Heph. How can you tell that?
Ap. He picked up a dead tortoise somewhere or other, and contrived an instrument with it. He fitted horns to it, with a cross-bar, stuck in pegs, inserted a bridge, and played a sweet tuneful thing that made an old harper like me quite envious. Even at night, Maia was saying, he does not stay in Heaven; he goes down poking his nose into Hades—on a thieves’ errand, no doubt. Then he has a pair of wings, and he has made himself a magic wand, which he uses for marshalling souls—convoying the dead to their place.
Heph. Ah, I gave him that, for a toy.
Ap. And by way of payment he stole—
Heph. Well thought on; I must go and get them; you may be right about the baby-linen.
H.
VIII Hephaestus. Zeus
Heph. What are your orders, Zeus? You sent for me, and here I am; with such an edge to my axe as would cleave a stone at one blow.
Zeus. Ah; that’s right, Hephaestus. Just split my head in half, will you?
Heph. You think I am mad, perhaps?—Seriously, now, what can I do for you?