with them to the course. He looked upon the youths who
were girded for the race, and he heard the folk say amongst themselves,
"Poor youths, as mighty and as high-spirited as they look, by sunset
the life will be out of each of them, for Atalanta will run past them
as she ran past the others." Then Hippomenes spoke to the folk in
wonder, and they told him of Atalanta's race and of what would befall
the youths who were defeated in it. "Unlucky youths," cried Hippomenes,
"how foolish they are to try to win a bride at the price of their
lives."

Then, with pity in his heart, he watched the youths prepare for the
race. Atalanta had not yet taken her place, and he was fearful of
looking upon her. "She is a witch," he said to himself, "she must be a
witch to draw so many youths to their deaths, and she, no doubt, will
show in her face and figure the witch's spirit."

But even as he said this, Hippomenes saw Atalanta. She stood with the
youths before they crouched for the first dart in the race. He saw that
she was a girl of a light and a lovely form. Then they crouched for the
race; then the trumpets rang out, and the youths and the maiden darted
like swallows over the sand of the course.

On came Atalanta, far, far ahead of the youths who had started with
her. Over her bare shoulders her hair streamed, blown backward by the
wind that met her flight. Her fair neck shone, and her little feet were
like flying doves. It seemed to Hippomenes as he watched her that there
was fire in her lovely body. On and on she went as swift as the arrow
that the Scythian shoots from his bow. And as he watched the race he
was not sorry that the youths were being left behind. Rather would he
have been enraged if one came near overtaking her, for now his heart
was set upon winning her for his bride, and he cursed himself for not
having entered the race.

She passed the last goal mark and she was given the victor's wreath of
flowers. Hippomenes stood and watched her and he did not see the youths
who had started with her--they had thrown themselves on the ground in
their despair.

Then wild, as though he were one of the doomed youths, Hippomenes made
his way through the throng and came before the black-bearded King of
Boeotia. The king's brows were knit, for even then he was pronouncing
doom upon the youths who had been left behind in the race. He looked
upon Hippomenes, another youth who would make the trial, and the frown
became heavier upo