child were tossed on the billows,
but yet no harm came near them, and one morning the chest grounded on
the rocky beach of Seriphos, an island in the AEgean Sea. Here a
fisherman came on this strange flotsam and jetsam of the waves and
took the mother and child to Polydectes, the king, and the years that
followed were peaceful years for Danae and for Perseus. But as Perseus
grew up, growing each day more goodly to look upon, more fearless,
more ready to gaze with serene courage into the eyes of gods and of
men, an evil thing befell his mother. She was but a girl when he was
born, and as the years passed she grew ever more fair. And the crafty
eyes of old Polydectes, the king, ever watched her more eagerly,
always more hotly desired her for his wife. But Danae, the beloved of
Zeus himself, had no wish to wed the old king of the Cyclades, and
proudly she scorned his suit. Behind her, as she knew well, was the
stout arm of her son Perseus, and while Perseus was there, the king
could do her no harm. But Perseus, unwitting of the danger his mother
daily had to face, sailed the seas unfearingly, and felt that peace
and safety surrounded him on every side. At Samos one day, while his
ship was lading, Perseus lay down under the shade of a great tree, and
soon his eyelids grew heavy with sleep, and there came to him, like
butterflies that flit over the flowers in a sunlit garden, pleasant,
light-winged dreams. But yet another dream followed close on the merry
heels of those that went before. And before Perseus there stood one
whose grey eyes were as the fathomless sea on the dawn of a summer
day. Her long robes were blue as the hyacinths in spring, and the
spear that she held in her hand was of a polished brightness, as the
dart with which the gods smite the heart of a man, with joy
inexpressible, with sorrow that is scarcely to be borne. To Perseus
she spoke winged words.

"I am Pallas Athene," she said, "and to me the souls of men are known.
Those whose fat hearts are as those of the beasts that perish do I
know. They live at ease. No bitter sorrow is theirs, nor any fierce
joy that lifts their feet free from the cumbering clay. But dear to my
heart are the souls of those whose tears are tears of blood, whose joy
is as the joy of the Immortals. Pain is theirs, and sorrow.
Disappointment is theirs, and grief. Yet their love is as the love of
those who dwell on Olympus. Patient they are and long-suffering, and
ever they hope, e