The Fox clapped his hands and sang, ‘Prettier than Andromeda, prettier than Helen, prettier than Aphrodite herself.’ ‘Speak words of better omen, grandfather,’ I said, though I knew he would scold and mock me for saying it. For at his words, though on that summer day the rocks were too hot to touch, it was as if a soft, cold hand had been laid on my left side, and I shivered. ‘Babai!’ said the Fox. ‘It is your words that are ill omened. The Divine Nature is not like that. It has no envy.’ But whatever he said, I knew it is not good to talk that way about Ungit.
