claim his reward. Every one said nothing could be more just; but when they came to select the promised child, there was not a family who would make up their minds to give one of theirs; the mothers hid their infants almost in the bosom of the earth. The Centaur, who would not be trifled with, after having waited twice four-and-twenty hours, told the shepherds that he expected they would give him as many children as he stayed days with them, and the delay cost them six little boys and six little girls. From that time forth they regulated this serious affair, and every third year they made a solemn ceremony on the delivery of the poor child to the Centaur.
It was, then, the following morning after the Prince had been taken from the eagle's nest that this tribute was due, and although the child had been already chosen, it is easy to believe the shepherds willingly substituted the Prince: the uncertainty of his birth—for they were so simple they sometimes believed the eagle was his mother—and his wonderful beauty, decided them absolutely to present him to the Centaur, for he was so dainty he would not eat children that were not very pretty. The mother of the infant they had selected, relieved from the horror of contemplating the death of her child, found her despair thus suddenly changed into joy. They desired her to adorn the young Prince for the sacrifice, as she had previously her son. She carefully combed his long hair, and made him a crown of little red and white hedge-roses. She dressed him in a long robe of fine white linen, with a girdle of flowers; thus adorned, he marched at the head of several children who were to accompany him; but how can I describe his lofty air, or the nobleness that already sparkled in his eyes. He who had never seen anything but eagles, and who was still of so tender an age, appeared neither frightened nor wild; it seemed to him that all those shepherds had assembled merely to please him. "Ah, what a pity!" said they to each other; "what, is this child going to be devoured? can we not save it?" Many wept, but it was impossible to avoid making the sacrifice.
The Centaur was in the habit of appearing upon the top of the rock, his club in one hand, his buckler in the other, and from thence, in a dreadful voice, he cried out to the shepherds, "Leave me my prey, and retire." The moment
