re hated by men
and gods, lived still, in an island near the Land of the Dead; but the
way to that island was unknown. These Gorgons were two sisters, and a
third woman; the two were hideous to look on, with hair and wings and
claws of bronze, and with teeth like the white tusks of swine. Swinish
they were, ugly and loathsome, feeding fearfully on the bodies of
unburied men. But the third Gorgon was beautiful save for the living
serpents that coiled in her hair. She alone of the three Gorgons was
mortal, and could be slain, but who could slay her? So terrible were her
eyes that men who had gone up against her were changed into pillars of
stone.

This was one of the stories that Perseus heard when he was a boy; and
there was a proverb that this or that hard task was 'as difficult to do
as to slay the Gorgon.' Perseus, then, ever since he was a little boy,
was wondering how he could slay the Gorgon and become as famous as the
strong man Heracles, or the good knight Bellerophon, who slew the
Chimaera. Perseus was always thinking of such famous men as these, and
especially loved the story of Bellerophon, which is this:

In the city of Ephyre, now called Corinth, was a king named Glaucus, who
had a son, Bellerophon. He was brought up far from home, in Argos, by
King Proetus (the great-uncle of Perseus), who was his foster-father,
and loved him well. Proetus was an old man, but his wife, Anteia, was
young and beautiful, and Bellerophon also was beautiful and young, and,
by little and little, Anteia fell in love with him, and could not be
happy without him, but no such love was in Bellerophon's heart for her,
who was his foster-mother. At last Anteia, forgetting all shame, told
Bellerophon that she loved him, and hated her husband; and she asked him
to fly with her to the seashore, where she had a ship lying ready, and
they two would sail to some island far away, and be happy together.

Bellerophon knew not what to say; he could not wrong King Proetus, his
foster-father. He stood speechless, his face was red with shame, but the
face of Anteia grew white with rage.

'Dastard!' she said, 'thou shalt not live long in Argos to boast of my
love and your own virtue!' She ran from him, straight to King Proetus,
and flung herself at his feet. 'What shall be done, oh king,' she cried,
'to the man who speaks words of love dishonourable to the Queen of
Argos?'

'By the splendour of Zeus,' cried Proetus, 'if he were my own foster-son