Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted all of Grecian lineage.  Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way with lightsome step, full of the god.  Already the towers of Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune.  No living object was in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead taking the same course as himself in their migration to a southern clime.  “Good luck to you, ye friendly squadrons,” he exclaimed, “my companions from across the sea.  I take your company for a good omen.  We come from far and fly in search of hospitality.  May both of us meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!”

He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.  There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his way.  He must yield or fight.  But his hand, accustomed to the lyre, and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless.  He called for help on men and gods, but his cry reached no defender’s ear.  “Then here must I die,” said he, “in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and see none to avenge my cause.”  Sore wounded, he sank to the earth, when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead.  “Take up my cause, ye cranes,” he said, “since no voice but yours answers to my cry.”  So saying he closed his eyes in death.

The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had expected him as a guest.  “Is it thus I find you restored to me?” he exclaimed.  “I who hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath of triumph in the strife of song!”

The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with dismay.  All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.  They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.

But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feast?  Did he fall by the hands of robbers or did some private enemy slay him?  The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld it.  Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain.  Perhaps in their own temple’s enclosure he defies the gods mingling freely in this throng of men that now presses into the amphitheatre.

For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way.  The murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.

And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre.  Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings?