THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS


Truth fails not, but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime.



I


The fourth Christian century was far past its meridian, when, high above
the summit of the supreme peak of Caucasus, a magnificent eagle came
sailing on broad fans into the blue, and his shadow skimmed the glittering
snow as it had done day by day for thousands of years. A human figure--or
it might be superhuman, for his mien seemed more than mortal--lifted from
the crag, to which he hung suspended by massy gyves and rivets, eyes
mournful with the presentiment of pain. The eagle's screech clanged on the
wind, as with outstretched neck he stooped earthward in ever narrowing
circles; his huge quills already creaked in his victim's ears, whose flesh
crept and shrank, and involuntary convulsions agitated his hands and feet.
Then happened what all these millenniums had never witnessed. No
thunderbolt had blazed forth from that dome of cloudless blue; no marksman
had approached the inaccessible spot; yet, without vestige of hurt, the
eagle dropped lifeless, falling sheer down into the unfathomable abyss
below. At the same moment the bonds of the captive snapped asunder, and,
projected by an impetus which kept him clear of the perpendicular
precipice, he alighted at an infinite depth on a sun-flecked greensward
amid young ash and oak, where he long lay deprived of sense and motion.