thyself,” said the stranger.
No arguments or entreaties would turn him from his purpose. “I must win
release from my vow,” he said. “I cannot live all my life a nameless
wanderer. Yet will I not wed any woman I love not, for the sake of my
release. Atalanta alone can save me, for I love none other.”
So the lists once again were prepared, and the course made smooth for
the race. The folk were gathered together round the course, and Atalanta
and the stranger stood ready and waiting for the word to be given. She
had made it a condition of the race that her rivals should have a good
start of her, and she stood with her eyes upon the stranger’s back, as
he waited many paces before her. All too soon the word was given, and
he sprang forward from his place, like a dog which has been straining
at his leash springs forward when the hook is unloosed. And Atalanta,
too, sprang forward; but whereas the man ran like a hunted thing that
strains every muscle to save its life, she ran with the swinging grace
of a wild deer that, far away from the hunters and hounds, crosses the
springing turf of the lonely moor, fearless and proud, as he throws back
his antlers in the breeze. Thus did Atalanta run, as though she had no
thought of the race, or of the man who ran for his life. Yet, though she
seemed to make no effort, she gained upon her rival at every step, and
now she was running close behind him, and now she was almost shoulder to
shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her
tunic. Then for a moment he slackened his pace, and it seemed that she
would pass him, and on every side the people shouted out to him, “Run,
run! Faster, faster! She will pass thee.”
But he put his hand into the opening of his tunic, and drew forth
something from his breast. Then his hand swung up above his head, and
from it there flashed a dazzling fiery apple. Up and down through the air
it flashed like a meteor, and rolled along the grass, till it stopped far
away in the center of the course, and lay shining like a jewel in the
rays of the sun. Every eye was turned from the race to watch its gleaming
flight, and Atalanta stopped short and watched it too. When she saw it
stop still in the middle of the course, flashing and sparkling in the
grass, a great desire sprang up in her heart to have it—a desire that she
could not resist. And she darted aside out of the path of the race and
went and picked up the shining golden apple and put it in the bosom of
her tunic. Meanwhile the stranger had lost no time, and when Atalanta
came back to the spot she had left, he was far ahead upon the course, and
she had to run with a will if she wished to overtake him. But once again
she gained upon him, and the space between them grew less and less, till
they were running well nigh shoulder to shoulder. And once again he saw
the gleam of her tunic beside him; and again he slackened his speed for
a moment, and sent a second gleaming apple into the air. Once more the
desire sprang up in Atalanta’s heart, and, leaving the course, she picked
up the second apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic beside the
first. By the time she had returned to the path the stranger had rounded
the turning-point and was well on his way towards the goal, and she put
forth all her strength to overtake him. But the ease of her running was
gone. She ran as one who runs bearing a burden, yet she would not cast
away the golden apples in her bosom; for though they hampered her, she
gained upon her rival, and for the third time they were running almost
shoulder to shoulder. And again, the third time, the same thing happened,
and Atalanta left the course to pick up the shining fruit. This time
when she returned to her place the stranger was close upon the goal, and
all around the people were shouting and waving their hands. With all the
strength that was left in her she made a great spurt to overtake him. If
she would cast away the golden apples, she might yet win the race; but
the same mad desire which had spurred her to pick them up forbade her
now to let them go. As she ran they seemed to grow heavier and heavier
in her bosom; yet she struggled and panted on, and step by step did she
gain upon him, though her eyes were darkened to all but his form and the
goal ahead. On every side the people shouted louder than before, for
they knew not now which of them would win. As they drew near to the goal
they were again almost shoulder to shoulder, and the stranger saw once
more the flash of Atalanta’s tunic beside him, while there were yet some
paces to run. Then he gave a great spurt forward, and leapt away from her
side. She tried to do likewise, but her strength was gone. She had made
her last effort before. Thus did it come to pass that the stranger ran
in first to the goal, and, running close upon his heels, Atalanta fell
breathless into his arms as he turned to catch her. She had run twice
as far as he, but what matter if he had not outsped her. He had won the
race. The tears shone in her eyes, but he knew they were not tears of
grief; and in the face of all the people he kissed her.
Thus was Atalanta, the swiftest of all mortals, beaten in the race by the
stranger, and learnt from his lips what it was that he had found on his
travels that had made speed of no avail in the race.
For after they had come back to the city, surrounded by the joyous folk,
and had passed hand in hand beneath the gateway; after he had revealed to
them all that he was Milanion, the son of Amphidamas, and the old king
had fallen on his neck and given him his blessing, because he proved to
be the son of his own boyhood’s friend, and the man of all others he
would have chosen for his son-in-law—after all this, when the speeches
and the merrymaking were over, they two walked on the moonlit court of
the palace.
“Tell me their secret,” she said, and held out the fruit in her hands.
“Their secret lies in thy heart, Atalanta,” he answered.
“What meanest thou?” she asked.
“When I left thee at the parting of the ways,” he said, “I travelled many
a weary league by land, and on the road I passed many a shrine of Venus.
But I never passed them by without lifting up my hands in prayer to the
goddess, for I knew that she could help me if she would, and I knew that
to them that love truly she is ever kind in the end. But I wandered till
I was footsore and weary, and yet I had no sign. At length I came to the
seashore, and took ship for the pleasant isle of Cyprus, which is her
home. There at last she came to me, walking on the waves of the sea. As I
lay on the shore in the night-time, I saw her as a great light afar, and
she drew near to me with the foam playing white about her feet. In her
hand she bore three shining golden apples.