d helped her slay the beast, but
for happiness that Meleager was so noble in his giving.

At that the brows of the heroes grew dark, and angrily one cried:

"Lo, now,
Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us,
Saying all we were despoiled by this one girl."

Like a spark that kindles the dry grass, their kindling anger spread,
and they rushed against Atalanta, seized the trophy she had been
given, and smote her as though she were but a shameless wanton and not
the noble daughter of a king.

And because the heart of Meleager was given very wholly to the fair
huntress, and because those whom he deemed his friends had not only
dishonoured her, but had done him a very grievous wrong, a great rage
seized him. Right and left he smote, and they who had been most bitter
in their jealousy of Atalanta, the two brothers of his own mother,
were laid low in death.

Tidings of the slaying of the boar had been brought to Althaea by swift
messengers, and she was on her way to the temples bearing gifts to the
gods for the victory of her son, when she beheld the slow-footed
procession of those who bore the bodies of the dead. And when she saw
the still faces of her two dear brothers, quickly was her joy turned
into mourning. Terrible was her grief and anger when she learned by
whose hand they were slain, and her mother's love and pride dried up
in her heart like the clear water of a fountain before the scorching
of a devouring fire. No sacrifices to the gods would she offer, but
her dead brothers should have the greatest sacrifice that mother could
make to atone for the guilt of her son. Back to the palace she went,
and from its safe hiding-place drew out the brand that she had rescued
from the flames when Meleager the hero was but a babe that made his
mother's heart sing for joy. She commanded a fire to be prepared, and
four times, as its flames blazed aloft, she tried to lay the brand
upon the pile. Yet four times she drew back, and then at last she
threw into the reddest of the ashes the charred brand that for a
little she held so close to her breast that it seemed as though she
fondled her child.

A wreath of leaves as sign of victory was being placed on Atalanta's
beautiful head by the adoring hands of Meleager when his mother gave
him his doom. Through his body there rushed a pang of mortal agony.
His blood turned to fire, and the hand of Death that smote him was as
a hand of molten