and you, tender-hearted priestess of a gracious goddess—­leading us friends of the Muse—­we pursue a different course!  What a mound of corpses!  And what will become of it?  Perhaps a few geese and ducks will go into the kitchen; but the rest—­the red flamingoes and the brave pelicans who feed their young with their own blood?  They are only fit to throw away, for the Biamites eat no game that is shot, and your black slaves, too, would refuse to taste it.  So we destroy hundreds of lives for pastime.  Base word!  As if we had so many superfluous hours at our disposal ere we descend into Hades.  A philosopher among brutes would be entitled to cry out, ‘Shame upon you, raging monster!’”

“Shame on you, you perpetual grumbler,” interrupted Daphne in an offended tone.  “Who would ever have thought it cruel to test the steady hand and the keen eye upon senseless animals in the joyous chase?  But what shall we call the fault-finder, who spoils his friend’s innocent enjoyment of a happy morning by his sharp reproaches?”

Hermon shrugged his shoulders, and, in a voice which expressed far more compassion than resentment, answered:  “If this pile of dead birds pleases you, go on with the slaughter.  You can sometimes save the arrows and catch the swarming game with your hands.  If your lifeless victims yonder were human beings, after all, they would have cause to thank you; for what is existence?”

“To these creatures, everything,” said Myrtilus, the Alexandrian’s other cousin, beckoning to Daphne, who had summoned him to her aid by a beseeching glance, to draw nearer.  “Gladly as I would always and everywhere uphold your cause, I can not do so this time.  Only look here!  Your arrow merely broke the wing of yonder sea eagle, and he is just recovering from the shock.  What a magnificent fellow!  How wrathfully and vengefully his eyes sparkle!  How fiercely he stretches his brave head toward us in helpless fury, and—­step back!—­how vigorously, spite of the pain of his poor, wounded, drooping pinion, he flaps the other, and raises his yellow claws to punish his foes!  His plumage glistens and shines exquisitely where it lies smooth, and how savagely he puffs out the feathers on his neck!  A wonderful spectacle!  The embodiment of powerful life!  And the others by his side.  We transformed the poor creatures into a motionless, miserable mass, and just now they were cleaving the air with their strong wings, proclaiming by proud, glad cries to their families among the reeds their approach with an abundant store of prey.  Every one was a feast to the eyes before our arrows struck it, and now?  When Hermon, with his pitying heart, condemns this kind of hunting, he is right.  It deprives free, harmless creatures of their best possession—­life—­and us thereby of a pleasant sight.  In general, a bird’s existence seems to me also of little value, but beauty, to me as to you, transcends everything else.  What would existence be without it? and wherever it appears, to injure it is infamous.”