And cloud-compelling Zeus replied: “Still shine, O Sun! among the deathless gods and mortal men, upon the nourishing earth. Soon will I cleave with a white thunder-bolt their galley in the midst of a black sea.” When Odysseus came to the ship beside the sea, he spoke to them all sternly, man after man, yet he could think of no redress. The beeves were dead, and now the gods amazed them with prodigies. The skins moved and crawled, the flesh, both raw and roasted on the spits, lowed with the voice of oxen. Six whole days the men feasted, taking from the herd the Sun’s best oxen. When Jove brought the seventh day, the tempest ceased; the wind fell, and they straightway went on board. They set the mast upright, and, spreading the white sails, they ventured on the great wide sea again. When they had left the isle and there appeared no other land, but only sea and sky, the son of Saturn (Jove) caused a lurid cloud to gather o’er the galley, and to cast its darkness on the ship. Not long the ship ran onward, ere the furious west wind rose and blew a hurricane. A strong blast snapped both ropes that held the mast; the mast fell back; the tackle dropped entangled to the hold; the mast in falling on the galley’s stem, dashed on the pilot’s head and crushed the bones, and from the deck he plunged like one who dives into the deep. His gallant spirit left the limbs at once. Jove thundered from on high, and sent a thunder-bolt into the ship, that, quaking with the fearful blow, and filled with stifling sulphur, shook the men off into the deep. They floated round the ship like sea mews; Jupiter had cut them off from their return. Odysseus moved from place to place, still in the ship, until the tempest’s force parted the sides and keel. The naked keel was swept before the waves. The mast had snapped just at the base, but round it was a thong made of a bullock’s hide. With this Odysseus bound the mast and keel together. He took his seat upon them and the wild winds bore him on. STORY OF ARACHNE AND ATHĒNE (_Greek: After Ovid_) There was once a beautiful maiden, named Arachne, who was so accomplished in the arts of carding and spinning, of weaving and embroidery, that the nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her one would have said that Athēne herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought even a pupil of a goddess. “Let Athēne try her skill with mine,” she said; “if beaten I will pay the penalty.”