smiting on her arms with her flat hands, calls for help and
summons the rough country folk. They—for the fell
fiend is lurking in the silence of the forest—are at her
side ere she looks for them, armed one with a seared brand,
one with a heavy knotted stock: what each first finds as he 5
gropes about, anger makes do weapon’s service. Tyrrheus
musters the company, just as the news found him, splitting
an oak in four with convergent wedges, catching up an
axe and breathing savage rage. But the cruel goddess,
seizing from her watch-tower the moment of mischief, 10