came to her at last a man with a cunning trick which Love had taught him, who declared himself ready to run the race for which her beauty or his life would pay the forfeit. Atalanta was weary of strife and bloodshed, and would have dissuaded the new-comer from the trial; but he taunted her with cowardice, and the tall flower of Arcadia rose in her might and loveliness, and drawing close the girdle about her tunic, laid aside her outer garments, and tightening her sandals about her ankles, stood ready for the race. She looked her antagonist once more in the face; and as her eyes met his, she grew afraid for the first time in all her life,—afraid not for him, as she had been but now, but for herself. The bold youth laughed in her face; and red with anger she gave the signal, and the race began. At first the man, spurred on by love and hope, kept the lead; but when his breath began to fail, he heard the swift, even footsteps of the inexorable huntress gaining on him. She was close behind him; the wind blew a strand of her hair across his cheek; and at that moment he drew from his bosom a golden apple and threw it at her feet. He looked behind, and saw that she had paused to pick up the wondrous fruit, strange to her country; and in the time thus consumed he gained more ground than he had lost. Again she overtook
