In the days when the Olympians still walked at times among men, Zeus and Poseidon and Hermes once found themselves benighted in a lonely region of the rough Bœotian country.

As darkness fell, they passed a little hut by the roadside. The farmer stood in the doorway, enjoying the cool of the evening after his day’s toil; and seeing the wayfarers plodding along, he invited them in to pass the night.

“My house is poor enough,” said he, “but such as it is, it is yours.”

The three gods entered. The farmer, Hyrieus by name, set food and drink before them, waited upon them, gave up his own pallet to make them comfortable and entertained these nameless wanderers like distinguished guests, all with the utmost simplicity and good feeling.

The Olympians were touched by this rough herdsman’s fine hospitality. They consulted together in whispers when they had finished their meal.

Then: “Is there anything you wish for, host?” enquired Hermes as spokesman.

Hyrieus started. “Well,” said he, “of course there is, but that’s past mending.”

“What is it?” persisted Hermes.

“I had a wife,” said the herdsman, “whom I loved so that when she died I vowed never to marry again. So all these years I have lived alone, and alone I shall live till the end. Yet a man cannot help wishing for a son to drive away the loneliness of the winter evenings and to be a prop to him in his old age. Probably you will laugh at me for a foolish person: for I mean to keep my vow, and yet I wish for a son.”

“Those who know do not laugh at honesty,” replied Hermes. “And I say to you that he who gives all freely never fails to receive. I noticed that you killed your only ox to provide meat for our meal: bring me his hide.”

Hyrieus stared at him, doubtful. He feared he was being made the butt of some jest. But the stranger’s open smile promised something quite different. Much wondering, he went out into the darkness and after a while returned with the hide of the ox which he had sacrificed to hospitality. He did not regret the act, but he could not help thinking of the morrow as he handled the still warm skin of this faithful companion and servant. What would he do without its aid? And what did this mysterious person mean by his odd request? He spoke as a man having authority, however, and there was nothing for it save to obey and see what might befall.

Hermes took the hide, and bade him fetch a spade. The three mysterious visitors went out into the night. Hyrieus, peering out after them, saw them bury the ox skin in front of his house, with strange and secret ceremonies. Without knowing why, he trembled. He trembled still more when they returned, for the strangers seemed to have become suddenly majestic, awe-inspiring.

The bearded one, who had not spoken hitherto, looked solemnly upon the herdsman. Instinctively the Bœotian fell into an attitude of worship.

“You shall have your wish,” announced this one, in tones that filled the low-raftered room like a mighty wind. “Next spring you shall have a son—and such a son as mortal never yet had.”

The three retired for the night. When Hyrieus woke, as usual, with the dawn, they had disappeared. He went about his labors, sorely increased by the loss of his ox, pondering deeply on what had occurred. Many a time he looked at the little patch of freshly-turned earth, but something forbade him to investigate. And then the fall rains came and obliterated the spot; and the winter snows covered all; and everything was as it had been, save for the insistent recollection in the farmer’s heart. Many times he laughed at his folly; yet in the still evenings as he sat before his fire, he knew that he expected—something.

Winter passed at length. Spring painted the hills with yellow and white and pink blossoms. And its soft unfolding promises seemed to reinforce that secret hope, which defied reason, and which persisted in the heart of Hyrieus. As he sat outdoors in the long twilight evenings, instead of crouching close to his scanty fire, every sound of the reawakening earth had a new meaning. Even the still white calm of snow-capped Parnassus, far to the west, seemed to presage some great happening. For the first time since his youth he really heard the shrill voices of the frogs in the neighboring marsh: it was as if even these tiny creatures were repeating the promise made him by his mysterious visitors. And then he would smile sadly at his senile credulity and, remembering the reality of the morrow’s hard work, would plod stiffly into his solitary hut and seek on his pallet bed that dream land where all things are possible.

One morning he rose with even more than his usual reluctance to exchange for the hard grubbing reality the vague but delightful fancies which had filled the night. Force of habit made him swallow a few mouthfuls of his coarse breakfast. Mechanically he stepped outside towards the day’s work that awaited him.

The sun was just rising over the low ridge that thrust itself into the bend of the Asopus River. Instinctively his gaze went towards the spot where the strange trio had performed their mysterious rites, past which gurgled a little stream.

