"Are we to live on this great earth all alone?" they said. "Ah! if we had but the wisdom and cunning of our fathers, we might make a new race of men to bear us company. But now what remains to us? We have only each other for all our kindred."
"Take heart, dear wife," said Deucalion at length, "and let us pray to the gods in yonder temple."
They went thither hand in hand. It touched their hearts to see the sacred steps soiled with the water-weeds,—the altar without fire; but they entered reverently, and besought the Oracle to help them.
"Go forth," answered the spirit of the place, "with your faces veiled and your robes ungirt; and cast behind you, as ye go, the bones of your mother."
Deucalion and Pyrrha heard with amazement. The strange word was terrible to them.
"We may never dare do this," whispered Pyrrha. "It would be impious to strew our mother's bones along the way."
In sadness and wonder they went out together and took thought, a little comforted by the firmness of the dry earth beneath their feet. Suddenly Deucalion pointed to the ground.
"Behold the Earth, our mother!" said he. "Surely it was this that the Oracle meant. And what should her bones be but the rocks that are a foundation for the clay, and the pebbles that strew the path?"
Uncertain, but with lighter hearts, they veiled their faces, ungirt their garments, and, gathering each an armful of the stones, flung them behind, as the Oracle had bidden.
And, as they walked, every stone that Deucalion flung became a man; and every one that Pyrrha threw sprang up a woman. And the hearts of these two were filled with joy and welcome.