lls. When he ceased, it was as though a
tensely-drawn string had broken, and all the earth lay breathless and
mute. And Pan turned proudly to the golden-haired god who had listened
as he had spoken through the hearts of reeds to the hearts of men.

"Canst, then, make music like unto my music, Apollo?" he said.

Then Apollo, his purple robes barely hiding the perfection of his
limbs, a wreath of laurel crowning his yellow curls, looked down at
Pan from his godlike height and smiled in silence. For a moment his
hand silently played over the golden strings of his lyre, and then his
finger-tips gently touched them. And every creature there who had a
soul, felt that that soul had wings, and the wings sped them straight
to Olympus. Far away from all earth-bound creatures they flew, and
dwelt in magnificent serenity amongst the Immortals. No longer was
there strife, or any dispeace. No more was there fierce warring
between the actual and the unknown. The green fields and thick woods
had faded into nothingness, and their creatures, and the fair nymphs
and dryads, and the wild fauns and centaurs longed and fought no more,
and man had ceased to desire the impossible. Throbbing nature and
passionately desiring life faded into dust before the melody that
Apollo called forth, and when his strings had ceased to quiver and
only the faintly remembered echo of his music remained, it was as
though the earth had passed away and all things had become new.

For the space of many seconds all was silence.

Then, in low voice, Apollo asked:

"Ye who listen--who is the victor?"

And earth and sea and sky, and all the creatures of earth and sky, and
of the deep, replied as one:

"The victory is thine, Divine Apollo."

Yet was there one dissentient voice.

Midas, sorely puzzled, utterly un-understanding, was relieved when the
music of Apollo ceased. "If only Pan would play again," he murmured to
himself. "I wish to live, and Pan's music gives me life. I love the
woolly vine-buds and the fragrant pine-leaves, and the scent of the
violets in the spring. The smell of the fresh-ploughed earth is dear
to me, the breath of the kine that have grazed in the meadows of wild
parsley and of asphodel. I want to drink red wine and to eat and love
and fight and work and be joyous and sad, fierce and strong, and very
weary, and to sleep the dead sleep of men who live only as weak
mortals do."

Therefore he raised his voice, and called very loud: "Pa