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foam falls from the horses’ mouths, their jaws close on dry bits, and far out hang their bridled tongues; no restraint of their masters do they suffer, but scour the plain, maddened by the fiery heat. This way and that Adrastus sends scouts to discover if the Licymnian lakes yet remain, or aught of Amymone’s waters, but all lie drained by fire unseen, nor is there hope of moisture from Olympus, as though they ranged yellow Libya and Africa’s desert sand and Syene shaded by no cloud.

At length wandering in the woodland—for so had Euhius himself devised—they behold on a sudden Hypsipyle, beauteous in her grief; at her breast Opheltes hangs, not her own child, but the ill-starred offspring of Inachian Lycurgus^[1]; dishevelled is her hair and poor her raiment, yet in her countenance are marks of kingly birth, and a dignity not overwhelmed by a bitter lot. Then Adrastus, awestruck, thus addressed her: “Goddess, queen of the woodlands^[2]—for thy countenance and honourable bearing proclaim thee of no mortal birth—thou who beneath this fiery vault art blest in needing not to search for water, succour a neighbouring people; whether the Wielder of the Bow or Latona’s daughter hath set thee in the bridal-chamber from her chaste company, or whether it be no lowly passion but one from on high doth make thee fruitful—for the ruler of the gods himself is no stranger to Argive bowers—look upon our distressed ranks. Us hath the resolve to destroy guilty Thebes with the sword brought hither, but the unwarlike doom of cruel drought doth bow our spirits and drain our exhausted strength. Help thou our failing fortunes, whether thou hast some turbid river or a stagnant marsh; nought is