He stopped short, startled out of his dreamy reverie. His eyes rounded in astonishment.

That spot of earth had remained bare, though all around it the lush grass and many-colored flowers had woven an intricate tapestry. It was this strange fact which had continually reinforced his wonder and his superstitious belief.

But overnight a sudden transformation had taken place. The whole space was one mass of asphodels in full bloom. The sun’s level rays fell upon their white blossoms, amid which the meandering threads of crimson looked like blazing hieroglyphics.

Hyrieus looked in bewilderment, mixed with a kind of awe. Slowly he advanced towards this bed of blossoms which had appeared so suddenly. Then he cried out.

For there, cradled in the asphodels, lay a babe—such a child as his eyes had never yet beheld. Shapely and beautiful, and of such size as made one think of the Heroes of legend, he slept peacefully.

Overcoming his timidity at last, Hyrieus gently picked up the sleeping infant. When the big blue eyes opened and a sleepy smile came over the child’s face, the honest farmer’s heart overflowed with joy at this realization of his wildest dreams. Marveling again at the weight of his burden, he took this earth-born son into his cottage, laid him on his own bed, and sat watching his slumber in a sort of ecstacy. From that time he was father and mother both to the child, carrying it with him when he went about his necessary labor afield, and watching over it with an anxious care into which his whole existence seemed concentrated.

The boy was well worth these pains and pride. He never cried; and he seemed perfectly happy and contented when couched in a nest of soft grass and dry leaves under the open sky, where his foster-father, as he toiled, could keep an eye on him. Moreover, the youngster grew like some sturdy young bull. He had no teething troubles; presently he was eating the same food that served Hyrieus himself—with all the choicest portions for his share; and he found his legs almost as quickly as a young partridge.

In fact, by the time when ordinary children are beginning to toddle uncertainly, this boy, whom Hyrieus had named Orion, was as tall as his foster-father. Nor did he cease his prodigious growth when he reached the ordinary limits of mankind: not even Otus and Ephialtes, who rebelled against the gods and strove to set Mt. Ossa upon Pelion that they might scale Olympus itself,—not even these gigantic youths could compare with Orion. And we have the word of Odysseus who beheld them among the shades in Hades that those portentous twins were at nine years of age fifty-four feet in height and some thirteen across the shoulders.

He was as handsome as one of the immortals, too, this Orion. Well proportioned and graceful in spite of his size, he roamed the woods and fields with the agility and tirelessness of one of the wild creatures whose ways seemed to have an endless fascination for him.

Hyrieus began to fare better than ever before, for the boy would return from these expeditions with rabbits and hares, with quail, wood pigeons, partridges and ducks, which he had snared or caught with his hands by some sudden pounce after a long stalk.

Presently his foster-father showed him how to make a bow and arrows; and one day the youngster proudly appeared before the hut with a roebuck upon his shoulders. It was not long before he had learned to outwit the great red stags of the hills, to chase successfully the long-horned wild goats, and even to bring back chamois from the precipitous fastnesses of rocky, fir-clad Mt. Cithæron, or the crags of two-peaked Helicon. By the time he had reached his early teens he was already a mighty hunter, who had met and vanquished the lynx, the wolf and the brown bear, who could stand up to the charge of an infuriated wild boar, and whose chief desire was to take in fair fight the lion skin he wished for a cloak.

Fierce as he was, however, in attacking some snarling wild beast with his great club, he was always gentle and thoughtful to his foster-father; and Hyrieus many a time blessed the day when his hospitality had fallen upon such fruitful soil. To be sure, as the good farmer grew old, his unbounded pride in the feats of this stripling cast at times a reflected glory upon himself: there were moments when he looked upon Orion’s great muscles and the trophies of his strength and fleetness almost as if these were to be credited to his very own flesh and blood. Yet in the bottom of his heart there was ever a slight feeling of awe at this prodigy who had come to comfort his old age; and this was deepened when he learned of one strange power which the youth possessed.

