“Leave me alone!” gasped the crouching figure. “Leave me alone, or I will kill you.” “You know that you dare not touch me.” The coward knew it. It was true. The long knife which he had grasped fell from his fingers. “Leave me,” he cried again piteously; “you can say nothing of me which I have not said of myself. You cannot hate me as I hate myself. Leave me! leave me!” Then, with a gesture of disgust and contempt, the worst man in Athens left him. And now the strength of the wine mastered the coward, and he slept. This time dream followed dream, and every dream was cruel. It was late in the evening when he awoke. The only light in the room was that which came from the dying embers of the fire. By that light he saw to his horror the figure of a child standing there--a white-faced child, with awe in her eyes--the younger sister of the girl whose death his cowardice had caused. “I have a message for you,” she said. “As I slept this afternoon she came to me, and bade me tell you that she knows all about it, and that you could not help it; the gods made you so; for the gods are strong, and it is fitting that we should be very patient.” The crouching coward said nothing. Then the child came quickly to him and kissed his ugly face. “I am very sorry, very sorry for you,” she whispered gently; and then she crept gently away. The coward burst into tears, and, grasping the long knife once more, staggered into an inner chamber, and drew the curtain behind him. The child’s kiss was the thing that had just turned the balance. From the inner chamber there was the sound of one who fell heavily, and then all was still--very still indeed. “The worst of making that sort,” Zeus remarked, with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of that inner chamber, “is that they so seldom last. But they are certainly funny. Personally, I sha’n’t sleep for laughing to-night.” * * * * * “Would you mind,” said Euterpe quietly, “drawing back that curtain from the front of the room? A few minutes ago Erato fainted, and I can’t bring her round again. I think the cool night air might revive her.” Terpsichore drew back the curtain, grumbling to herself. “Just like her--we shall have the whole place turned into a regular hospital again, I expect.” VII. THALIA’S STORY: THE CAMEL WHO NEVER GOT STARTED.