The hero fled, and even as he ran, marvelled to find himself so swift. When he glimpsed his face and his horns, reflected in the water, he tried to say "Alas!" but no word came. He groaned - that was all the voice he had - and tears ran down his changed cheeks. Only his mind remained the same as before. What was he to do? Return home to royal palace, or hide in the woods? He was ashamed to do the first, afraid to do the second.

As he hesitated, his hounds caught sight of him. Melampus and the wise Ichnobates were the first to give tongue, Ichnobates of the Cretan breed, and Melampus of the Spartan. Then the others rushed to the chase, swifter than the wind, Pamphagus and Dorceus and Oribasus, all Arcadians and strong Nebrophonus, fierce Theron and Laelaps too. Pterelas, the swift runner, was there, and keen-scented Agre, Hylaeus who had lately been gored by a wild boar, Nape, offspring of a wolf, Poemenis, the shepherd dog, Harpyia with her two pups, Ladon from Sicyon, slender-flanked, and Dromas and Canace, Sticte and Tigris, Alce, white-coated Leucon, and black-haired Asbolus; with them was Lacon, a dog of outstanding strength, Arello the stout runner, Thous and swift Lycisce with her brother Cyprius, Harpalus, who had a white spot in the middle of his black forhead, and Melaneus and shaggy Lachne, Lebros and Agriodus, both cross-bred of Cretan mother and a Spartan father, shrill-barking Hylactor, and others whom it would take to long to name. The pack, eager for its prey, swept over the rocks and crags, over unapproachable cliffs, through places where the going was difficult, and where there was no way at all.

Actaeon fled, where he had himself so often pursued his quarry, fled, alas, before his own faithful hounds. He longed to cry out: "I'm Actaeon! Don't you know your own master?" but the words he wanted to utter would not come - the air echoed with barking. First Melanchaetes fastened his teeth in his master's back, then Theridamas and Oresitrophus clung to his shoulder. They had been slow to begin the chase, but had outstripped the others by taking a short cut over the mountains. While they held their master down, the rest of the pack gathered, and sank their teeth in his body, till there was no place left for tearing.

Actaeon groaned, yttering a sound which, though not human, was yet such as no stag could produce. The ridges he knew so well were filled with his mournful cries. Falling to his knees, like a suppliant in prayer, he silently swayed his head this way and that, as if strethching out beseeching arms. But his friends, not knowing what they did, urged on the ravening mob with their usual encouragements and looked for Actaeon, shouted for Actaeon, as if he were not there, each trying to call louder than
the other. They lamented that their leader was absent, and that his slowness prevented him from seeing he booty chance had offered. Actaeon turned his head at the sound of his name. Well might he wish to be absent, but he was all too surely present. Well might he wish to see and not feel the cruel deeds of his hounds. They surrounded him on every side, fastening their jaws on his body, and tore to pieces the seeming stag, which was in fact their master.

Only when he had been dispatched by wounds innumerable, so men say, was the anger of Artemis, the quiver-bearing goddess, appeased.