lance’s head broke short off in the crevices of his armor, and he fell, a gory, lifeless heap, upon the wet sand. Without waiting to inquire into his hurts, Britomart rode swiftly across the beach, and spurred her horse’s feet in towards the main land.
Only for a little time did Marinell lie thus upon the beach. A courier of the sea, beholding him, carried the woful news to his mother, Cymoent. She heard the story with grief too great to be described. Calling her chariot, drawn by ten dolphins, which sported all the changing hues of the rainbow on their shining sides, she summoned a group of her sister-nymphs, and, gliding rapidly over the surface of the waters, came quickly to the sad shore.
Three times did Cymoent swoon over the body of her son. Thrice and thrice did she call on Neptune and Nereus, and all her sea-born kinsfolk, to revenge his death.
“False Proteus!” she cried, “no woman dealt this deep wound which his poor breast bears. You taught me to fear his death-blow from a woman, and I, credulous, feared love. But they that love do not always die. Better, a thousand times, love than death.”
Amid her grief she fancied she detected a faint heart-beat; and wrapping him in soft mantles, all the sea-nymphs bore him gently to
