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. At the
door of the gateway he knocked, and the old porter came out to ask his
will.
"I am come from a distant land," he said, "and to-morrow I would
journey yet further on my way. I pray thee to crave hospitality for
one night for me from the steward of this house, whoe'er he be. I am a
king's son, and worthy to sit at any man's table."
The porter cast a doubtful eye on the travel-worn clothes of the
stranger. It seemed unlikely that a king's son would go on a distant
journey with no body-servant and no horse or baggage. Then he looked
in his clear blue eyes, which gazed back at him as innocent as a
child's, and he saw that for all his sorry raiment he was by no means
ill-favoured, but held himself well and proudly. So he opened the door
and led him across the court.
"Well, well," he muttered in his beard, "great folk have strange whims
in these days. Our king must needs slay his daughter, because she is a
maid, and she must needs slay her suitors, because they are men. After
that this fellow may well be, as he says, a king's son, who, because
he has a palace and plenty, must needs tramp over the face of the
earth and beg his bread. Praise be to the gods who put lowly blood in
my veins and sense in my head, else had it been better for the gate to
keep itself than to have me for a guardian."
Then he cast another look over his shoulder at the young man behind.
"At any rate, for one night he can do no harm," he muttered.
"What didst thou say, father?" asked the stranger.
"I said that for one night thou couldst do no harm," replied the old
man.
"On the contrary," said the stranger with a laugh, "in one night I
hope to do more good to this house than thou hast done in all thy
life."
"The young have ever a good conceit of themselves," said the porter.
"Thou art not like to keep this gate, winter and summer, day and
night, for close on three-score years, as I have done, young man."
"On the other hand," said the stranger, "thou art not like to marry
the king's daughter within the year, and have the city hung with red
instead of black in thine honour, as I am like to do."
"Sir," said the old man, "I know my place too well----"
"--and love thy life too much to aspire to the hand of the princess.
Is that not so?"
"Mayhap," said the old man, and shut his mouth with a snap. To all
further remarks which the stranger made he answered with a grunt. He
took him into the palace and delivered him into the hands of the
steward. As he turned to go back to his post, the young man clapped
his hand upon his shoulder.
"Good luck to thee and thy gate," he said. "When I come through with
the hand of the princess in mine, perchance thou wilt look upon me
with greater favour than now."
"Be warned in time, young man," said the porter, "and tarry not over
long in this palace, but go forth on thy journey in the morning, as
thou hadst a mind to do in the beginning. Those who tarry too long are
apt to go through the gate with nought but a cake in their hand."
This he said, meaning the cake which was put in the hands of the dead
for them to give to Cerberus, the watch-dog of Hades.
"Fear not for that," said the stranger: "I had as lief go
empty-handed."
Thereupon he turned to the steward, who welcomed him sadly to the
halls of King Schoenus. All strangers were looked upon askance in
those days, lest they came as suitors for the hand of Atalanta, and
wished to add to those who had run in the fatal race. When he heard
that the young man would depart on the morrow on his journey he was
glad, and gave him water to wash with and a change of raiment, and
showed him his place at the board, without so much as asking his name.
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 neighbour, 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 Schoenus. 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 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 neighbouring 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 Schoenus 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. He was well favoured, but it was not
because he was well favoured, or because he had a ready tongue, that
she thought on him. Indeed, when she asked herself why she should
remember one who by now had doubtless lost all memory of her, she
could find no answer. As she tossed on her couch with a troubled mind,
she determined that before he left the palace on the morrow she would
have some speech with him.
"He thinks no more of me than of a stone upon the wayside," she said
within herself, "wherefore I can do him no wrong by letting him speak
with me again before he goes."
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. When Atalanta saw him, her heart
gave a sudden thrill, for she had not looked to see him so soon.
"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."
The slave, nothing loth, departed. He was well used to strange
commands from his mistress; and, moreover, there was no need to invite
him twice to return to his couch.
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, and suitors who had sat at her father's board day after
day were much more strangers to Atalanta than this man, who had craved
but one night's hospitality.
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. The dew gleamed like jewels on the leaves, as
here and there the slanting rays of the sun shone through the trees,
and above their heads the lark sang gaily in the bright summer sky.
Yet they walked silently side by side, as though, in spite of the
brightness of the day, sorrow and not joy were sitting in their
hearts; and all their gay talk and laughter of the early morning was
dead. 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 high-road, and when thou strikest the
high-road, 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 Schoenus," 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. That which all our laughter and our converse last
night and this morning strove to hide, our silence, as we walked side
by side, has revealed far better than I can tell thee. Thou knowest
that I love thee. From the first moment that I saw thee I have loved
thee."
