give wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her.  A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall.  All her competitors were distanced, and were put to death without mercy.  Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, “Why boast of beating those laggards?  I offer myself for the contest.”  Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not.  “What god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away?  I pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth.  I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me.”  While she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare.  Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Venus:  “Help me, Venus, for you have led me on.”  Venus heard and was propitious.

In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit.  Hence she gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them.  The signal is given; each starts from the goal and skims over the sand.  So light their tread, you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or over the waving grain without sinking.  The cries of the spectators cheered Hippomenes,—­“Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain on her! relax not! one more effort!” It was doubtful whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure.  But his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off.  At that moment he threw down one of the golden apples.  The virgin was all amazement.  She stopped to pick it up.  Hippomenes shot ahead.  Shouts burst forth from all sides.  She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him.  Again he threw an apple.  She stopped again, but again came up with him.  The goal was near; one chance only remained.  “Now, goddess,” said he, “prosper your gift!” and threw the last apple off at one side.  She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside for it.  She did so, and was vanquished.  The youth carried off his prize.

But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they forgot to pay due honor to Venus; and the goddess was provoked at their ingratitude.  She caused them to give offence to Cybele.  That powerful goddess was not to be insulted with impunity.  She took from them their human form and turned them into animals of characters resembling their own:  of the huntress-heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness, and of her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her car, where they are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary or painting, of the goddess Cybele.