Once or twice Pegasus stopped and snuffed the air, pricking up his ears, tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly suspected some mischief or other.  Seeing nothing, however, and hearing no sound, he soon began his antics again.  At length—­not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious—­Pegasus folded his wings and lay down on the soft green turf.  But, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back with his four slender legs in the air.  It was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long.  The more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed.  Bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up with the speed of an arrow-flight into the farthest blue of the sky.  Finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, Pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his forelegs in order to rise from the ground; and Bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket and leaped astride of his back.

Yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse!

But what a bound did Pegasus make when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins!  A bound, indeed!  Before he had time to draw a breath Bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger.  Upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold, misty bosom of a cloud at which, only a little while before, Bellerophon had been gazing and fancying it a very pleasant spot.  Then again, out of the heart of the cloud, Pegasus shot down like a thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider head-long against a rock.  Then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse.

I cannot tell you half that he did.  He skimmed straight forward, and sideways, and backward.  He reared himself erect, with his forelegs on a wreath of mist and his hind legs on nothing at all.  He flung out his heels behind and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward.  At about two miles’ height above the earth he turned a somersault, so that Bellerophon’s heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up.  He twisted his head about, and, looking Bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him.  He fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and, floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived in memory of Pegasus and Bellerophon.