aid me to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man the top of the outwork, draw your bowstrings to your ears, and mind you quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart. Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?”
“Not so!” said the Saxon; “lead I cannot; but may posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wherever thou shalt point the way. The quarrel is mine, and well it becomes me to be in the van of the battle.”
“Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon,” said the knight, “thou hast neither hauberk, nor corselet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and sword.”
“The better!” answered Cedric; “I shall be the lighter to climb these walls. And–forgive the boast, Sir Knight–thou shalt this day see the naked breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye beheld the steel corselet of a Norman.”
“In the name of God, then,” said the knight, “fling open the door, and launch the floating bridge.”
The portal, which led from the inner wall of the barbican to the moat, and which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward, and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began to thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part from the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part of the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat; the others retreated back into the barbican.
The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous, and would have been still more so but for the constancy of the archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every moment.
“Shame on ye all!” cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; “do ye call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station under the walls of the castle? Heave over the coping stones from the battlement, an better may not be. Get pickaxe and levers, and down with that huge pinnacle!” pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work that projected from the parapet.
At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle of the tower, which Ulrica raised to show that she had fired the castle. The stout yeoman Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.
“Saint George!” he cried–“Merry Saint George for England! To the charge, bold yeomen! why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the pass alone? Make in, brave yeomen!–the castle is ours, we have friends within. See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal– Torquilstone is ours! Think of honor–think of spoil! One effort, and the place is ours!”
With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy’s direction, was loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying man the iron crow with which he heaved at and had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his headpiece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armor seemed proof against the shot of this tremendous archer.
“Do you give ground, base knaves!” said De Bracy. “Give me the lever!”
And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the drawbridge which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All saw the danger, and the boldest avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight’s armor of proof.
“Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!” said Locksley, “had English smith forged it, these arrows had gone through, as if it had been silk or sendal.” He then began to call out. “Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back and let the ruin fall.”
His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have accomplished it had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his ear:
“All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns.”
“Thou art mad to say so!” replied the knight.
“It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain to extinguish it.”
With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly received by his astonished comrade.
“Saints of Paradise!” said De Bracy; “what is to be done?”
“Lead thy men down,” said the Templar, “as if to a sally; throw the postern gate open. There are but two men who occupy the float, fling them into the moat, push across for the barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair quarter.”
“It is well thought upon,” said De Bracy; “I will play my part. Templar, thou wilt not fail me?”
“Hand and glove, I will not!” said Bois-Guilbert. “But haste thee, in the name of God!”
De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the postern gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader’s efforts to stop them.
“Dogs!” said De Bracy, “will ye let _two_ men win our only pass for safety?”
“He is the devil!” said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows of their sable antagonist.
“And if he be the devil,” replied De Bracy, “would you fly from him into the mouth of hell? The castle burns behind us, villains!–let despair give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion myself.”
And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his ponderous axe.
At length the Norman received a blow which, though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest that he measured his length on the paved floor.
“Yield thee, De Bracy,” said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights despatched their enemies, and which was called the dagger of mercy–“Yield thee, Maurice De Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man.”
“I will not yield,” replied De Bracy, faintly, “to an unknown conqueror. Tell me thy name or work thy pleasure on me; it shall never be said that Maurice De Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl.”
The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished. [Footnote: The Black Knight is Richard the Lion-Hearted, king of England, who has returned from the Crusades to reclaim his throne from his usurping brother.]
“I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue,” answered the Norman, exchanging his tone of determined obstinacy for one of deep though sullen submission.
“Go to the barbican,” said the victor, in a tone of authority, “and there wait my further orders.”
“Yet first let me say,” said De Bracy, “what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle without present help.”
“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black Knight–“prisoner, and perish! The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be singed. Show me his chamber!”
“Ascend yonder winding stair,” said De Bracy; “it leads to his apartment. Wilt thou not accept my guidance?” he added in a submissive voice.
“No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders, I trust thee not, De Bracy.”
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of men, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled toward the courtyard.
De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. “He trusts me not!” he repeated; “but have I deserved his trust?”
He then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from observing either by the increase of the smouldering and stifling vapor. At length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the apartment, the cries for water, which were heard even above the din of the battle, made them sensible of the progress of this new danger.
“The castle burns,” said Rebecca–“it burns! What can we do to save ourselves?”
“Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life,” said Ivanhoe, “for no human aid can avail me.”
“I had not found thee, Wilfred,” said the Black Knight, who at that instant entered the apartment, “but for thy shouts.”
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him with him to the postern, and having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window and shot-hole. But in other parts the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments resisted the progress of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the uttermost; few of them asked quarter; none received it. The air was filled with groans and clashing of arms; the floors were slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed, in quest of Rowena, while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the _mêlée_, neglected his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward’s apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall In which he had himself been a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba the Jester had procured liberation for himself and his companion in adversity.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, “Saint George and the dragon! Bonny Saint George for merry England! The castle is won!” And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful by banging against each other two or three pieces of rusty armor which lay scattered around the hall.
