s came to his mother. By
him she was put in mind of what she might do; and looking at him with
vengeful eyes, she said, "Ah! how like thou art to thy father!" And
saying no more, she prepared for a horrible deed, and burned with silent
rage. Yet when her son came to her, and saluted his mother and drew her
neck {towards him} with his little arms, and added kisses mingled with
childish endearments, the mother, in truth, was moved, and her anger
abated, and her eyes, in spite of her, became wet with tears {thus}
forced {from her}. But soon as she found the mother {in her} shrinking
from excess of affection, from him again did she turn towards the
features of her sister; and looking at them both by turns, she said,
"Why does the one employ endearments, {while} the other is silent with
her tongue torn from her? Why does she not call her sister, whom he
calls mother? Consider to what kind of husband thou art married,
daughter of Pandion. Thou dost grow degenerate. Tenderness in the wife
of Tereus is criminality." No {more} delay {is there}; she drags Itys
along, just as the tigress of the banks of the Ganges {does} the
suckling offspring of the hind, through the shady forests. And when they
are come to a remote part of the lofty house, Progne strikes[68] him
with the sword, extending his hands, and as he beholds his fate, crying
now "Alas!" and now "My mother!" and clinging to her neck, where his
breast joins his side; nor does she turn away her face. Even one wound
{alone} is sufficient for his death; Philomela cuts his throat with the
sword; and they mangle his limbs, still quivering and retaining somewhat
of life. Part of them boils,[69] in the hollow cauldrons; part hisses on
spits; the inmost recesses stream with gore. His wife sets Tereus, in
his unconsciousness, before this banquet; and falsely pretending rites
after the manner of her country, at which it is allowed one man only to
be present, she removes his attendants and servants. Tereus himself,
sitting aloft on the throne of his forefathers, eats and heaps his own
entrails into his own stomach. And so great is the blindness of his
mind, {that} he says, "Send for Itys." Progne is unable to conceal her
cruel joy; and now, desirous to be the discoverer of her having murdered
him, she says, "Thou hast within {thee}, that for which thou art
asking." He looks around, and inquires where he is; as he inquires, and
calls him again, Philomela springs forth, just as she is, w