His words made her heart thrill with a strange joy. But she showed no
sign of it, and answered him coldly. She was proud and wished to test
him.
"Doubtless the flood-gates of love are easily thrown open where a man
would be released from a vow. Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art
thou willing to run in the race?"
At this all his mirth returned to him, and his eyes shone with
merriment as he answered:
"Much good would my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup
perforce. 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. It was not thus her other lovers had spoken. When he had gone
from sight, she turned suddenly and went back by the path they had
come. Her hands were clenched, and the tears sprang unbidden to her
eyes, as she strode forward with long, angry strides that took no heed
of where they went.
"He has made a mock of me!" she cried to herself--"he has made a mock
of me! He is a base adventurer who seeks release from his vow. He has
no heart and no honour. Fool that I was to treat him as a friend!"
Thus did she stride along in her wrath, till it had cooled somewhat,
and she was able to think more calmly of the stranger. Then his form
came back to her mind, as he had looked when they stood face to face
at the parting of the ways, when the sun had glinted down upon them
through the trees, and he had looked her straight in the face with his
clear blue eyes, and said: "Thou knowest that I love thee. From the
first moment I saw thee I have loved thee."
A great sob rose in her throat as she remembered.
"Ah, he spoke the truth!" she said; "I know that he spoke the truth."
Moreover, her heart told her that long before he had spoken the words
she had known that he loved her. Yet strange is the bond of love. Its
strands are certainty and doubt interwoven. Wherefore Atalanta, though
she had heard the words which were but the echo of the silent speech
of their hearts, had put him yet further to the test, and had driven
him from her side by asking of him a sacrifice she had no wish for him
to make.
"If he would come back and run with me," she sighed, "my feet would be
as heavy as lead against him."
But she sighed in vain. 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 night and day. When she went
forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at
every turn of the way. When she entered the great hall of the palace,
she looked to see his face at the board. But always she looked in
vain, and sometimes her heart grew bitter against him.
"If he were to come now," she would say to herself, "I would show him
no mercy. He who takes so much thought before he will risk his life
for my sake is not worthy to win me."
Then again she would grow tender, and stand looking down the path by
which he had gone, and sigh for him.
"Oh, my love, come back, come back! My pride is melted away like the
snow, and without any race I will give myself to thee."
Thus would she long for him, and grow near to hating him, because she
knew that she loved him. 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. She walked with her eyes upon the ground, thinking of the summer
morning a long year ago when he had walked by her side in silence
along that very path. When by chance she raised her eyes, there, at
the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her
thoughts. With a cry she stopped short and gazed at him, and he came
forward and bowed to her.
"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; and once again the
bond of love was knit strong between them, with its strands of
certainty and doubt. 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.
"That I can see," he said, as he cast a glance at her straight white
limbs and the easy grace of her bearing as she walked beside him. Then
they talked of indifferent matters, and each one knew that what they
had nearest their hearts they were hiding from each other.
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 shackels 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. With trembling fingers Atalanta tied her girdle about her,
and bound her sandals to her feet. Though her heart was crying out for
the stranger to win, and praying that her feet might fail her at the
last, yet her pride, too, lifted up its head.
"He makes so sure of winning," she thought, "he despises my swiftness.
He shall see that nothing he has learnt can teach him to run as I can
run. And yet--oh, cursed be the condition I thought so cunning in mine
ignorance! Oh, would that he could win me without first outspeeding
me!"
Thus did her pride and her desire pull two ways at once.
And now 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 Atlanta,
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 the 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."
[Illustration: Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of
her tunic.]
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 centre 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 mad, unreasoning 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 wellnigh 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
mad, unreasoning 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. Blindly she pulled herself together,
and 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 forbad 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, and held the woman he loved in his arms. 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, and the
stranger had nodded with a smile at the old porter, who stood bowing
before them; after he had revealed to them all that he was Meilanion,
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 alone in the moonlit court of the palace.
At last Atalanta had decked herself in the long saffron robes of a
bride, and in her hands she bore the three shining apples. Meilanion's
arm was about her, as they walked for a while in silence, but at
length she spoke and held out the fruit in her hands.
"Tell me their secret," she said.
"Their secret lies in thy heart, Atalanta," he answered.
"What meanest thou?" she asked.
"I mean that if thou hadst not loved me, they would never have filled
thy soul with longing to have them, and thou wouldst never have turned
aside from the race."
"And, knowing this, thou didst stake thy life on my love?" she said.
"Knowing that, I staked my life on thy love," he answered.
"Then that was the one thing better than speed in the race?"
"Yes," he answered, "I learnt to trust in thy love."
There was silence for a moment between them, and then again Atalanta
spoke.
"And whence came the apples?" she asked him.