tly shared by the nymph of the pool, who
gazed fearlessly up at him.

Round her head she had a nimbus of curls than which that of
Adonis--nay, of the sun-god himself, was not more perfect, while her
eyes were like the brown pools of water in a rippling mountain stream,
flecked with sunshine, yet with depths untold. When Narcissus smiled
at her in rapture, her red lips also parted in a smile. He stretched
out his arms towards her, and her arms were stretched to him. Almost
trembling in his delight, he slowly stooped to kiss her. Nearer she
drew to him, nearer still, but when his mouth would have given itself
to that other mouth that was formed like the bow of Eros--a thing to
slay hearts--only the chilly water of the pool touched his lips, and
the thing of his delight vanished away. In passionate disappointment
Narcissus waited for her to return, and as soon as the water of the
pool grew still, once more he saw her exquisite face gazing wistfully
up into his. Passionately he pled with the beautiful creature--spoke
of his love--besought her to have pity on him, but although the face
in the pool reflected his every look of adoration and of longing, time
and again he vainly tried to clasp in his arms what was but the
mirrored likeness of himself.

In full measure had the avenging goddess meted out to Narcissus the
restless longing of unsatisfied love. By day and by night he haunted
the forest pool, and ere long the face that looked back at his was
pale as a lily in the dawn. When the moonbeams came straying down
through the branches and all the night was still, they found him
kneeling by the pool, and the white face that the water mirrored had
the eyes of one of the things of the woods to which a huntsman has
given a mortal wound. Mortally wounded he truly was, slain, like many
another since his day, by a hopeless love for what was in truth but an
image, and that an image of his own creation. Even when his shade
passed across the dark Stygian river, it stooped over the side of the
boat that it might try to catch a glimpse of the beloved one in the
inky waters.

Echo and the other nymphs were avenged, yet when they looked on the
beautiful dead Narcissus, they were filled with sorrow, and when they
filled the air with their lamentations, most piteously did the voice
of Echo repeat each mournful cry. Even the gods were pitiful, and when
the nymphs would have burned the body on a funeral pyre which their
own fair hands had