him, rushing upon his track, the apple in her vest, her whole body strained to its utmost speed. Again the ruse stopped her windy way. This time the apple looked fairer still; it grew upon a tiny branch, with bright green leaves of fairest enamelling. Yet a third time the youth was near to losing, and the goal close at hand; one apple more remained to him,—the last gift of Venus. On this glittered dew-drops of pure clear diamonds, and on its stem bloomed forth a bunch of white blossoms,—from that day typical of bridal bliss. The girl hesitated a moment, and in the next the heralds proclaimed that she had lost the race and that the prize was won by the young stranger.
"This, as I remember it, is the old myth of Arcadian Atalanta."
"What was the name of the stranger?" demanded Robert, seizing the priest by the arm.
"Ah, my son! my memory sometimes plays me false; his name has slipped from me. After all, what matters it?"
"It matters a great deal, father," cried Robert, sitting up among his pillows. "Think, think! Is it not Milanion?"
"Thou hast said it, my son. Where got'st thou so much knowledge?"
