“But the dragon of the Hesperides, you know,” observed one of the damsels, “has a hundred heads!”
“Nevertheless,” replied the stranger, “I would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra.”
The traveler proceeded to tell how he chased a very swift stag for a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at last caught it by the antlers and carried it home alive. And he had fought with a very odd race of people, half-horses and half-men, and had put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly figures might never be seen any more.
“Do you call that a wonderful exploit?” asked one of the young maidens, with a smile. “Any clown in the country has done as much.”
“Perhaps you may have heard of me before,” said he modestly. “My name is Hercules.”
“We have already guessed it,” replied the maidens, “for your wonderful deeds are known all over the world. We do not think it strange any longer that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the Hesperides. Come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!”
Then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty shoulders, so that the lion’s skin was almost entirely covered with roses. They took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms that not a finger’s breadth of its oaken substance could be seen. Lastly, they joined hands and danced around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and grew into a choral song in honor of the illustrious Hercules.
“Dear maidens,” said he, when they paused to take breath, “now that you know my name, will you not tell me how I am to reach the garden of the Hesperides?”
“We will give you the best directions we can,” replied the damsels. “You must go to the seashore and find out the Old One, and compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found.”
“The Old One!” repeated Hercules, laughing at this odd name. “And pray, who may the Old One be?”