as she uttered the words, she stretched out her arms and cried aloud: "O Ceyx! my Beloved! is it thus that thou returnest to me?"
To break the fierce assaults of sea and of storm there had been built out from the shore a mole, and on to this barrier leapt the distraught Haley one. She ran along it, and when the dead, white body of the man she loved was still out of reach, she prayed her last prayer—a wordless prayer of anguish to the gods.
"Only let me get near him," she breathed. "Grant only that I nestle close against his dear breast. Let me show him that, living or dead, I am his, and he mine forever."
And to Halcyone a great miracle was then vouchsafed, for from out of her snowy shoulders grew snow-white pinions, and with them she skimmed over the waves until she reached the rigid body of Ceyx, drifting, a helpless burden for the conquering waves, in with the swift-flowing tide. As she flew, she uttered cries of love and of longing, but only strange raucous cries came from the throat that had once only made music. And when she reached the body of Ceyx and would fain have kissed his marble lips, Halcyone found that no longer were her own lips like the petals of a fair red rose warmed by the sun. For the gods had heard her prayer, and her horny beak seemed to the watchers on the shore to be fiercely tearing at the face of him who had been king of Thessaly.
Yet the gods were not merciless—or, perhaps, the love of Halcyone was an all-conquering love. For as
