"Mortal!" said he, "return with Joy to thy hearth! He who wieldeth the sceptre of Fate hath heard thy petition; and the Child shall be as thou hast asked."
In time the Mother bore a Son. His form rivalled that of the boy-god Cupid. And she rejoiced to think he was the blest of Jupiter.
A year passed on, and the proud Mother saw the Infant bud blossom into the Child.
But the second year came and went, and the Boy increased not in Stature.
The third year stole away, and still the little thing grew not.
The fourth—the fifth—the sixth rolled by, and yet the Child remained in figure as at the end of the first.
Albeit the Mother murmured not, for she remembered the promise of him who wieldeth the sceptre of Fate, and hoped in patience.
But when twelve summers had gone, and the anxious Matron beheld her Boy still a Babe in form though a Youth in years, Hope and Patience left her; and thus she complained:—
"Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! have the promises of the Gods become as those of Men? Didst thou not in thy bounty vouchsafe unto me a Boy that should be the most admired of all thy Children? And what hast thou sent me? A little thing to whom even the shape of Manhood is denied! and at whose stunted figure the world gapes with pitying wonder. Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! for what mysterious good hast thou thus visited me?"
The cloud-compelling Jove heard the Mother's murmurs and thus from on high rebuked her:—