Taller than they, like the foam-born goddess of love among the Graces, she stood among her friends, and held high in her hands a great bunch of glowing roses.

When they had gathered all they wanted, the girls flung themselves down in the soft grass and began to plait wreaths, which later they would hang on green boughs as thank-offerings to the nymphs of that place. But their pleasure in their dainty work was doomed to be short-lived, for—of a sudden—Fate broke in upon Europa’s carefree maidenhood, the fate the dream of the past night had shadowed forth.

Zeus, son of Cronus, struck by the arrow of Aphrodite, who alone among the immortals could overcome the unconquerable father of the gods, was stirred by the beauty of young Europa. But because he feared the anger of jealous Hera and could hardly hope to tempt the girl’s innocent spirit if he came in his own form, the god contrived a ruse. He assumed the shape of a bull. But no ordinary bull! Not like one that paces the common field, bends to the yoke, and draws the loaded wagon! He was great and splendid, with swelling neck and massive shoulders. His horns were slight and graceful as though a hand had wrought them, and more transparent than flawless jewels. Yellow-gold in color was his body, but in the very middle of his forehead shimmered a silvery mark shaped like the crescent moon. Rolling restlessly in their sockets, his blue-black eyes smoldered with desire. Before transforming himself, Zeus had summoned Hermes to Olympus and—without a word about his purpose—had directed him to do him a certain service. “Hasten, dear son, loyal executor of my commands,” he said. “Do you see that land below us, to the left? It is Phoenicia. Go there and drive the herds of King Agenor, which you will find grazing on the mountain slopes, down to the shore of the sea.” Instantly the winged god, obedient to his father’s words, flew to the Sidonian pastures and drove the king’s cattle, among which Zeus—unbeknown to Hermes—had mingled himself in his new shape, down to those very meadows in which Agenor’s daughter, surrounded by her Tyrian maidens, was lightheartedly toying with garlands. The herd dispersed and began cropping the grass at a distance from the girls. Only the beautiful bull that housed a god approached the green mound on which Europa and her playmates were seated. He moved with perfect grace. His forehead did not threaten, and his flashing eyes begot no fears. He seemed gentleness itself. Europa and her maidens admired the noble proportions of the animal and his peaceful manner. They wanted to see him more closely and stroke his shimmering back. The bull seemed to be aware of this, for he drew nearer and nearer and finally came to a stand right in front of Europa. At first she was startled and shrank back, but the bull did not move. He appeared to be quite tame, so she took courage, went up to him, and held the roses to his foam-flecked lips, which breathed out the scent of ambrosia. Caressingly he licked the proffered flowers and the delicate hand which wiped the foam from his mouth and began to stroke him with tenderness and love. More and ever more enchanting did the glorious creature seem to the girl. She even ventured to kiss his silken forehead. At that he bellowed joyfully, but it was not the bellow of a common bull, but like the sound of a Lydian flute echoing through a gorge between high mountains. Then he crouched at her feet, looked at her full of longing, and turned his head as if to point his broad back to her.

And now Europa called to her maidens. “Come closer,” she cried. “Let us climb on the back of this beautiful bull and ride him. I think there is room for four of us at a time.