A guard, which had been stationed in the outer or ante-room, and whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba’s clamor, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape into the ante-room, and from thence into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison as to secure their own share of booty ere the castle should be burned down. On the other hand, a party of the besiegers, who had entered by the postern, were now issuing out into the courtyard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders, who were thus assaulted on both sides at once. Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valor; and, being well armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers.
Athelstane, who was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld the Templar.
“By the soul of Saint Edward,” he said, “yonder over-proud knight shall die by my hand!”
“Think what you do!” cried Wamba; “hasty hand catches frog for fish. Ye may be leader, but I will be no follower; no bones of mine shall be broken. And you without armor too! Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade. Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench. _Deus vobiscum_ [Footnote: _Deus vobiscum_ means _God be with you_] most doughty Athelstane!” he concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon’s tunic.
To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying gasp had just relinquished it, to rush on the Templar’s band, and to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane’s great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.
“Turn, false-hearted Templar! turn, limb of a band of murdering and hypocritical robbers!”
“Dog!” said the Templar, grinding his teeth, “I will teach thee to blaspheme the holy order of the Temple of Zion;” and with these words, half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette toward the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.
“Well,” said Wamba, “that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade!” So trenchant was the Templar’s weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a willow-twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head, levelled him with the earth.
“_Ha! Beau-seant!_” exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, “thus be it to the maligners of the Temple knights!” Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, “Those who would save themselves, follow me!” he pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar’s retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.
“De Bracy! De Bracy!” he shouted, “art thou there?”
“I am here,” replied De Bracy, “but I am a prisoner.”
“Can I rescue thee?” cried Bois-Guilbert.
“No,” replied De Bracy; “I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save thyself; there are hawks abroad. Put the seas betwixt you and England; I dare not say more.”
“Well,” answered the Templar, “an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls of the preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her haunt.”
Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war- song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled gray hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters who spin and abridge the thread of human life.
The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the courtyard. The vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighboring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reigned empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard–“Shout, yeomen! the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the trysting-trees in the Harthill Walk; for there at break of day will we make just partition among our own bands, together with our worthy allies in this great deed of vengeance.”
THE DEATH OF HECTOR
_From_ HOMER’S ILIAD
[Footnote: One of the greatest poems that has ever been written is the _Iliad,_ an epic of great length dealing with the siege of Troy. The author is generally considered to be the old Greek poet and singer Homer. although some authorities believe that the poem was not all written by any one man.
The selection from the _Iliad_ which is given here is from the translation by Alexander Pope. The passage has been abridged somewhat.]
NOTE.–Of all the mythical or half-mythical events which the ancient Greeks believed formed a part of their early history, there is none about which more stories have grown up than the Trojan War. According to the Greek belief, this struggle took place somewhere in the twelfth century B. C., but it now seems entirely likely that there was really no such contest, and that the stories told about it were but myths.
To the marriage of Peleus with the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were invited except Eris, or Discord, who, angered at the slight, determined to have vengeance. She took, therefore, a most beautiful golden apple on which were inscribed the words _For The Fairest,_ and tossed it into the midst of the merry wedding party. Instantly a dispute arose, Juno, queen of the gods, Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Venus, goddess of love and beauty, each claiming the fruit. Finally it was decided to leave the choice to an impartial judge, and Paris, son of Priam, the old king of Troy, was chosen.
Paris was utterly ignorant of the fact that he was the son of the king, having been banished from his home in his infancy because a prophecy had foretold that he should bring about the destruction of his native city. Rescued and brought up by a shepherd, he lived a simple shepherd’s life on Mount Ida.
When the three radiant goddesses stood before him he was overcome with the difficulty of his task, and each of the three attempted to help him out by offering a bribe. Juno offered prosperity through life, Minerva wisdom and influence, but Venus, smiling slyly, promised him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Moved not by this bribe, but by the unsurpassable beauty of Venus, Paris awarded her the apple, and thus gained for himself and for his people the hatred of Juno and Minerva.
Later Paris was received back into his father’s palace, and was sent on an embassy to the home of Menelaus, king of Sparta, in Greece. While at the home of Menelaus, Paris fell in love with Helen, the wife of his host, the most beautiful woman in the world, and persuaded her to return to Troy with him. Thoroughly roused, Menelaus sought the aid of the other Grecian kings in his attempt to get back his wife and punish the Trojans for the treachery of their prince, and a huge expedition under the command of Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus, set out for Troy. The Grecian army could make no immediate head against the Trojans, and for nine years it encamped outside the city of Troy, attempting to bring about its downfall. Battles and contests between single champions were frequent, but neither side seemed able to win any permanent victory.
