The nymphs shivered at this, and an aged woman, who was looking on,
turned to Arachne.

"Be more heedful of your words, my daughter," said she. "The goddess
may pardon you if you ask forgiveness, but do not strive for honors
with the immortals."

Arachne broke her thread, and the shuttle stopped humming.

"Keep your counsel," she said. "I fear not Athena; no, nor any one
else."

As she frowned at the old woman, she was amazed to see her change
suddenly into one tall, majestic, beautiful,--a maiden of gray eyes and
golden hair, crowned with a golden helmet. It was Athena herself.

The bystanders shrank in fear and reverence; only Arachne was unawed
and held to her foolish boast.

In silence the two began to weave, and the nymphs stole nearer, coaxed
by the sound of the shuttles, that seemed to be humming with delight
over the two webs,--back and forth like bees.

They gazed upon the loom where the goddess stood plying her task, and
they saw shapes and images come to bloom out of the wondrous colors, as
sunset clouds grow to be living creatures when we watch them. And they
saw that the goddess, still merciful, was spinning, as a warning for
Arachne, the pictures of her own triumph over reckless gods and
mortals.