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and strain their sinewy necks and bridles. As when the tide holds fast Sicilian craft and a strong South wind impels them, the swelling sails stand motionless in mid-sea. Then Chromis hurls his rival from the shattered car, and had sped on the foremost, but when the Thracian horses saw Hippodamus lying on the ground, that awful hunger comes back upon them, and already had they shared in their mad lust his trembling frame, had not the Tirynthian hero, forgetful of victory, taken their bridles and dragged away the neighing steeds, and left the field vanquished but praised of all.

But Phoebus hath long desired for thee, Amphiaraus, thy promised honours. At last, deeming the moment fit to show thee favour, he visits the grim spaces of the dusty course, when now the race is nearing its end, and for the last time victory hovers doubtful; a snake-tressed monstrous phantom, of visage terrible to behold, whether he wrought it in Erebus or for the cunning purpose of the moment, certainly endowed with countless terrors—this horrid plague he raises to the world above. The guardian of dusky Lethe could not have beheld it unterrified, nor the Eumenides themselves without a deep thrill of fear, it would have overturned the horses of the sun in mid-career, and the team of Mars. When golden Arion saw it, his mane leapt up erect, and he halts with upreared shoulders and holds high suspended his yoke-fellow and the steeds that shared his toil on either side. Straightway the Aonian exile is flung backward head-over-heels: he drops the reins, and the chariot, freed from restraint, dashes far away. But past him as he lies on the crumbling