Wearied with hunting, one noon, he left his comrades and idled through
the forest, perhaps to spy upon those woodland deities of whom he had
heard. Chance brought him to the very grove where Diana and her nymphs
were wont to bathe. He followed the bright thread of the brook, never
turning aside, though mortal reverence should have warned him that the
place was for gods. The air was wondrous clear and sweet; a throng of
fair trees drooped their branches in the way, and from a sheltered
grotto beyond fell a mingled sound of laughter and running waters. But
Actaeon would not turn back. Roughly pushing aside the laurel branches
that hid the entrance of the cave, he looked in, startling Diana and
her maidens. In an instant a splash of water shut his eyes, and the
goddess, reading his churlish thought, said: "Go now, if thou wilt, and
boast of this intrusion."

He turned to go, but a stupid bewilderment had fallen upon him. He
looked back to speak, and could not. He put his hand to his head, and
felt antlers branching above his forehead. Down he fell on hands and
feet; these likewise changed. The poor offender! Crouching by the brook
that he had followed, he looked in, and saw nothing but the image of a
stag, bending to drink, as only that morning he had seen the creature
they had come out to kill. With an impulse of terror he fled away,
faster than he had ever run before, crashing through bush and bracken,
the noise of his own flight ever after him like an enemy.

Suddenly he heard the blast of a horn close by, then the baying of
hounds. His comrades, who had rested and were ready for the chase, made
after him. This time he was their prey. He tried to call and could not.
His antlers caught in the branches, his breath came with pain, and the
dogs were upon him,--his own dogs!