iling their
fatigue. There both the purple is being woven, which is
subjected to the Tyrian brazen vessel, and fine shades
of minute difference; just as the rainbow, with its
mighty arch, is wont to tint a long tract of sky by
means of the rays reflected by the shower; in which,
though a thousand different colours are shining, yet the
very transition eludes the eyes that look upon it....
There, too, the pliant gold is mixed with the threads."

Ovid.

Their canvases wrought, then did Athene and Arachne hasten to cover
them with pictures such as no skilled worker of tapestry has ever
since dreamed of accomplishing. Under the fingers of Athene grew up
pictures so real and so perfect that the watchers knew not whether the
goddess was indeed creating life. And each picture was one that told
of the omnipotence of the gods and of the doom that came upon those
mortals who had dared in their blasphemous presumption to struggle as
equals with the immortal dwellers in Olympus. Arachne glanced up from
her web and looked with eyes that glowed with the love of beautiful
things at the creations of Athene. Yet, undaunted, her fingers still
sped on, and the goddess saw, with brow that grew yet more clouded,
how the daughter of Idmon the dyer had chosen for subjects the tales
that showed the weaknesses of the gods. One after another the living
pictures grew beneath her hand, and the nymphs held their breath in
mingled fear and ecstasy at Arachne's godlike skill and most arrogant
daring. Between goddess and mortal none could have chosen, for the
colour and form and exquisite fancy of the pictures of the daughter of
Zeus were equalled, though not excelled, by those of the daughter of
the dyer of Colophon.

Darker and yet more dark grew the eyes of Athene as they looked on
the magical beauty of the pictures, each one of which was an insult to
the gods. What picture had skilful hand ever drawn to compare with
that of Europa who,

"riding on the back of the divine bull, with one hand
clasped the beast's great horn, and with the other
caught up her garment's purple fold, lest it might trail
and be drenched in the hoar sea's infinite spray. And
her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like the sail
of a ship, and lightly ever it wafted the maiden
onward."

Moschus.

Then at last did the storm break, and with her shuttle the enraged
goddess smote the web of Ar