set forth once more.

This time he fared eastward again till he came into the smiling waters of the Ægean, and reached the craggy isle of Chios, where fig tree, palm and vine grew under the soft Ionian sky.

King Œnopion ruled this land of ease and plenty, and his daughter Merope was famed through all Ionia for her beauty.

Hardly had Orion beheld this princess when he found his heart burn within him at the sight or thought of her. Boldly he demanded her in marriage.

But King Œnopion, proud of his lineage as son of Dionysus and Ariadne, thought it far from fitting that his daughter should wed this wandering woodsman,

superhuman as his strength might be. Not venturing to express his feeling openly to his formidable, self-invited guest, he still managed to delay giving a decisive answer.

After the fashion of lovers of all times, Orion made offering of his special capacities. The wild creatures of Chios had a hard time, for not only must skins and furs and venison be laid at the feet of the beautiful Merope, but he caught at the suggestion of the King that he should free the island from the lions and other dangerous beasts which then ravaged it and held all the inhabitants in terror.

To Œnopion's disappointment he proved fiercer than the bears and lions, even than the dreaded sharks of the sea. Instead of being devoured as the King had hoped, he brought back one trophy after another, always demanding, with outdoor directness, the thing he had set his heart on.

His scanty patience was exhausted long before the wily monarch's stock of pretexts. His nature and habit had ever been to seize what he wanted: in his usual headlong fashion he attempted openly to carry off Merope by force; and failing in his first effort, made no secret of his intention to try again.

The wily Œnopion concealed his resentment and bade the headstrong suitor to a banquet. In friendly fashion he plied him with heady wine from the luscious grapes of Ariusia.

Then, when even his giant strength was relaxed, the royal slaves set upon him, blinded him, and cast him out upon the seashore to perish.

As the salt spray dashing over his face brought him to full consciousness, he roared aloud in pain and wrath. The people in the city miles away trembled at that sound; and Œnopion regretted to the bottom of his cowardly heart that he had not slain this giant when he was in his power.

Orion bathed his face in the lapping waves and got slowly on his feet. His first instinct was to grope his way back to the palace and take swift revenge upon the King for his treachery. But a few faltering steps convinced him of the folly of attempting this in his helpless state.

He turned again toward the sea, in which he now felt almost as much at home as on land. Keeping the fresh breeze full in his face, and calling aloud upon Poseidon, he waded into the waves. With no clear idea of where he was going, he set forth.

Northward he fared, finding relief in his mighty strides through the cool waters, and in the wind that blew full upon his fevered eyes. Hour after hour he sped on tirelessly, his thoughts still in such a ferment of rage that he could make no calm or reasoned plan.

Without knowing it, he arrived off the western point of Lesbos. Suddenly there broke upon his fantastic plans for revenge a mighty pulsing beat, which came muffled, from far away, through water and air. Instinctively he proceeded towards the sound; and as he advanced it grew ever louder, till he fancied it seemed like the clangor of a vast anvil under the strokes of some super-smith.

In fact he was approaching the isle of Lemnos,

where dwelt and labored the cunningest of all smiths, the lame god Hephæstos. Here, in a cavern stretching down beneath the ocean floor, he had had his workshop ever since Zeus had hurled him from Olympus, and here he wrought such marvels as the arms of Achilles, the sceptre of Agamemnon, and the fatal necklace of Harmonia.

Guided by the ringing hammer strokes, Orion at length reached this subterranean forge and told his story. The immortal craftsman was moved to see such bodily perfection marred and helpless through loss of sight.

He called one of his workmen. "Take Cedalion with you," he said. "He will guide you to the spot where the Sun rises. I know Helios well: did I not make the golden boat which carries him back each night, along the border of the earth, to the East once more? Before his gleaming eyes every darkness must retreat; for the All-seer pierces through any blackness. It is from him alone that you may recover your eye-sight."

Overjoyed at any definite hope, Orion placed Cedalion on his shoulders, hastened up from the cavern, and once more plunged into the rolling breakers.

Directed by him he carried, he journeyed eastward, eastward ever. Past many a strange land he sped, holding to the mark as a homing-pigeon holds towards his distant remembered cote.

Long and weary was the way; but nothing mattered save to press on towards the god of light. And at last he reached that lovely bay in the ultimate East

where Helios mounts the sky each morn behind his snow-white steeds.

Here he placed Cedalion on his feet again. The latter prostrated himself face to earth, lest he be smitten by the terrible brilliance of the Sun-god. But Orion stood erect, awaiting the coming of the Day.

The brooding night trembled and drew back. Through the morning mist appeared Eos, goddess of the dawn and herald of her brilliant brother. New-risen from her ocean-couch, with ruddy hair streaming above her saffron-colored mantle, she advanced in her golden chariot, while her rosy fingers sprinkled dew upon the earth from the vase she carried. The dawn breeze struck mysterious notes of music from her tresses like those of an Æolian harp.