"Where
was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time,
there was a heavy rumbling of wheels toward the eastward. I can tell you
nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your
daughter again. The best advice I can give you is to take up your abode
in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the
world."
"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no
more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then,
if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered
leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable.
But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I
will not allow myself space even to grieve."
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun
shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad
spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally
consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches,
although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine.
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