Exulting in his own swiftness of foot, Orion was one day chasing a roebuck, endeavoring to run down the bounding little creature on equal terms. The deer made for the river, and finding itself hard pressed, sprang in and swam the wide stream. Orion, close behind, excitedly plunged in after his quarry; and though the water was far above his head, he actually gained upon the deer in crossing, caught it on the opposite shore, and bore the carcass home in triumph. It seemed perfectly natural to him to be able to walk through the water, without touching bottom, almost as easily as on dry land; but Hyrieus was filled with astonishment at his story and could scarcely credit it until he saw the youth a few days later perform the same miraculous feat in the neighboring lake, advancing with great strides through fifty feet of water, only his head showing above the surface. Unknown to either of them, this was the natal gift of Poseidon, god of the sea and waters. Orion troubled himself little enough about whence it came or its singularity; but from that hour rivers and lakes were no obstacle to him, and when he roamed further and reached the great sea itself, he found himself master of even this, and able to travel through the salt surge and the heaving waves of Poseidon’s own domain. Thereafter, the farthest confines of Greece, nay even Thrace, Macedon and remote Illyria, could not satisfy this passion for wandering. He learned to know the aspect of inaccessible Olympus from the north and west as well as the familiar one from the south. The unknown, with its new animals and fresh landscapes, ever called him on to wider and wider swings from his Bœotian home.

When he reached young manhood, all who beheld him agreed that he was handsomest among the sons of men—if indeed he were of human origin. The maidens of Tanagra, Thebes and Platæa did not say so much, but their eyes spoke for them when the swift-footed young hunter sped past. As for him, he seemed to see none of them save Side, whose tall beauty and dignity marked her out among all the graceful girls of that land; and he only knew that when he looked upon her he was filled with a vague unrest.

The time came for the festival of the Great Dædala, when, once in sixty years, all the folk celebrated the reconciliation of Zeus and Hera.

From every corner of Bœotia the people gathered. In solemn procession, headed by the priests, they fared forth into an ancient forest, where giant oaks stood shoulder to shoulder so that their mighty boles were in sunless gloom.

The priest set some boiled meat on the ground. Breathlessly the great assemblage watched in silence as the birds dropped through the air to their feast.

Presently a raven appeared. A long sigh of expectant excitement went up from the crowd. The glossy black bird lit near the meat, and walked awkwardly towards it, cocking an impudent eye towards the motionless creatures who watched him so intently. Assured of their harmlessness, he seized a piece of this heaven-sent dinner and flapped away with his prize. Every gaze was focussed upon him.

As he lit on the lower branch of a huge oak some distance off, a tremendous shout from hundreds of throats rang through the gloomy forest. Everyone rushed to the tree thus selected. Amid songs and clamor, men with axes cut down this giant growth. And when it crashed to earth, another shout alarmed the birds and beasts for miles about.

Swiftly the skilled axemen hewed out an image from a section of the trunk. With deft fingers the women dressed this image in snowy bridal garments.

When all was ready, it was lifted into a clumsy wain, with solid hewed-out wheels, drawn by a white bullock. Beside it was seated the most beautiful virgin as bridesmaid; and Orion’s heart throbbed violently as he saw the stately Side take her place in this seat of honor.

The wain started back out of the wood, followed by a piping and dancing throng of worshippers. At the edge of the forest they were met by another procession, escorting the thirteen other images which commemorated all the Little Dædala festivals since the last great celebration.

Chanting and dancing, the whole multitude moved down to the Asopus River; after a ceremony of purification, they set out for Mt. Cithæron.

Here the fourteen wains were dragged to the very summit of the mountain. The images were placed on the altar of square blocks of wood, and brush-wood was heaped over all. After sacrifices had been performed,—a he-goat to Zeus, and a cow to Hera—a torch was set to this sacred pile, and in a moment the whole was a vast pillar of fire, leaping a hundred feet into the air and visible for miles and miles in every direction.

It was a prodigious and awe-inspiring spectacle. But Orion saw only Side in her calm and lofty beauty. For the first time he realized that there were other things necessary to his happiness besides chasing the red deer and the snarling wolf.

He sought her parents and demanded her. And when they found that Side, so sure of herself and so scornful of all suitors, had lost her heart to this tall, impetuous youth, they gave their consent.

The wedding was the occasion of another celebration almost as joyous as one of the lesser Dædala, for all the countryside was proud of the unmatched beauty of Side, and Orion’s renown had spread far and wide.

Each guest seemed to vie with all the others in complimenting Side, who had never looked more lovely or more unapproachable than in her bridal array. So loud and extravagant was this chorus of praise that it aroused the jealousy of some of her comrades.

