He would turn away, and yet he could not. Fascinated he noted the wrinkled face, the gnarled hands, the tired eyes.
My youth, to have fled so quickly! The Curse of Cronus indeed!
Night shadows were fast enveloping the land. He cut soft limbs and foliage to make his bed. It mattered not. All beds to him were hard. Emptying his pouch he nearly dropped the mirror of Venus.
He caught it before it struck the ground. I need no more bad luck, the thought crossed his mind.
The image of Venus brought tears to his eyes. The beauty reflected in the mirror but days before had disappeared. Now was seen but an old crone, straggly hair, wrinkled face, bent back. Still the eyes tore at his soul.
The sad eyes that held remembrance of beauty beyond that of all beings. They seemed to say, "If I could but forget what once I was. Then I could more readily bear this plight."
He shuddered, held the mirror in his hand as he stretched out on his forest bower. Sleep would come soon. And with sleep, Cronus!
And so it was. Cronus stood silent at the foot of his sylvan bed. He held an object in his hand, gazed at it in deep thought.
The mirror of Venus!
He had taken it from the bed where Demo lay. Slowly Cronus lowered the mirrored, glanced at the boy. Demo stirred, looked with tired eyes at his visitor.