"Hey, easy there." Demo approached the dog cautiously. In his mouth Rough held A thin leather sheet. And burned on its surface were some words. Slowly Demo deciphered them.
"The race is to the swift. Sometimes. Be at the Temple of Mars at sundown. The white feather must . . . ."
He could not make out the rest. The heavy rain had soaked the material, and the remaining words were smudged beyond recognition.
Zeus! It could have come from no other!
"Mother, I must go quickly. Why the temple of Mars? There is no way to reach it by sundown. Still, I must try."
She looked at the falling rain, thought to detain him. Finally she sighed, quickly put more and fresher food in his pouch. "Perhaps you should take the white feather. And do be careful. I had a bad dream last night. I shall not repeat to you, but beware of that which you cannot see."
She hugged him.
In spite of the rain he smiled. The first task was begun.
The race is to the swift. Sometimes.
What strange words these.