ees, perhaps even a beautiful human
face. But at the moment when all these things rush upon him like so many
incomprehensible marvels, must he not ask himself who created all this
magnificence? And the answer which comes to him--"

"There is only one," cried the matron; "the omnipotent gods. Do you shrug
your shoulders at that, son of the pious Erigone? Why, of course! The
child who still feels the blows probably rebels against his earthly
father. But if I see aright, the resentment will not last when you, like
the man, go out of the cave and your darkness also passes away. Then the
power from which you turned defiantly will force itself upon you, and you
will raise your hands in grateful prayer to the rescuing divinity. As to
us women, we need not be drawn out of a cave to recognise it. A mother
who reared three stalwart sons--I will say nothing of the daughters--can
not live without them. Why are they so necessary to her? Because we love
our children twice as much as ourselves, and the danger which threatens
them alarms the poor mother's heart thrice as much as her own. Then it
needs the helping powers. Even though they often refuse their aid, we may
still be grateful for the expectation of relief. I have poured forth many
prayers for the three, I assure you, and after doing so with my whole
soul, then, my son, no matter how wildly the storm had raged within my
breast, calmness returned, and Hope again took her place at the helm. In
the school of the denier of the gods, you forgot the immortals above and
depended on yourself alone. Now you need a guide, or even two or three of
them, in order to find the way. If your mother were still alive, you
would run back to her to hide your face in her lap. But she is dead, and
if I were as proud as you, before clasping the sustaining hand of another
mortal I would first try whether one would not be voluntarily extended
from among the Olympians. If I were you, I would begin with Demeter, whom
you honoured by so marvellous a work."

Hermon waved his hand as if brushing away a troublesome fly, exclaiming
impatiently: "The gods, always the gods! I know by my own mother, Thyone,
what you women are, though I was only seven years old when I was bereft
of her by the same powers that you call good and wise, and who have also
robbed me of my eyesight, my friend, and all else that was dear. I thank
you for your kind intention, and you, too, Daphne, for recalling the
beautiful allegory. How