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‘Well?’ inquired Jove; and all Olympus trembled at the monosyllable.

Mercury shook his head.

‘Her Majesty has been walking on the terrace with the King of Thessaly,’ replied Ganymede.

‘Where is she now, sir?’ demanded Jupiter.

Mercury shrugged his shoulders.

‘Her Majesty is resting herself in the pavilion of Cupid, with the King of Thessaly,’ replied Ganymede.

‘Confusion!’ exclaimed the Father of Gods and men; and he rose and seized a candle from the table, scattering the cards in all directions. Every one present, Minerva and Venus, and Mars and Apollo, and Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses, and the Graces, and all the winged genii–each seized a candle; rifling the chandeliers, each followed Jove.

‘This way,’ said Mercury.

‘This way,’ said Ganymede.

‘This way, this way!’ echoed the celestial crowd.

‘Mischief!’ cried Cupid; ‘I must save my victims.’

They were all upon the terrace. The Father of Gods and men, though both in a passion and a hurry, moved with dignity. It was, as customary in Heaven, a clear and starry night; but this eve Diana was indisposed, or otherwise engaged, and there was no moonlight. They were in sight of the pavilion.

‘What are you?’ inquired Cupid of one of the genii, who accidentally extinguished his candle.

‘I am a cloud,’ answered the winged genius.

‘A cloud! Just the thing. Now do me a shrewd turn, and Cupid is ever your debtor. Fly, fly, pretty cloud, and encompass yon pavilion with your form. Away! ask no questions; swift as my word.’

‘I declare there is a fog,’ said Venus.

‘An evening mist in Heaven!’ said Minerva.

‘Where is Nox?’ said Jove. ‘Everything goes wrong. Who ever heard of a mist in Heaven?’

‘My candle is out,’ said Apollo.

‘And mine, too,’ said Mars.

‘And mine, and mine, and mine,’ said Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses and the Graces.

‘All the candles are out!’ said Cupid; ‘a regular fog. I cannot even see the pavilion: it must be hereabouts, though,’ said the God to himself. ‘So, so; I should be at home in my own pavilion, and am tolerably accustomed to stealing about in the dark. There is a step; and here, surely, is the lock. The door opens, but the cloud enters before me. Juno, Juno,’ whispered the God of Love, ‘we are all here. Be contented to escape, like many other innocent dames, with your reputation only under a cloud: it will soon disperse; and lo! the heaven is clearing.’

‘It must have been the heat of our flambeaux,’ said Venus; ‘for see, the mist is vanished; here is the pavilion.’

Ganymede ran forward, and dashed open the door. Ixion was alone.

‘Seize him!’ said Jove.

‘Juno is not here,’ said Mercury, with an air of blended congratulation and disappointment.

‘Never mind,’ said Jove; ‘seize him! He kept me waiting for dinner.’

‘Is this your hospitality, AEgiochus?’ exclaimed Ixion, in a tone of bullying innocence. ‘I shall defend myself.’

‘Seize him, seize him!’ exclaimed Jupiter. ‘What! do you all falter? Are you afraid of a mortal?’

‘And a Thessalian?’ added Ganymede.

No one advanced.

‘Send for Hercules,’ said Jove.

‘I will fetch him in an instant,’ said Ganymede.

‘I protest,’ said the King of Thessaly, ‘against this violation of the most sacred rights.’

‘The marriage tie?’ said Mercury.

‘The dinner-hour?’ said Jove.

‘It is no use talking sentiment to Ixion,’ said Venus; ‘all mortals are callous.’

‘Adventures are to the adventurous,’ said Minerva.

‘Here is Hercules! here is Hercules!’

‘Seize him!’ said Jove; ‘seize that man.’

In vain the mortal struggled with the irresistible demigod.

‘Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?’ inquired Ganymede.

‘Anything short of eternal punishment is unworthy of a God,’ answered Jupiter, with great dignity. ‘Apollo, bring me a wheel of your chariot.’

‘What shall I do to-morrow morning?’ inquired the God of Light.

‘Order an eclipse,’ replied Jove. ‘Bind the insolent wretch to the wheel; hurl him to Hades; its motion shall be perpetual.’

‘What am I to bind him with?’ inquired Hercules.

‘The girdle of Venus,’ replied the Thunderer.

‘What is all this?’ inquired Juno, advancing, pale and agitated.

‘Come along; you shall see,’ answered Jupiter. ‘Follow me, follow me.’

They all followed the leader, all the Gods, all the genii; in the midst, the brawny husband of Hebe bearing Ixion aloft, bound to the fatal wheel. They reached the terrace; they descended the sparkling steps of lapis-lazuli. Hercules held his burthen on high, ready, at a nod, to plunge the hapless but presumptuous mortal through space into Hades. The heavenly group surrounded him, and peeped over the starry abyss. It was a fine moral, and demonstrated the usual infelicity that attends unequal connection.

‘Celestial despot!’ said Ixion.

In a moment all sounds were hushed, as they listened to the last words of the unrivalled victim. Juno, in despair, leant upon the respective arms of Venus and Minerva.

‘Celestial despot!’ said Ixion, ‘I defy the immortal ingenuity of thy cruelty. My memory must be as eternal as thy torture: that will support me.’