“Thou knowest how thou mayest win me. Art thou willing to run in the race?” “Much good will my love do me if I had to drink the poison cup. Nay, nay,” he said; “I love thee too well to put my death at thy door. When I have some chance of winning the race, I will come back and claim thee. In the meantime, lady, farewell.” And, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as looking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and anger. Day after day passed by, and he came not. “He is a man of his word,” she thought at last. “Till he has some chance of winning he will not come back. And he is no fool. He knows he can never run as I can run. He will never come back.” Yet for all this she watched for him. When she went forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way. The weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as Atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. When by chance she raised her eyes, there at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her thoughts. “I have come back, lady,” he said. “Oh!” she cried from her heart, “I am glad thou hast come back.” Then he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence side by side along the path they had walked before. As they drew near to the edge of the forest, Atalanta was the first to speak. “And thy vow,” she asked—“hast thou found release from it?” “Not yet,” he answered. “I am come back to run the race, that I may win release.” Once again the spirit of perversity came upon her. “Where hast thou learnt to run like the wind?” she asked. “I have not learnt to run like the wind,” he replied. “I have learnt something better than that.” “Few things are better in a race than swiftness,” she said. “True,” he answered; “yet I have found the one thing better.” “What is this strange thing?” she asked. “When we have run the race, thou wilt know,” he said. “I have grown no sluggard,” she said, with a toss of her head, as though to warn him that her speed was not a thing to be despised. So they came to the palace, and from the lowest to the highest the inmates greeted the stranger with joy. For he had won the hearts of them all by his wit and his genial smile. But they sighed when they heard that he too had come to run in the fatal race. “Alas!” said the old king, shaking his head, “I had rather not have looked upon thy face again than see thee back on such an errand.” The young man laughed. “He who runs with a fair hope of winning runs swiftly,” he said. “The others were dragged down by the shackles of their own despair.” “Thou dost not know my daughter,” said the king. “Mayhap I know her better than thou thinkest, and better than thou knowest her thyself,” said the stranger.