For three years he wandered among the mountains of Thrace, finding his
only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he shunned all men and
women and would have no bride after Eurydice.

One day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the sunshine, and
played and sang to beguile his sorrow. As he played, the coolness of
shady branches seemed all about him, and looking up he found himself
in the midst of a wood. Oak, poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine,
plane and maple and many another tree had gathered together here,
drawn from their distant forest homes by the sounds of Orpheus's lyre.
Yes, and the beasts and the birds of the field came too, and Orpheus
sat in their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow.

Suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting and
merry-making. For this was one of the feasts of Bacchus, and the women
were celebrating his rites, wandering over the mountains with dance
and revel. When they saw Orpheus they set up a shout of derision.
"See," they cried, "the wretched singer who mocks at women and will
have no bride but the dead. Come, let us kill him, and show that no
man shall despise us unpunished."

With these words they began to throw wands and stones at him, but even
the lifeless objects were softened by the music, and fell harmlessly
to the ground. Then the women raised a wild shout and made such a
clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that the soft tones of the harp were
drowned by the noise. Now at last the shots took effect, and in their
fury the women fell upon him, dealing blow on blow. Orpheus fell
lifeless to the ground.