ws him as he ought to be."

The chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into
swine, or making any kind of a beast of themselves; so he made haste
to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and
which kept sparkling upward, and throwing a sunny spray over the brim.
But, delightfully as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most
potent enchantments that Circe knew how to concoct. For every drop of
the pure grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the
danger of the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better.
The mere smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough
to turn a man's beard into pig's bristles, or make a lion's claws grow
out of his fingers, or a fox's brush behind him.

"Drink, my noble guest," said Circe, smiling, as she presented him
with the goblet. "You will find in this draught a solace for all your
troubles."

King Ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he
held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath
that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance.
Then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the
face.

"Wretch," cried Circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, "how
dare you keep your human shape a moment longer! Take the form of the
brute whom you most resemble. If a hog, go join your fellow-swine in
the sty; if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the
lawn; if a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry. Thou hast
quaffed off my wine, and canst be man no longer."

But, such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing
down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form,
Ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before. He gave the
magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor to
the farthest end of the saloon. Then, drawing his sword, he seized the
enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant
to strike off her head at one blow.

"Wicked Circe," cried he, in a terrible voice, "this sword shall put an
end to thy enchant meets. Thou shalt die, vile wretch, and do no more
mischief in the world, by tempting human beings into the vices which
make beasts of them."

The tone and countenance of Ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed
so brightly, and seemed to have so intolerably keen an ed