to his friend for the sick at Thebes and for the comfortable housing of the woman who had gone to nurse them. The money was acknowledged by a brief note from Philip, which reached him pierced in half a dozen places and smelling vilely of sulphur and carbolic acid.
Bad news travels proverbially far and fast, and the priest of the forest learned of what had befallen Robert before his wound was whole. Early one morning he appeared at the doorway of the sick-room, and after solemnly blessing and embracing his young friend, he seated himself at the bedside and proceeded to give him all the news from his woodland home. Robert listened attentively, sometimes asking a question, again nodding an assent.
"My father," he said, suddenly breaking a pause, "tell me, if you can, who and what a certain woman by the name of Atalanta may be, or may have been, if she is dead."
"She is dead, certes, if she ever lived, which is questionable."
"Tell me all you know about her."
"It is in the nature of a fairy story," began the father, "and in such a guise you shall have it.
"Once upon a time there lived in Arcadia a beautiful maiden of the name of Atalanta. She was fleet of foot and strong of arm. The bow and arrow were her only distaff and spindle,
