his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more
beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet;
her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment
fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin,
such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors
were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not
daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why
boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest."
Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew
whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What god can tempt one
so young and handsome to throw himself away? I pity him, not for his
beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give
up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While
she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient
for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes
addressed a prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on."
Venus heard and was propitious.

In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree
with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Hence she
gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them
to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each
starts from the goal and skims over the sand. So light their tread,
you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface
or over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators
cheered Hippomenes,--"Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain
on her! relax not! one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth
or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his
breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At
that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all