“And, wife, I’ll speak out truth to thee. When, journeying, I came hard by this three-forked road, there met me there, Just as thou tellest it, a herald and a man Mounted upon a carriage that was drawn by colts. And here the leader and the old man, too, himself, The pair of them, would thrust me rudely from the path, And I, enraged, strike him—the charioteer—who tried To push me off. And then the old man, seeing this, Fetched me a blow with two-pronged goad full on my head As I strode by. No equal penalty he paid, Not he. By one swift blow from staff in this my hand He’s rolled out straightway from the car upon his back, And I slay all of them! So, if there’s any kin ’Twixt Laius and this stranger, who is wretcheder Than this man now before thee? Who? what man, could be More hateful to the gods? Whom never any one, Or foreigner or citizen, may in his house Receive; whom none may speak to, nay, but from his house Must thrust! And this—these curses—none except myself Brought down upon me!” Footnote 29: The local guides sometimes place the Cleft Way a little further along, in a very narrow pass, known as the “Steni.” Although this spot in some respects better corresponds to the language of Sophocles, the balance of authoritative opinion now supports the localization of the story at the first cross-roads. From the Forked Roads travellers who must push on to Chæronea will look regretfully at the path that leads to “lone Daulis” in “the high Cephisian vale.” The little town is situated on the uneven summit of a massive hill which rises abruptly from the glens at the eastern foot of Parnassus, and of its bowery loveliness among pomegranates and olives and almonds enticing tales are told. Here, according to a favourite Greek legend, was the first home of the nightingale and the scene of that “life enriched with sorrow, which her clear voice, insatiate, bemoans.” The savage Tereus, king of Daulis, had married Procne, a prehistoric princess of Athens, and after the birth of her son Itylus had cut out her tongue and claimed that she was dead. He then married her sister Philomela. The betrayed Procne, however, told Philomela the truth by means of a web into which she had embroidered her story, and the two sisters united in slaying the innocent Itylus and serving him up as a meal to his father. The gods, in anger, transformed Procne and Philomela into a nightingale and swallow, forever mourning Itylus, while Tereus became a pursuing hawk. When spring comes, whether in Daulis or Ithaca or by the “tranquil Thames,” the “pallid-olive” nightingale pours forth her music, “bewailing her dead child.”