“After all,” broke out a black-eyed maiden spitefully, “she is the daughter of crooked-legged Alpheus. One might think, to hear them go on, that it was Hera herself who was being married to this wild man.”

Orion, beside his bride, heard the taunt, and turned upon the speaker.

“I have never seen Hera,” said he. “But I have seen Side—and she is beyond compare with any mortal I know. Until I behold the Goddess face to face and find I am mistaken, I shall believe that even on Olympus there is none that can challenge my bride.”

The guests gasped and drew back a space at this audacious sacrilege. Side, however, smiled, well pleased. For in her secret heart she thought her ardent lover spoke but the truth, and that had she been in Hera’s place there would have been no need of the reconciliation with Zeus, for which the Dædala was held.

The large-eyed Queen of Heaven heard the rash speech and saw the presumption of this earth-born maiden. Her majestic brows knit in anger—and it was as if a cloud passed across the face of the sun. Sternly she refused the wedding sacrifice to herself, the Perfecter and Fulfiller, and all the folk were aghast at this portent.

But Side still smiled, serene in her blind conceit.

“Am I not perfect enough for you to worship?” said she softly to Orion.

His ardent answer was interrupted by a crash of thunder from the clear sky. Swiftly a great darkness fell upon the smiling plain. The merrymakers were blanched with fear as this blackness engulfed everything. They spoke in strained whispers. Darker and darker it grew, till one could not see his terrified neighbor’s face. Even the murmurings ceased. All waited for some dread happening, they knew not what.

The silence was pierced by a sudden scream.

“Side!” cried Orion. “Side! Where are you?” He rushed wildly about, upsetting all in his path.

There was the sound of a rushing wind, nothing more. Then the gloom lifted as mysteriously as it had come.

But the bride was nowhere to be found. The wedding party crept to their homes. No earthly eye ever again beheld the presumptuous Side. The wise ones whispered that the enraged Hera had cast her into Hades for her sacrilege. Once more Orion roamed the forests, more fiercely than ever.

It chanced one day, as he crashed through the thick bushes beside a river in hot chase of a noble stag, that he came suddenly upon a group of seven nymphs who, garlanded with flowers, were dancing upon the carpet of green moss.

They ceased their song at sight of him and huddled together behind the tallest in affright. This one, however, looked at him in bold defiance. She was Maia, eldest of these seven daughters of Atlas, and such was her beauty that it had already touched the heart of the Father of the Gods himself. Straight and slender she stood, gazing under level brows at the intruder as if challenging him to approach one under the protection of Zeus.

There was something about her proud carriage and the perfect oval of her face that made Orion think of his lost Side. The stag was forgotten. Impulsively he stepped forward to speak to her.

As this giant youth, with his torn and shaggy skin garment, and all flushed with the excitement of his chase, came closer, even Maia’s bravery forsook her. She gave a cry of alarm, and all the seven turned and fled through the forest. Orion pursued them, as instinctively as he would have dashed after a startled roe. But to his surprise and chagrin they proved almost as fleet-footed as himself. He would hear them ahead, or catch a glimpse of them between the tree trunks, and plunge toward the spot—only to be baffled time and again. At length, after hours of pursuit, he was compelled to own himself beaten and give up for the time.

The next day found him casting about like any deerhound for this elusive quarry. Yet they were as wary as he, and while he sighted them across a valley and renewed his efforts to the utmost, he never succeeded in drawing even as close as the first time, since the frightened nymphs had a trick of twisting and turning when hard pressed that always succeeded in carrying them out of sight and hearing.

This went on day after day till it became his main occupation, and while hunting game the thought of the fair Maia ever kept him on the alert. More than once he almost outwitted her and her sisters, and his determination became only hotter as time passed.

At last his opportunity came—five years after that first memorable meeting. From a hilltop he spied the group in the lush meadow by the river, pelting each other with anemones. Cautiously he crept along back of the ridge till he reached a point where he felt sure he could cut them off from the protecting forest. Then he leaped to his feet and started down the steep hillside as he had never run before.

Watchful from many alarms, they saw him almost immediately. With shrieks of terror they fled up the gentle slope. As he had foreseen, it became a race to see which should first reach the nearest tongue of forest that thrust towards the river.

