our white horses were led, and
they pawed the air and neighed aloud in the glory of their strength.
They drew the chariot whose axle and pole and wheels were of gold,
with spokes of silver, while inside were rows of diamonds and of
chrysolites that gave dazzling reflection of the sun. Then Apollo
anointed the face of Phaeton with a powerful essence that might keep
him from being smitten by the flames, and upon his head he placed the
rays of the sun. And then the stars went away, even to the Daystar
that went last of all, and, at Apollo's signal, Aurora, the
rosy-fingered, threw open the purple gates of the east, and Phaeton
saw a path of pale rose-colour open before him.

With a cry of exultation, the boy leapt into the chariot and laid hold
of the golden reins. Barely did he hear Apollo's parting words: "Hold
fast the reins, and spare the whip. All thy strength will be wanted to
hold the horses in. Go not too high nor too low. The middle course is
safest and best. Follow, if thou canst, in the old tracks of my
chariot wheels!" His glad voice of thanks for the godlike boon rang
back to where Apollo stood and watched him vanishing into the dawn
that still was soft in hue as the feathers on the breast of a dove.

Uphill at first the white steeds made their way, and the fire from
their nostrils tinged with flame-colour the dark clouds that hung over
the land and the sea. With rapture, Phaeton felt that truly he was the
son of a god, and that at length he was enjoying his heritage. The day
for which, through all his short life, he had longed, had come at
last. He was driving the chariot whose progress even now was awaking
the sleeping earth. The radiance from its wheels and from the rays he
wore round his head was painting the clouds, and he laughed aloud in
rapture as he saw, far down below, the sea and the rivers he had
bathed in as a human boy, mirroring the green and rose and purple, and
gold and silver, and fierce crimson, that he, Phaeton, was placing in
the sky. The grey mist rolled from the mountain tops at his desire.
The white fog rolled up from the valleys. All living things awoke; the
flowers opened their petals; the grain grew golden; the fruit grew
ripe. Could but Epaphos see him now! Surely he must see him, and
realise that not Apollo but Phaeton was guiding the horses of his
father, driving the chariot of the Sun.

Quicker and yet more quick grew the pace of the white-maned steeds.
Soon they left the morn