Poor fellow! He had evidently stood there a long while. An ancient forest had been growing and decaying around his feet, and oak trees of six or seven centuries old had sprung from the acorns, and forced themselves between his toes. The giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and, perceiving Hercules, roared out:
“Who are you, down at my feet, there? And whence do you come in that little cup?”
“I am Hercules!” thundered back the hero. “And I am seeking for the garden of the Hesperides!”
“Ho! ho! ho!” roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. “That is a wise adventure, truly!”
“And why not?” cried Hercules. “Do you think I am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads?”
Just at this time, while they were talking together, some black clouds gathered about the giant’s middle and burst into a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that Hercules found it impossible to distinguish a word. Only the giant’s immeasurable legs were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest, and now and then a momentary glimpse of his whole figure mantled in a volume of mist. He seemed to be speaking most of the time, but his big, deep, rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the thunder-claps and rolled away over the hills like them.
At last the storm swept over as suddenly as it had come. And there again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height and illuminating it against the background of the sullen thunder-clouds. So far above the shower had been his head that not a hair of it was moistened by the raindrops.
When the giant could see Hercules still standing on the seashore, he roared out to him anew:
“I am Atlas, the mightiest giant in the world! And I hold the sky upon my head!”
“So I see,” answered Hercules. “But can you show me the way to the garden of the Hesperides?”