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When the two heroes were near enough to see each other, each was so

filled with admiration for the beautiful form and the bravery of his

opponent that, as if at a given signal, both threw down their weapons

and hastened toward each other. Pirithous extended his hand to Theseus

and proposed that the latter act as arbitrator for the settlement of

the dispute about the cattle: whatever satisfaction Theseus would

demand Pirithous would willingly give.



"The only satisfaction which I desire," answered Pirithous, "is that

you instead of my enemy become my friend and comrade in arms."



Then the two heroes embraced each other and swore eternal friendship.



Soon after this Pirithous chose the Thessalian princess, Hippodamia,

from the race of Lapithae, for his bride, and invited Theseus to the

wedding. The Lapithae, among whom the ceremony took place, were a

famous family of Thessalians, rugged mountaineers, in some respects

resembling animals--the first mortals who had learned to manage a

horse. But the bride, who had sprung from this race, was not at all

like the men of her people. She was of noble form, with delicate

youthful face, so beautiful that all the guests praised Pirithous for

his good fortune.



The assembled princes of Thessaly were at the wedding feast, and also

the Centaurs, relatives of Pirithous. The Centaurs were half men, the

offspring which a cloud, assuming the form of the goddess Hera, had

born to Ixion, the father of Pirithous. They were the eternal enemies

of the Lapithae. Upon this occasion, however, and for the sake of the

bride, they had forgotten past grudges and come together to the joyful

celebration. The noble castle of Pirithous resounded with glad tumult;

bridal songs were sung; wine and food abounded. Indeed, there were so

many guests that the palace would not accommodate all. The Lapithae and

Centaurs sat at a special table in a grotto shaded by trees.



For a long time the festivities went on with undisturbed happiness.

Then the wine began to stir the heart of the wildest of the Centaurs,

Eurytion, and the beauty of the Princess Hippodamia awoke in him the

mad desire of robbing the bridegroom of his bride. Nobody knew how it

came to pass; nobody noticed the beginning of the unthinkable act; but

suddenly the guests saw the wild Eurytion lifting Hippodamia from her

feet, while she struggled and cried for help. His deed was the signal

for the rest of the drunken Centaurs to do likewise, and before the

strange heroes and the Lapithae could leave their places, every one of

the Centaurs had roughly seized one of the Thessalian princesses who

served at the court of the king or who had assembled as guests at the

wedding.



The castle and the grotto resembled a besieged city; the cry of the

women sounded far and wide. Quickly friends and relatives sprang from

their places.



"What delusion is this, Eurytion," cried Theseus, "to vex Pirithous

while I still live, and by so doing arouse the anger of two heroes?"

With these words he forced his way through the crowd and tore the

stolen bride from the struggling robber.



Eurytion said nothing, for he could not excuse his deed, but he

lifted his hand toward Theseus and gave him a rough knock in the

chest. Then Theseus, who had no weapon at hand, seized an iron jug of

embossed workmanship which stood near by and flung it into the face of

his opponent with such force that the Centaur fell backward on the

ground, while brains and blood oozed from the wound in his head.



"To arms!" the cry arose from all sides. At first beakers, flasks and

bowls flew back and forth. Then one sacrilegious monster grabbed the

oblations from the neighboring apartments. Another tore down the lamp

which burned over the table, while still another fought with a

sacrificial deer which had hung on one side of the grotto. A frightful

slaughter ensued. Rhoetus, the most wicked of the Centaurs after

Eurytion, seized the largest brand from the altar and thrust it into

the gaping wound of one of the fallen Lapithae, so that the blood

hissed like iron in a furnace. In opposition to him rose Dryas, the

bravest of the Lapithae, and seizing a glowing log from the fire,

thrust it into the Centaur's neck. The fate of this Centaur atoned for

the death of his fallen companion, and Dryas turned to the raging mob

and laid five of them low.



Then the spear of the brave hero Pirithous flew forth and pierced a

mighty Centaur, Petraeus, just as he was about to uproot a tree to use

it for a club. The spear pinned him against the knotted oak. A second,

Dictys, fell at the stroke of the Greek hero, and in falling snapped

off a mighty ash tree; a third, wishing to avenge him, was crushed by

Theseus with an oak club.



The most beautiful and youthful of the Centaurs was Cyllarus. His long

hair and beard were golden; his smile was friendly; his neck,

shoulders, hands and breast were as beautiful as if formed by an

artist. Even the lower part of his body, the part which resembled a

horse, was faultless, pitch-black in color, with legs and tail of

lighter dye. He had come to the feast with his wife, the beautiful

Centaur, Hylonome, who at the table had leaned gracefully against him

and even now united with him in the raging fight. He received from an

unknown hand a light wound near his heart, and sank dying in the arms

of his wife. Hylonome nursed his dying form, kissed him and tried to

retain the fleeting breath. When she saw that he was gone she drew a

dagger from her breast and stabbed herself.



For a long time still the fight between the Lapithae and the Centaurs

continued, but at last night put an end to the tumult. Then Pirithous

remained in undisturbed possession of his bride, and on the following

morning Theseus departed, bidding farewell to his friend. The common

fight had quickly welded the fresh tie of their brotherhood into an

indestructible bond.