It happened, however, that the harvest that year was very great, and the King was at peace with all his neighbours. Moreover, Queen Leda was gentle and gracious to her household, and bountiful to the needy, so that the people began to forgive her for being a foreigner. The next year, in the spring, word came to her husband of a great hunting to be held in the mountains beyond the borders of his kingdom, to which many chiefs and princes were gathering, and he made ready to join them with a goodly company. Very busy were his men, sharpening and burnishing hunting-spears and knives, seeing to the horses, and to the great Laconian hounds of famous breed that could pull down wolf and wild-boar, and even the mountain-bull. Busy too was the Queen, looking well that her women prepared all needful food for the journey, and sorting out coverlets and bedding and garments for the King's use, for he would perhaps be many weeks among the hills. Then, when he was gone, the palace seemed to her silent and empty, and a strange sadness came into her heart. That night she lay long awake, and when at last she slept, her old nurse, who had crept in to watch her, saw the tears stealing down her cheeks. "Child of my heart," said the old crone, bending over her, "never may the dream come true that you weep to see."

"Nurse," said Leda, starting up, "have I been asleep? Who spoke to me just now? Who came and told me—" She could say no more, and hid her face in her hands.

The old crone made the sign that drives away evil magic. "No one has entered, my Queen," she said. "Have I not kept watch at your chamber-door? This was some dream; come, let me hear it, it may be I can read it for you, and if it bodes misfortune (which the gods avert) you shall take counsel of some seer."

"No, no," cried Leda, and wrung her hands. "To no one can I tell it. Let me alone, nurse."

Nor could the nurse coax her into saying another word, and her silence vexed the old woman, who had no small skill in signs and omens.

Next morning, the Queen, as was then the custom of queens, herself gave orders to her women for all the work of the day; and because the time had come round for a great washing of the household linen, she went down to the river to see that they did it properly. The younger handmaids were very merry over this work, which they liked much better than scrubbing and scouring, and weaving and spinning indoors. They knelt on the low bank and plunged the clothes into the shallow running water, and some of them tucked up their robes and paddled in to tread the clothes clean on the pebbly river-bed, just as Highland lassies used to do, not so very long ago. The sun was but just risen when they began their work, and all was done before the heat of the day set in. Then they took their pleasant meal of bread and figs and wine in the grassy meadow, and some lay down to rest, but the young girls began a game at ball. Many a happy day had Leda spent in this way in her girlhood, and always, till to-day, she had loved to watch the sport and join in the laughter and singing, but now, because her heart was heavy, she went and sat a little way off from the others, thinking strange thoughts. "See," cried a girl presently, as she tossed up the ball, "see those two great birds flying overhead!"

"Birds, said you," croaked the old nurse, peering up. "Ay, ay wild geese, most like, of your feather, my girl. Well may they flock hither, if the old proverb hold true."

"Your tongue is sharper than your eyes, old woman," laughed another handmaid, "for one of those birds is an eagle. Look, sisters, look, how fiercely he chases the other! Round and round they fly—and lower and lower. See, the other is wearied out—ah, the beautiful creature, it is as white as snow."

"It is a swan," said Leda coming forward. All now stood still to watch this strange chase. The swan was wearied out indeed, and its great white wings flapped ever more feebly as it circled downward. Nearer and nearer it came to the spot where the women stood, till they shrieked and scattered in fear as the huge eagle swooped after it close to their heads. Only Leda did not move, and just as the beautiful bird sank at her feet, she threw her arms round it with a cry of pity, and shielded it with her mantle from those cruel claws. And, strange to tell, the eagle did not harm her. Up he soared into the sky, higher and higher he flew, till he was seen no more.

Now all the women had fled towards the palace, for they made certain that the eagle would kill the Queen with one blow of his beak, and even the old nurse had hobbled off as fast as she could for terror. Leda was left alone with the swan on the river-bank. She drew her mantle off the trembling bird, and stroked its head and smoothed its silvery wings, and told it it was safe, for the eagle was gone. It seem to understand her, and came closer to her side, looking into her face with its lustrous eyes.

