"Ho--no more," he said. "All is done. Emily is the bride of Arcite of
Thebes." Sad was Palamon, but Arcite, with helm unlaced, rode proudly
on his courser towards Emily. All the trumpets sang loud of his
victory. Thousands of voices acclaimed him. Mars had fulfilled his
prophecy. What then could Venus be doing, for had she not promised
success to Palamon?

A moment! My story is not ended. As Arcite rode thus joyously to
claim his prize, it chanced that an adder suddenly started from the
ground before the horse's feet; The charger reared and swerved, and
Arcite was thrown against the pommel of his saddle with such violence
that his breast-bone was broken, and he fell down in a swoon. He was
carried quickly away; but all that night, while feasting and
merry-making reigned in the palace, poor Arcite lay dying. "Alas!" he
cried. "Farewell to you, my lady, my love, my wife won by my prowess.
Farewell to the world and merry company. I go where man must be alone
and cold. Farewell again, my fairest Emily!" And so with his lady's
name on his lips, he died.

Great was the mourning throughout Athens for so noble a warrior and
so true a lover. His funeral pyre was heaped high with all sweet
woods and spices. All famous Greeks came thither to play in his
funeral games.

Men mourned for Arcite for many a long year. But at last their sorrow
spent itself,--one day Palamon came again to the court of Theseus.

There, with gentle patient wooing, he won at length the hand of
Emily, and gained thus his heart's desire and the reward of his true