Breathless but triumphant, Orion found himself at the edge of the tangled thicket. The group of maidens halted fifty feet away, all except Maia weeping and crouching to the ground. In the open they were absolutely at his mercy.

Slowly he advanced towards them, wondering more than ever at the grace and charm of the leader, who faced him this time with less defiance, yet without any of the despair shown by her sisters. She called aloud upon Zeus for aid.

Closer and closer Orion approached, with never a word. Then with the same swift motion in which he was wont to pounce upon a trembling hare, he caught at his prize—and remained in this position, staring stupidly at seven white pigeons that fluttered away just out of his grasp and soared upward till they disappeared into the blue of the sky.

Zeus had listened to the prayer of Maia, and in his sovereign power he caught up all the seven into the firmament and translated them into stars, the shining Pleiades.

For the second time in his life Orion realized with dull resentment that there were unseen powers beyond his own. Like some wounded wolf he sought a couch in a cave, beneath a great overhanging rock in the nearby ravine, and lay there nursing his grievance.

When he finally came forth, the fair land of Hellas had become distasteful to him. He set forth to find some country beyond the seas where he might still be mightiest of all, and where naught could remind him of these rebuffs.

Wide were his wanderings across the mighty sea. Even to Scylla and Charybdis he came, and there left perpetual memorials of his might. For on the Sicilian coast, where fell Charybdis threatened every mariner, he built a sickle-shaped strip of protecting rock that formed the safe harbor of Zancle, where, thanks to this shelter, the great city of Messina was to rise. Also, across the strait from hideous, six-headed Scylla he hurled into the open sea a rocky mass that juts from the shore as the promontory of Pelorus—whereon he reared a temple to his protector Poseidon, in which the inhabitants religiously adored the sea-god for thousands of years thereafter. For a time he dwelt in the mountains of Hera, whence fiery Ætna could be seen to the north, rumbling and spouting forth flame as the colossal Enceladus still struggled beneath its weight.

But, he could not long be content in any one place; so when he had mastered all the difficulties of rugged Sicily, he set forth once more.

This time he fared eastward again till he came into the smiling waters of the Ægean, and reached the craggy isle of Chios, where fig tree, palm and vine grew under the soft Ionian sky.

King Œnopion ruled this land of ease and plenty, and his daughter Merope was famed through all Ionia for her beauty.

Hardly had Orion beheld this princess when he found his heart burn within him at the sight or thought of her. Boldly he demanded her in marriage.

But King Œnopion, proud of his lineage as son of Dionysus and Ariadne, thought it far from fitting that his daughter should wed this wandering woodsman, superhuman as his strength might be. Not venturing to express his feeling openly to his formidable, self-invited guest, he still managed to delay giving a decisive answer.

After the fashion of lovers of all times, Orion made offering of his special capacities. The wild creatures of Chios had a hard time, for not only must skins and furs and venison be laid at the feet of the beautiful Merope, but he caught at the suggestion of the King that he should free the island from the lions and other dangerous beasts which then ravaged it and held all the inhabitants in terror.

To Œnopion’s disappointment he proved fiercer than the bears and lions, even than the dreaded sharks of the sea. Instead of being devoured as the King had hoped, he brought back one trophy after another, always demanding, with outdoor directness, the thing he had set his heart on.

His scanty patience was exhausted long before the wily monarch’s stock of pretexts. His nature and habit had ever been to seize what he wanted: in his usual headlong fashion he attempted openly to carry off Merope by force; and failing in his first effort, made no secret of his intention to try again.

The wily Œnopion concealed his resentment and bade the headstrong suitor to a banquet. In friendly fashion he plied him with heady wine from the luscious grapes of Ariusia.

Then, when even his giant strength was relaxed, the royal slaves set upon him, blinded him, and cast him out upon the seashore to perish.

As the salt spray dashing over his face brought him to full consciousness, he roared aloud in pain and wrath. The people in the city miles away trembled at that sound; and Œnopion regretted to the bottom of his cowardly heart that he had not slain this giant when he was in his power.

Orion bathed his face in the lapping waves and got slowly on his feet. His first instinct was to grope his way back to the palace and take swift revenge upon the King for his treachery. But a few faltering steps convinced him of the folly of attempting this in his helpless state.

He turned again toward the sea, in which he now felt almost as much at home as on land. Keeping the fresh breeze full in his face, and calling aloud upon Poseidon, he waded into the waves. With no clear idea of where he was going, he set forth.

