‘By my sceptre, is it true?’ said the astonished King. ‘Is he seized?’
‘The extraordinary mortal baffles our efforts,’ said Lachesis. ‘He bears with him a lyre, the charmed gift of Apollo, and so seducing are his strains that in vain our guards advance to arrest his course; they immediately begin dancing, and he easily eludes their efforts. The general confusion is indescribable. All business is at a standstill: Ixion rests upon his wheel; old Sisyphus sits down on his mountain, and his stone has fallen with a terrible plash into Acheron. In short, unless we are energetic, we are on the eve of a revolution.’
‘His purpose?’
‘He seeks yourself and—her Majesty,’ added Lachesis, with a sneer.
‘Immediately announce that we will receive him.’
The unexpected guest was not slow in acknowledging the royal summons. A hasty treaty was drawn up; he was to enter the palace unmolested, on condition that he ceased playing his lyre. The Fates and the Furies exchanged significant glances as his approach was announced.
The man, the live man, who had committed the unprecedented crime of entering Hell without a licence, and the previous deposit of his soul as security for the good behaviour of his body, stood before the surprised and indignant Court of Hades. Tall and graceful in stature, and crowned with laurels, Proserpine was glad to observe that the man, who was evidently famous, was also good-looking.
‘Thy purpose, mortal?’ inquired Pluto, with awful majesty.
‘Mercy!’ answered the stranger in a voice of exquisite melody, and sufficiently embarrassed to render him interesting.
‘What is mercy?’ inquired the Fates and the Furies.