She is more than a beautiful woman, and also she is less. She is tall
and her form is strong, yet light and buoyant. She is dressed all in
armor, and she has a spear and a shield which gleams and glistens like
a beacon-light for an army. She herself, as I see her here, is as
graceful and as full of warm life as a flame of the fire, the same hot
glow stirs her heart and moves her to the same eager, free action. Her
face is as clear and pure as the fire itself, and almost as radiant as
her silver shield, while the gold of her hair breaking from under the
light of her helmet, outshines them all. Beating under her bosom,
thrilling through her form, glowing in her cheeks, and beaming from her
eyes, is the joy of life and strength and beauty. Yet where is the
tenderness that one would seek in a woman's eyes? A glad light shines
in hers, but it is not softened by any kindly ray of gentleness or
mercy. Where is the sweetness of a woman's lips? Hers are calm and
beautiful, but they tempt no more than a stain of blood upon the snow.
What is there in her face that could melt into a woman's compassion and
pity? Her face is not cruel, not unkind, only still, stern, and placid
as marble. She is not a woman, you know; only a goddess--a war goddess.

"Just now the Father of the Gods is telling his daughter of the fight
that is to come between the robber and the hero who won the sword, and
he commands her to help the hero to win. She is delighted at this, for
she loves all brave, true heroes as he does, but she has scarcely left
her father when the Mother of the Gods comes, riding furiously through
the air in a chariot drawn by two rams. She has heard of the fight too,
and she takes quite a different view of it. 'This man whom you would
save and help,' she says, 'has taken the woman away from the man whose
wife she promised to be. Is that all you care for a promise? He must be
punished; you must help his enemy to kill him.'