Northward he fared, finding relief in his mighty strides through the cool waters, and in the wind that blew full upon his fevered eyes. Hour after hour he sped on tirelessly, his thoughts still in such a ferment of rage that he could make no calm or reasoned plan.

Without knowing it, he arrived off the western point of Lesbos. Suddenly there broke upon his fantastic plans for revenge a mighty pulsing beat, which came muffled, from far away, through water and air. Instinctively he proceeded towards the sound; and as he advanced it grew ever louder, till he fancied it seemed like the clangor of a vast anvil under the strokes of some super-smith.

In fact he was approaching the isle of Lemnos, where dwelt and labored the cunningest of all smiths, the lame god Hephæstos. Here, in a cavern stretching down beneath the ocean floor, he had had his workshop ever since Zeus had hurled him from Olympus, and here he wrought such marvels as the arms of Achilles, the sceptre of Agamemnon, and the fatal necklace of Harmonia.

Guided by the ringing hammer strokes, Orion at length reached this subterranean forge and told his story. The immortal craftsman was moved to see such bodily perfection marred and helpless through loss of sight.

He called one of his workmen. “Take Cedalion with you,” he said. “He will guide you to the spot where the Sun rises. I know Helios well: did I not make the golden boat which carries him back each night, along the border of the earth, to the East once more? Before his gleaming eyes every darkness must retreat; for the All-seer pierces through any blackness. It is from him alone that you may recover your eye-sight.”

Overjoyed at any definite hope, Orion placed Cedalion on his shoulders, hastened up from the cavern, and once more plunged into the rolling breakers.

Directed by him he carried, he journeyed eastward, eastward ever. Past many a strange land he sped, holding to the mark as a homing-pigeon holds towards his distant remembered cote.

Long and weary was the way; but nothing mattered save to press on towards the god of light. And at last he reached that lovely bay in the ultimate East where Helios mounts the sky each morn behind his snow-white steeds.

Here he placed Cedalion on his feet again. The latter prostrated himself face to earth, lest he be smitten by the terrible brilliance of the Sun-god. But Orion stood erect, awaiting the coming of the Day.

The brooding night trembled and drew back. Through the morning mist appeared Eos, goddess of the dawn and herald of her brilliant brother. New-risen from her ocean-couch, with ruddy hair streaming above her saffron-colored mantle, she advanced in her golden chariot, while her rosy fingers sprinkled dew upon the earth from the vase she carried. The dawn breeze struck mysterious notes of music from her tresses like those of an Æolian harp.

Orion could not see this gracious vision as he stood there stark and expectant. Yet some influence of the colorful morning freshness which faced him softened his countenance into a smile of pleasure.

And as Eos looked upon the perfectness of his strong, beautiful youth, she loved him. Bending down, she pressed a kiss upon his forehead, whispering: “Be of good heart. Helios comes.”

She passed on. The heavens blazed with purple and crimson and gold streamers, shooting up to the zenith from the coronal of the rising Sun-god.

Out of the rippling blue waters of the bay lifted his majestic visage. The intolerable gleam of his eyes fell full upon the sightless orbs of Orion.

Instantly the blinded giant saw once more. But seeing, he was constrained for the first time in his life to bow his head before that fiery glance. When the god had whirled on upward, he picked up the trembling Cedalion, set him on his shoulders again, and turned back towards Lemnos, for his wrath still burned hotly against Œnopion. Yet amid his grim thoughts of vengeance, ever and again there sounded those faint music-breaths that had come to him when Eos passed by; and ever and again he would feel her soft lips against his brow.

Like some dripping sea monster, he stepped upon the beach of Chios. Overbearing all who would stay him, he drove on towards the palace. Œnopion, however, had been warned of his coming and had hastily hid himself in a labyrinthine cavern beneath the ground. Search as he might, Orion could not discover his enemy, and was reluctantly forced to forego the retribution he had planned.

He thought then to leave this ill-omened isle. But the next morning Eos, who had not forgotten him, carried him off to Delos. Since her Titan husband had been slain by the lightnings of Zeus, she claimed the right to marry this handsome hunter. But the council of the gods rejected her plea. She dared not resist this supreme decree, so sorrowfully she left him.

