Why so sad, Apollo?

Alas, Hermes,—my love!

Oh; that’s bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of Daphne?

No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.

Hyacinth? he is not dead?

Dead.

Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!

It was the work of my own hand.

You must have been mad!

Not mad; it was an accident.

Oh? and how did it happen?