We had a massive herd, innumerable to the eye, to stand on hilltops and loiter by the reedy streams in eventime. It joyed us to stand on our porch with the sun resting half-behind the hills — the sands at our back — and watch them coming down those unsteady paths of theirs. How clear-voiced was Eurytion as he drove them homeward! We were well content to stand in the gloaming twilight. The stars would be there above us when we sought our rest, and deep and sad was the nightsong of the beeves in their stockades.

This was ours! These were our riches!

Who can say we were not generous? What traveler has cause to complain of our hospitality? We are not much visited, it is true, and we were never much loved, but we are not cruel! We are not wasters nor misers!

This was our peace!

The cowherd has died: we found his body in the moonlight when he did not return in the evening. His dog — poor, loyal Orthus, brave against the lions and the catamounts — his back was broken. What madness is this? What thief has found our little idyll?

Great shall be our vengeance!