Agave, mother of Pentheus, and her sisters had taken part in the wild rites of the god. The king sent for them and had all the Bacchantes thrown into the city prison. But they too slipped from their bonds without mortal aid. The gates of their jail flew open, and they rushed out into the woods, their veins hot with Bacchic frenzy. As for the servant who had been sent to capture the god himself with the aid of an armed force—he returned in utter bewilderment, for Dionysus had held out his hands for the shackles with a smile. And now he stood bound before the king, who could not help wondering at his radiant young beauty. Yet Pentheus obstinately held to his error and persisted in treating him as a vagabond, an adventurer who feigned to be a god. He had the captive weighed with chains and thrust into a dark cell at the back of the palace, where the horses had their mangers. But at a word from the god the earth shook, the walls crumbled, and his bonds dissolved. Unharmed and in even greater loveliness he appeared among his worshippers.

Messenger after messenger came to King Pentheus and brought him tidings of the miracles the bands of frenzied women, led by his mother and sisters, were working in the wood. They had only to strike the rock with their wands, and clear water or fragrant wine bubbled and gushed from the barren stone. Beneath the touch of the thyrsus, streams turned to milk, and hollow trees dripped with pale honey. “And had you, yourself, been there, O king,” said one of the messengers, “and seen the god against whom you rail, you would have thrown yourself on the earth at his feet, and your lips would have uttered prayers.”

All this only served to make the hatred of Pentheus more bitter. He ordered his riders and armed troops, heavy and light, to pursue the host of women. At this Dionysus returned of his own accord and came before the king as his own emissary. He promised Pentheus to bring back the Maenads, if the king would don woman’s raiment, lest seeing him—a man, and uninitiate—they tear him to pieces. Reluctantly and full of suspicion Pentheus accepted this proposal. In the end he followed the god out of the city, already stricken with the madness Dionysus had sent upon him. He seemed to see two suns, a twofold Thebes, and each of the city gates doubled. Dionysus looked like a bull to him, a beast with great horns on his head. Against his will he fell under the Bacchic spell. He begged for a thyrsus and, when it was given him, stormed away in frenzy and exultation.

In this fashion they came to a deep valley, rich in springs and shaded with pines, where the priestesses of Bacchus were assembled, some singing hymns to their god, others twining their staffs with fresh ivy. But either Pentheus was stricken with blindness, or his guide had succeeded in leading him by such roundabout ways that he did not observe the throngs of women. And now the god lifted his hand and—a marvel having come to pass—it reached to the top of a tall pine, which he curved as one twists a willow withe. Then he perched Pentheus in the topmost boughs and gradually, and with due care, allowed the tree to return to its upright position. Oddly enough, the king did not fall and suddenly appeared in full sight, high up in the pine where the Bacchantes could see him without being seen themselves. And now Dionysus called down into the valley, and his voice rang loud and clear: “Behold him who made mock of our holiest rites! Behold and punish him!”

The air was still. No leaf quivered on its stem, no creature made a sound. The Maenads lifted their heads. Their eyes were glazed with wild light as they listened to the voice which came a second time.