What deity bestowed artful trickery on the baffled mother? What mood diverted stubborn Achilles? It fell out that Scyros was celebrating a day in honour of Pallas of the Beach. The sisterhood, daughters of mild Lycomedes, had left their native walls on the holy morning (a rare licence) to give spring’s riches to the goddess and bind her austere tresses with foliage and scatter flowers upon her spear. All possessed surpassing beauty, all were dressed alike; they had reached the term of tender modesty, their maidenhood, their burgeoning years, were ripe for the marriage bed. But as Venus overwhelms the green Sea Nymphs when she joins them, as Diana’s shoulders outtop the Naiads, so far does Deidamia, queen of the fair choir, shine out eclipsing her lovely sisters. Purple is fired by her rosy face, her gems have more brilliance, her gold more allure. Her form equals the goddess’ own, would she but lay aside her bosom’s snakes and pacify her countenance, helmet removed. When the truculent boy, whose heart no stirring had ever assailed, saw her leading her attendant column from far ahead, he stiffened and drank novel flame in all his bones. Nor does his draught of love stay hidden; the brand waving in his inmost parts goes to his face and tinges the brightness of his cheeks, wandering over them with a light sweat as they feel the impulse. As when the Massagetae darken their cups of milk with scarlet blood or when ivory is tainted with purple dye, such is the sudden fire manifest by various signs, paling and blushing. He would go forward and wildly disrupt the rituals of his hosts, careless of the crowd and oblivious of his years, did not modesty and reverence for the mother by his side hold him back. As when the future father and leader of the herd, whose horns have not yet finished their full circle, looks upon the snow-white heifer who shares his pasture, his spirit takes fire and first love foams through his mouth, while the merry cowherds watch and oppose him.