Now this tiny isle of Delos had been the birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. Formerly called Ortygia, it had floated hither and thither before the winds; but when Leto came to give birth to these twin children of Zeus, and found no refuge elsewhere in all the world, the mighty ruler of Olympus fixed it firmly in its place by four chains of adamant; and forever after it was sacred to the three divinities, though more particularly to Apollo.

Little reverence or awe was there in Orion’s mind, however, when he found himself alone upon this rocky islet. He realized that for a third time invisible powers had come between him and the woman he thought his; worst of all, there was no one against whom he could direct the hot resentment that flexed every mighty muscle of his body.

His consuming wrath made some action a necessity. He started up the craggy slope of Mt. Cynthos, bursting through the tangled thicket, leaping from one boulder to another, striding across deep clefts in the rock,—with a vague idea that from the commanding summit of the hill he might spy one of these hidden enemies who thus thwarted him.

As he squeezed through a narrow pass at the foot of a riven face of rock, his hunter’s eye caught the black spot marking a cave entrance; and the grizzly hairs at the opening told him it was a wolf’s den. He paused instinctively and peered into the gloom of the cavern. A chorus of high yapping barks proclaimed the presence of a family of cubs.

He hesitated a moment, wondering if he could force his broad shoulders through the opening. Then he sprang to his feet and faced about, as he heard behind him a snarl that threatened instant danger.

A few feet away, the head of a huge she-wolf protruded from the glossy green leaves of the dense laurel. The creature had just dropped a fawn it had been bringing home, and the bleeding carcass lay unheeded at the edge of the thicket. Its green eyes blazed with deadly intention; the long hair on its neck bristled up straight around the blood-spotted jaws into a Medusa’s head of terror.

Orion had barely time to throw up one guarding arm, when the fierce brute sprang at his throat. Even the wild boar at bay has no fury comparable with that of the hunting wolf-mother, protecting her young. But for the giant’s instinctive defensive movement, it might have gone badly even with him. As it was, the dripping teeth caught hold of a fold of his skin garment, and he staggered against the rock wall at the impact of the animal landing on his shoulder.

This death-grapple quite suited the hunter’s own savage mood. His eyes blazed as balefully as those of the wolf. With a motion as swift as that of a panther he gripped the animal’s upper jaw with his right hand. Heaving it free from his shoulder, his left hand caught the lower jaw before those wicked fangs had time to close upon his fingers.

Then, putting forth his full might, he fairly tore the struggling beast’s jaws asunder, and dashed it lifeless against a boulder.

He was a superb figure as he stood there in the full vigor of his aroused powers. It might have been one of the Titan brood defying any force of earth or heavens. Yet instead of being monstrous, he was beautiful—manhood in its perfection though enlarged far beyond common humanity.

“Well done!” said a clear voice behind him. “A fitting end for the fawn-killer.”

Orion turned—and to his surprise, his limbs trembled as they had not done at sight of the attacking brute.

A tall maidenly figure stood beside a cypress tree whose twisted roots disappeared into a rock crevice. She held a bow, and her right hand still gripped the long arrow which she had clearly been holding sighted against the wolf, ready to discharge the instant the man seemed to be getting the worst of the struggle.

Her embroidered chiton was girt to the knees; her long hair, intricately woven about her head was bound by a fillet on which shone a silver crescent; upon her feet were Cretan sandals, whose crossing thongs were held by embossed silver clasps. Slender, youthful, alive with vitality, with sparkling great eyes and smiling lips, she seemed, as she replaced the arrow in her quiver, to breathe forth that very spirit of the forest which had ever drawn Orion into the most intimate depths of nature’s wildnesses. Indeed, as he gazed stupidly at this radiant creature, she appeared like the very embodiment of all his deepest longings, unexpressed and even unrealized by himself.

“Ai!” she exclaimed. “Never have I seen such a one among the sons of men. I am Artemis. Henceforth we shall hunt together, you and I.”

For the first time in his life Orion felt humble. It was not that she named herself daughter of Zeus: but to have the companionship of this Shining One in the life he loved was a boon which no strength of his could win; and his heart beat with lowly gratitude.

Then the self-sufficient man reasserted himself. “Let us go,” said he. “There is no creature of the woods that can escape or defy me.”