"Beautiful swan," she said, "why have you lingered in our country when winter has gone? Always, when the summer is over, we see your brothers and sisters come flocking from over the mountains, and they live all winter in the reed-beds of our river. But they fly back in the spring to their own lands, the far North land that was once my father's home." "Lady," said the swan, "far is that land, but not so far as mine. Farther then ever swan has flown have I journeyed to look on one who is whiter than any swan."

Then Leda trembled very much, for she knew that this was not a real swan, and that the gods could take any shape that pleased them, when they came among men, and she bowed herself humbly before the great bird, "Oh, my lord," she said, "be gracious to your handmaid. If indeed I speak to one of the blessed gods, tell me, I pray, by what name I may call you." This she said, because the Immortals were most particular about being called by their right names. "Fear nothing, sweet Leda," said the swan. "As for my name, I am he whose servant is the eagle. And I bade him chase me in this shape to your feet, that I might learn if you are as kind as you are fair." Then Leda knew that King Zeus himself talked with her, and she was the more afraid. But the swan bent his arching neck, and laid his head gently on her arm. "Because you did not fear to save the hunted bird," he said, "ask what you will, and I will do it." Leda remembered her dream, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "Gracious Zeus," she said, "I know not what to ask. I have everything a queen can wish for, except children, and if you had come to me only yesterday, that is the gift I would have chosen. But last night I had a cruel dream. I thought I stood before the holy temple at Delphi, waiting while my husband inquired of the oracle if children should be born to us. Then a veiled messenger came out and said to me, 'The priestess has spoken. Twin children shall be born to King Tyndareus, an only son and an only daughter, and they shall both be slain while he yet lives.' At these words I awoke, weeping, and my nurse asked me my dream. But I dare not tell it to any one, for if the people hear of it, they will say, 'This is what comes of the King marrying an outlander,' and if my husband hears of it, his heart will be turned from me because I bring this evil on his house. Alas, alas! that the King should go down to his grave childless, and leave no son to sit upon his throne. And I have heard, O mightiest of the gods, that even you cannot turn away their doom from hapless mortals."

"You have heard truly, lady," the swan answered, "for a law that cannot be broken governs all things in earth and heaven. Great is the power of the gods, but it is like the power of the sea, whose terrible waves cannot pass their appointed bounds. Yet, with our help, the thing that must come to pass may bring with it more good than evil. So now take comfort, and when your children come, the swan's gift shall come with them. But remember that you tell no one whence it came, nor who it was you saved from the eagle." So saying, he flapped his broad wings as if to fly; softly they brushed across Leda's eyes, and that instant she fell asleep.

Meanwhile, the women who had rushed home to the palace crying that the Queen was killed, came back with guards and serving-men to look for her, and were very much astonished because they could see no trace of her. Stranger still, they could not find the spot where they had left her. The flat and grassy bank where they had spread the linen to dry was just as they had left it, but a little way up stream, where the Queen had stood, they saw instead of level meadow a bed of tall reeds and rushes. "We are bewitched," they cried. "Yonder, just where the river makes a bend, is the very spot where the swan alighted." But the men mocked them, and said, "Are you all crazed with fright, you silly wenches? What, did you play ball in a reed-bed? Come, show us where you left our mistress, or it will be the worse for you."

Now the old nurse had followed the others, crying and lamenting, and expecting every moment to see her lady lying dead. But when she saw the rushes waving where no rushes had been, it came into her mind that this might be the Water Fairies' doing. These Fairies, who were called Naiads in those days, are the gentlest and kindest of all (the Tree Fairies are kind-hearted too, but rather changeable, for their temper depends a good deal on the weather), and they delight in helping mortals in distress. One reason is, that many of them were once mortals themselves, who fell into the water, or jumped in to get away from some enemy, and so were drowned. The old nurse thought that one of them had most likely made the rushes spring up to hide Leda and the swan from the eagle. And she was very nearly right, only the Naiad had done it to make a bower for Leda while she rested. So the old crone went boldly forward, and pushed aside the screen of rushes. And there, with joy and wonder, they saw their Queen lying fast asleep, looking, as the old nurse said, just like a snow-white swan in its nest amont the reeds.

