“Oh, I don’t think so,” objected Zeus. “You let me try again.” Number one hundred and three still lay moaning on the floor of the room. “You can try, of course,” said Co. Zeus still stuck to the old-fashioned plan of punishing by deprivation. There was only one thing left to take away--the man’s belief in the gods. So he took that. Suddenly number one hundred and three arose. There was a chill smile on his face, and he walked out into the courtyard, and looked at the rising sun. “I was mistaken,” he said. “There are no gods. All is as it chances. Good is chance and bad is chance. Nothing matters any more. I would die if I thought anything mattered. There are no more values. It is the same thing whether I murder my son, who is dearer than life to me, or whether I give alms, or whether I eat my breakfast. I shall never be sorry or happy any more. Sorrow and happiness are vain and foolish.” So he went back to his house again, and washed his hands calmly, and broke his fast. “Well, I never!” said Zeus. “Ah!” said Co., “you must learn the new ways. You’re behind the times.” “Very well,” retorted Zeus snappishly; “you needn’t say it so loudly. I don’t want all Olympus to know that.” * * * * * “The dawn is here!” It was Terpsichore who spoke. She had drawn back the curtain that formed the front of the cloud. Below them lay the flat fen country, with dykes, and waste places, and gaunt lonely trees. The sunrise was beautiful as a fair dream, sprigs of light snapping on the surface of the marshy pools and slow streams, where the cool dawn-wind shook the water’s surface. “And now I will go to my rest,” said Clio. “And I,” said the others. “And I too.” Only Erato strove to rise and could not, and fell back, breathing quickly. “I have grown weak,” she said, and her voice was low, so that it could hardly be heard. “I will stay here, and rest here, in the warm light of the sun: I am cold, strangely cold.” Euterpe and Cupid stayed with Erato. The rest all went into an inner room, far within the cloud. Each as she passed Erato had some gentle word to say to her. They had bidden Cupid come with them; he had replied with an angry look and a shake of the head, not trusting himself to words. So these three were left alone in the cloud-chamber. Erato stretched out her little hands to the sun, and watched the light come flickering over them. Cupid had drawn a little apart, still watching her. At last her eyes closed. “Euterpe,” she whispered, “sing to me--sing the last song. I am drowsy, and would sleep now.” So Euterpe went to the piano. She did not sing very well, for something seemed to be wrong with her voice--a kind of huskiness: