Not many days after, an old pedlar came to the king's house in Scyros, and the princess and her maidens flocked into the hall to see his wares. The pedlar spread out his great pack, and showed them all his rarities—snowy lawn of Cyprus, shawls of Tyrian purple, necklaces of amber, and golden girdles studded with Eastern turquoise. He eyed the girls keenly while they eagerly fingered the trinkets, and chaffered with him over such as pleased their fancy, and he marked that one only looked carelessly on, and chose nothing. And to her the princess said, "Pyrrha, my sweet, do you care for none of these pretty thing? Come, choose some jewel, what you will, and let me make you a gift of it." But Pyrrha answered, "Nay, dearest princess, I have no mind to any of these baubles." At that, the pedlar smiled, and the princess said to him, "Old man, have you shown us all your store? If you have kept some choice trinket to the last, as pedlars use, let Pyrrha see if it pleases her better than the rest."

"Gracious lady," said the pedlar, "I have on thing left, but it is no toy to please a maiden." So saying, he drew from its wrappings a sword of rare workmanship, ivory-hilted, with golden lions inwrought on its blade of dark-blue steel. Pyrrha's eyes sparkled at sight of it; she took it from his hand, poised it in her own, and cried, "This is the gift for me, if the pedlar asks not too great a price for such a goodly weapon."

"It is yours without a price," answered the pedlar, "if you dare use it—Achilles!" And suddenly he tore off beard and coarse mantle, and stood before them a bronze-corsleted warrior. For he was none other than Odysseus, and this was how he found the son of Peleus. "There is some treachery," cried the princess, and she fled out of the hall with the other maidens. Achilles was both ashamed and angry that he had betrayed himself to this cunning stranger, but Odysseus with artful words soon changed his mood, telling hi of the glory to be won at Troy, and how Peleus himself desired to send him with twenty ships to that war. Then Achilles forgot all else in eagerness for that great adventure, and would have sailed that very hour in the ship of Odysseus which waited him in a lonely bay, but he said, "If I go with you to the host in these maiden's robes, I shall be shamed for ever." "That have I cared for," said Odysseus, and he unrolled a bale of fine linen, and took out a suit of armour, and clad the youth in it, girding him with the sword. At that moment the King came in to them from the fields, for he had been watching the sowers, and his daughter had run to him there. "Ah, son of Thetis," he said, "you, then, were the maiden your mother bade me harbour. I guesses so much, when I heard my daughter's tale, for I knew Achilles was the name that gracious sea-queen gave her child. Now, as I hear, you are found by this stranger. Let me understand, I pray, what brings him here." Straightway Odysseus told his errand, and to win the King upon his side, he declared the prophecy that Troy could not be taken without help of one sprung from Peleus. This the King no sooner heard than he desired to have alliance with the youth who was destined to such greatness, and said, "How blessed is Peleus, who has a son so highly favoured of the gods. Would that I too might hear Achilles call me father." "King of Scyros," said the youth, with a rosy blush, "if your fair daughter can love Achilles as she loved Pyrrha, it would please me well to call you by that name. But this is no time for marrying or giving in marriage, and I must begone."

"Nay," said the King, "what needs such haste? Let Odysseus go to Phthia and take the fifty ships your father promised to where the hose is mustering, and stay you here meanwhile. We will have your wedding this very day, and in seven days you also shall sail to the trysting-place. So will no time be lost, for Odysseus will take seven days in going and returning."

And Odysseus consented to go, but before he left them he said, "I hear of you, Achilles, that you hate a lie worse than death. Pledge me your word, therefore, that in seven days you will come without fail to the harbour of Aulis, for that is the trysting-place." So Achilles gave his word, and forthwith Odysseus departed.

Now the King had told his daughter whom he guessed Pyrrha to be, and she wept bitterly because her loved playmate was no maiden, as she thought, but a youth who perhaps had scorned her all this time in secret for her girlish ways. And she had offered him one of those glittering trifles (baubles, he called them, truly), whose rightful wear was the armour of a prince! It seemed to her that she could never look him in the face again for very shame, and she stole away by herself, and went down to the seashore, and sat there, weeping. Presently she began to reproach Thetis aloud for what she had done, calling seaward, and saying, "O Lady of the waves, why have you dealt so evilly with us? Do not we of this isle honour you and your sisters above all the goddesses, because of your kindly help to our fishermen? Many a boat have you brought safe to shore in tempest, many a great shoal of tunny have you driven into their nets, but have we ever forgotten to be grateful? If you had trusted my father with the truth about the guest you brought him, I had not been shamed this day."

Then Thetis, rising through the deep, came to her where she sat, and she too was weeping. "King's daughter," she said, "it was to save my child from doom that I hid him here, for he must fall in battle if he goes where the hateful Odysseus seeks to take him. Yes, it was Odysseus, that crafty fox, who played the pedlar, and now he has found Achilles, he will bend him to his purpose with cunning words. But you, if you have any pity for my son, may save him yet."

"I would give my life for his," said the princess, casting down her eyes; "only tell me what I must do." Thetis smiled through her tears, and answered, "I will tell you that on our way to the palace. Come, let us be going, for I am in haste to meet my son." So as they went together, Thetis told the princess that she was to be married to Achilles that same day, and prayed her to keep him from going forth to Troy. "How can I do that?" asked the princess. "Ask him what he will give you for a bride-gift," said Thetis, "and he will bid you choose what you will. Then say you choose the granting of the first request you make to him, and let that request be, that he will not leave you for a year."

Now when they came to the palace, they found all things ready for the marriage, and the maidens were waiting to deck the bride in her finest jewels and array, and when they had attired her, Thetis set her own crown of pearls on her hair, saying, "These are the bride-price my son pays on his marriage, as the custom is." Then were Achilles and the princess wedded, with pomp and great rejoicings, and the King held a feast for all comers. And after the marriage, the princess sought a gift from Achilles, as Thetis had counselled, and he bade her choose what she would. "I desire nothing but this," she said, "that you will grant the first request I shall make."

"Deidamia," said Achilles (that was the name of the princess), "I love you too well to refuse anything you ask me, if it be not against my honour to do it. Prove me now, and let me hear your first request." But when she asked him to stay with her for a year, he told her that could not be, for he had given his word to Odysseus to set sail for Aulis in seven days. Nor could all her tears and entreaties move him to break his promise, although his sould was troubled at her distress. So, on the seventh day they parted, with many a tender, sad farewell; heavy were their young hearts that day, and dark forebodings came to them that they should see each other no more for ever. Yet Achilles comforted his bride as best he might, bidding her hope for his return with a victor's spoils from the war, and then, not to grieve him too sorely, she feigned better cheer, and looked her last on him with a smile. Thus the son of Peleus and the Sea-King's daughter went forth to Troy, as it was ordained; but what befell him there of sorrow and glory we leave untold, for such matters are too high and moving for a mere fairy-tale.