Weeks went by and months went by, and still King Tyndareus did not come home from the hunting. Word came that he had sworn friendship with another prince who had saved his life from a savage boar, and was gone to help him win back his kingdom from a usurper. All this time Leda kept the swan's secret, as he had bidden her, and when the old nurse questioned her about what had happened, she only smiled and spoke of something else. So the old crone told the other women that the Naiad had hidden the Queen by enchantment in the nick of time, and they all believed her, and often threw flowers and cakes into the river to please that good fairy. At last news was brought to the palace that the King had helped his friend to win a great victory, and was coming home with much spoil. Already, said the messenger, he was near at hand, and in two days' time he would enter the city. That same night the Queen had a little son and a little daughter, and they were put to sleep in two ivory cradles beside their mother's bed. Before sunrise next morning she was awakened by a sound like the flapping of wings. She looked round, and saw nothing—only on the ledge of the open window lay a white feather. Then she leaned down and peeped into the cradles, and there, beside each baby, was a swan's egg among the pillows. "That is the gift," she thought, "but what can be the use of it?" and she took one of the eggs in her hand to look at it. Instantly the shell cracked in two, and she saw inside it the loveliest baby, like a little doll. The tiny creature stretched out its arms to her and smiled; then, quickly as you can blow a bubble, it grew in her hand till it was as large as other babies. Full of wonder, she took the egg from the other cradle, and the same thing happened. The two swan-children were as like as two peas, only the one she had taken from her little son's cradles was a baby boy, ant the other was a baby girl. Leda knew that directly, because all new babies suck their thumbs if they are boys, and their fingers if they are girls. Then Leda began to think hard how she might keep the wonderful present without telling who had sent it.

Now every one in the palace was so busy getting ready for the King's home-coming that only the old nurse could be spared to wait on the Queen, so no one else knew yet of her having twins. Leda resolved to show the old woman the swan-babies at once, and make her promise to give out that they also were the Queen's children. "I will bring them up as my own," she said to herself, "and so, even if my two poor little ones must die untimely, the King and I will not be left childless in our old age." And she gave thanks to Zeus for his gift.

Quickly came the old nurse at her lady's call, and loud were her cries of wonder when she saw the swan-babies. She willingly promised never to tell any one they were not the King's children, for she said, "One never knows what may happen, and a king with one son is like a ship with one anchor." But when she asked eagerly if Leda has seen nothing and heard nothing of the babies' coming, the Queen only said, "They were here when I awoke." The old crone was very shrewd and terribly inquisitive, and she thought to herself, "The Queen knows more than she will tell me, or why is she not more astonished at this marvellous thing? She does not seem to think it the least surprising to wake up and find four babies instead of two. Something, for sure, has troubled her since that dream she had, and I shall have no rest till I find out what all this means." So thinking, she began prying round the room, and soon found two things that made her more curious than ever. On the window-sill was a white swan's feather, and under the cradle of the girl-babies was the broken shell of a swan's egg. Leda had hidden the other in her bed, but this one had fallen to the floor, and she forgot it. The cunning old crone said nothing, but the moment Leda's back was turned she picked up both eggshell and feather, and hid them in a coffer. "Some day," she thought, "these tokens may bring to light the truth."

A happy man was King Tyndareus when he saw those lovely children, and they pleased him more than all the treasures he brought home with him.

As time went on the two little princes grew up to be the handsomest and bravest lads that ever were seen in Laconia, and the two little princesses were the talk of the whole kingdom for their beauty. One of these maidens was dark-eyed and dark-haired, and her name was Clytaemnestra; the other, who was called Helen, was so enchanting in her loveliness that no one could refuse her anything, and everybody spoiled her. Strangely enough, although was one of the swan-children, she had the same violet eyes and golden hair as Leda. The two princesses were sought in marriage by so many king's sons, that their father feared to bestow them on any lest the others should take offence and make war upon him. Therefore he invited all the suitors to a wedding-feast, and said to them, "Princes, my daughters shall make their own choice from among you, but first you shall take an oath that whoever they choose, all the rest of you will fight for my sons-in-law if ever they are in need of help." All the suitors agreed to this condition, and thus King Tyndareus made sure allies for himself and his family. The princesses were brought into the hall to see their suitors, and they chose the two sons of a king named Atreus, and were married that same day with great pomp and splendour. Now what befell them afterwards is the most famous of all stories, but here we bid them farewell, for this tale is about their brothers.