more of an expert, gathered the locks that were billowing over

her mistress’ neck in a knot, though her own stayed floating and free.

Néphele, Hýale, Rhamis, Psecas and Phíale charged

their capacious urns with water and stood all ready to pour it.

And while the virgin goddess was taking her bath in her usual

pool, as fate would have it, Actaeon, Cadmus’ grandson,

wandered into the glade. His hunting could wait, he thought,

as he sauntered aimlessly through the unfamiliar woodland.

Imagine the scene as he entered: the grotto, the splashing fountains,

the group of nymphs in the nude. At once, at the sight of a man,

they struck their bosoms in horror, their sudden screams re-echoing

through the encircling woods. They clustered around Diana

to form a screen with their bodies, but sadly the goddess was taller;

her neck and shoulders were visible over the heads of her maidens.

Think of the crimson glow on the clouds when struck by the rays

of the setting sun; or think of the rosy-fingered dawn;

such was the blush on the face of Diana observed quite naked.

Although her companion nymphs had formed a barrier round her,

she stood with her front turned sideways and looked at the rash intruder

over her shoulder. She wished that her arrows were ready to hand,

but used what she could, caught up some water and threw it into

the face of the man. As she splashed his hair with revengeful drops,

she spoke the spine-chilling words which warned of impending disaster:

‘Now you may tell the story of seeing Diana naked –

If story-telling is in your power!’ No more was needed.

The head she had sprinkled sprouted the horns of a lusty stag;

the neck expanded, the ears were narrowed to pointed tips;

she changed his hands into hooves and his arms into long and slender

forelegs; she covered his frame in a pelt of dappled buckskin;

last, she injected panic. The son of Autónoë bolted,

surprising himself with his speed as he bounded away from the clearing.

But when he came to a pool and set eyes on his head and antlers,

‘Oh, dear god!’ he was going to say; but no words followed.

All the sound he produced was a moan, as the tears streamed over

his strange new face. It was only his feelings that stayed unchanged.

What could he do? Make tracks for his home in the royal palace?

Or hide in the woodlands? Each was precluded by shame or fear.

He wavered in fearful doubt. And then his dogs caught sight of him.

First to sound on the trail were Blackfoot and sharp-nosed Tracker –

Tracker of Cretan breed and Blackfoot a Spartan pointer.

Others came bounding behind them, fast as the gusts of the storm wind:

Ravenous, Mountain-Ranger, Gazelle, his Arcadian deerhounds;

powerful Fawnkiller, Hunter the fierce, and violent Hurricane;

Wingdog, fleetest of foot, and Chaser, the keenest-scented;