The goddess smiled, as if pleased with his boastfulness. “This isle will hardly contain such hunters as we. Let us go to Crete. There are mountains that dwarf Ossa and Pelion. There we may range from the perpetual snow of Ida to the olive-filled vales of Iardanos.”

Joyfully Orion strode beside her down the rugged side of Cynthos. He hoped they might encounter some monster, that he might at once protect his companion and show his power. And Artemis, perceiving his thought, smiled again in pleasure.

Southward, across the sea they journeyed to the land of Minos. And here they spent long golden days in roaming over the length and breadth of this isle of mountains and caves and upland pasture plateaus and fertile sea-level valleys. They waged relentless war against the killers that preyed upon the wild herds whom Artemis held under her protection: till to this day it is recorded that not a wolf can be found in Crete, plentiful as they still are in neighboring lands.

Orion was well content. Life had become an infinitely richer thing than he had ever imagined, even when he had thought it at the full. For once he was willing to wait patiently for that which he most desired.

For this Comrade was the true woman he had ever sought. Daughter of Zeus though she was, terrible as was her wrath, proud as she might be of her title of Parthenos, he felt sure she belonged to him, and that each new day’s varied experience bound them together the more indissolubly.

And it is written that the Goddess herself felt the bond. She recognized her mate according to the decrees of nature. And she made no secret of her intention to wed this earth-born one.

Then bright Apollo, twin brother of the huntress, waxed wroth and determined to avert this disgrace. And because even he hesitated to thwart her openly, he had recourse to guile.

It chanced towards dusk one summer’s eve that Artemis stood by the seashore. Contrary to his wont, Orion had gone off alone on an expedition to a neighboring island.

He was now returning, progressing through the water with mighty strides, but so distant that his head seemed but a tiny speck upon the horizon.

Suddenly Apollo descended to his sister’s side. Playfully he began to rally her upon her vaunted skill with the bow, at which he himself was unexcelled.

When her pride was aroused, he declared that she could not hit that black spot which seemed to move toward them—probably a porpoise.

Quickly the piqued Goddess seized an arrow from the quiver on her shoulder. Steadily she drew her bow till the arrow-head touched her finger. Firmly she loosed it. The string gave a mighty twang. The shaft sped seaward, true to the mark.

Artemis turned in triumph, but Apollo had vanished. A vague uneasiness filled her breast. The surf seemed to beat against the sands in lamentation, growing louder and yet louder.

Then urged on by Poseidon, the waves passed from one to another, and presently laid at her feet—the dead body of her Comrade, whom she had thus unwittingly slain.

At that the Huntress knew what it was to weep, even as the daughters of men. Bitterly she reproached Apollo, wildly she reproached herself.

Hope sprang up again within her as she thought of Asclepius. Well she knew the skill of this child of Apollo, who had added to his inheritance all the wisdom of Chiron the centaur. His feats of healing had approached miracles, and it was whispered that he had even essayed with success the final miracle of restoring the dead to life. He could not refuse his aid to her.

Swiftly she bore away the body across the sea to Argolis, where the temple of Asclepius stood near Epidaurus.

Unwillingly the sage of healing hearkened to her plea, for he feared to exercise his art upon one who had presumed to alliance with divinity. Yet to his father’s twin he could refuse nothing.

He set about his work. Skilfully he compounded elixirs; solemnly he performed the mystic rites of his craft.

But at the moment of consummation, his forebodings proved but too well founded. All-seeing Zeus perceived the confusion that must result on earth if such resurrection were permitted; so he hearkened to the protests of Hades, and suddenly slew the too-wise physician with one of his thunderbolts.

So far the Thunderer did listen to the prayers of Artemis: he placed the beautiful giant on high as a constellation in the sky.

There you may see him still if you are of the hunting craft and sally forth after wildfowl before Eos flushes the eastern sky. The three stars in a straight line in his jeweled belt gleam as the most conspicuous ornament of the spangled sky; below an even larger white star, Rigel, marks the giant’s left foot; while topaz Betelgeuse blazes on his shoulder at an equal distance above. At his heels follows his faithful dog, where Sirius now gleams white, but looked redly down some thousands of years ago. Before him, with fair Maia chief among them, still fly the Pleiades, though he heeds them not.

Thus, “gliding through the silent sphere . . . and girt with gold,” the giant hunter seeks his lost Artemis still.