A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

shall not hide him, nor shall his dread secret lie hidden even in the
bowels of the earth! He shall not seek by flight to escape us, for
vengeance is ours, and swifter than a hawk that strikes its quarry shall
we strike. Unwearying we pursue, nor are our swift feet and our
avenging arms made slow by pity. Woe! woe! to the shedder of
innocent blood, for nor peace nor rest is his until we have hurried his
tormented soul down to torture that shall endure everlastingly!"
As the listeners heard the dirge of doom, there were none who did not
think of Ibycus, the gentle-hearted poet, so much beloved and so foully
done to death, and in the tensity of the moment when the voices ceased,
a great thrill passed over the multitudes as a voice, shrill with amazed
horror, burst from one of the uppermost benches:
"See there! see there! behold, comrade, the cranes of Ibycus!"
Every eye looked upwards, and, harshly crying, there passed overhead
the flock of cranes to whom the poet had entrusted his dying message.
Then, like an electric shock, there came to all those who beheld the
knowledge that he who had cried aloud was the murderer of Ibycus.
"Seize him! seize him!" cried in unison the voices of thousands. "Seize
the man, and him to whom he spoke!"
Frantically the trembling wretch tried to deny his words, but it was too
late. The roar of the multitudes was as that of an angry sea that hungers
for its prey and will not be denied. He who had spoken and him to
whom he spoke were seized by a score of eager hands.
In white-faced terror, because the Furies had hunted them down, they
made confession of their crime and were put to death. And the flock of
grey-plumaged, rosy-headed cranes winged their way on to the marshes,
there to beck and bow to each other, and to dance in the golden sunset,
well content because their message was delivered, and Ibycus, the
poet-musician who had given them welcome, was avenged.
SYRINX