into the woods, and hides her daughter among the
leafy hills, all to snatch from the Teucrians the bridal
bed and delay the kindling of Hymen’s torch. “Evoe 25
Bacchus!” is her cry; “thou, and none but thou art
fit mate for a maid like this. See! for thee she takes up
the sacred wand, for thee she leads the dance, for thee she
grows her dedicated hair.” Fame flies abroad; other
mothers are instinct with frenzy, and all have the same 30
mad passion driving them to seek a new home. They
have left their houses, and are spreading hair and shoulders