Achilles was the bravest and strongest of the Grecian heroes, and all looked to him as the man through whom success must come. However, he became angered at Agamemnon and withdrew from the contest, and victory seemed about to fall to the Trojans. One day Patroclus, the friend and kinsman of Achilles, distressed at the Greek fortunes, removed of Achilles his armor, and at the head of Achilles’s own men, went forth to do battle with the Trojans. He was slain by Hector, the son of Priam, the bravest of the Trojan defenders, and in anger at his friend’s death, Achilles returned to the conflict. The battle was waged outside the city, and owing to the prowess of Achilles, matters looked bad for the Trojans.
Apollo, god of light, who favored the Trojans, took upon himself the form of a Trojan warrior, and while appearing to flee, drew Achilles after him, and thus allowed the Trojans to gain the shelter of the city walls. The selection from the _Iliad_ given here begins just as Apollo throws off his disguise and reveals his identity to Achilles.
Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear, The herded Ilians* rush like driven deer: There safe they wipe the briny drops away, And drown in bowls the labors of the day. Close to the walls, advancing o’er the fields Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields, March, bending on, the Greeks’ embodied powers, Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers. Great Hector singly stay’d: chain’d down by fate There fix’d he stood before the Scaean gate; Still his bold arms determined to employ, The guardian still of long-defended Troy.
*[Footnote: _Ilium_, or _Ilion_, was another name for Troy, and the Ilians were Trojans.]
Apollo now to tired Achilles turns
(The power confess’d in all his glory burns): “And what,” he cries, “has Peleus’* son in view, With mortal speed a godhead to pursue?
For not to thee to know the gods’ is given, Unskill’d to trace the latent marks of heaven. What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain? Vain thy past labor, and thy present vain: Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow’d, While here thy frantic rage attacks a god.”
*[Footnote: Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.]
The chief incensed–“Too partial god of day! To check my conquests in the middle way: How few in Ilion else had refuge found! What gasping numbers now had bit the ground! Thou robb’st me of a glory justly mine, Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine: Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain, To cheat a mortal who repines in vain.”
Then to the city, terrible and strong, With high and haughty steps he tower’d along, So the proud courser, victor of the prize, To the near goal with double ardor flies. Him, as he blazing shot across the field, The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld Not half so dreadful rises to the sight Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, Orion’s dog* (the year when autumn weighs), And o’er the feebler stars exerts his rays; Terrific glory! for his burning breath
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death, So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage: He strikes his reverend head, now white with age; He lifts his wither’d arms; obtests* the skies; He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries: The son, resolved Achilles’ force to dare, Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war; While the sad father on the rampart stands, And thus adjures him with extended hands:
*[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.] *[Footnote: _Orion’s dog_ means Sirius, the dog star, which was believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.] *[Footnote: _Obtests_ means _entreats_.] *[Footnote: _Expects_ here means _awaits_.]
“Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son! Mehinks already I behold thee slain,
And stretch’d beneath that fury of the plain, Implacable Achilles! might’st thou be
To all the gods no dearer than to me! Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore, And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore. How many valiant sons I late enjoy’d,
Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy’d, Or, worse than slaughter’d, sold in distant isles To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils, What sorrows then must their sad mother know, What anguish I? unutterable woe!
Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me, Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee. Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall;
And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all! Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save. Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage (All trembling on the verge of helpless age) Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain! The bitter dregs of fortune’s cup to drain: To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes, And number all his days by miseries!
Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best, Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast. But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age, In dust the reverend lineaments deform, And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm: This, this is misery! the last, the worst, That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!”
*[Footnote: The Fates were thought of by the ancient peoples as three old women, who spun the thread of human life, twisted it, and cut it off whenever they thought it was long enough.]
He said, and acting what no words could say, Rent from his head the silver locks away. With him the mournful mother bears a part; Yet all her sorrow turn not Hector’s heart. The zone unbraced, her bosom she display’d; And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:
“Have mercy on me, O my son! revere The words of age; attend a parent’s prayer! If ever thee in these fond arms I press’d, Or still’d thy infant clamors at this breast; Ah, do not thus our helpless years forego, But, by our walls secured, repel the foe.”
So they,* while down their cheeks the torrents roll; But fix’d remains the purpose of his soul; Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance Expects the hero’s terrible advance.
So, roll’d up in his den, the swelling snake Beholds the traveller approach the brake; When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins Have gather’d half the poisons of the plains; He burns, he stiffens with collected ire, And his red eyeballs glare with living fire.* Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined, He stood, and question’d thus his mighty mind:
*[Footnote: The word _spoke_ is omitted here.] *[Footnote: Homer is famous for such comparisons as these. If you ever come across the term “Homeric simile,” you may know that it means such a long, carefully worked out comparison as this.]
“Where lies my way? to enter in the wall? Honor and shame the ungenerous thought recall: Shall proud Polydamas* before the gate
Proclaim, his counsels are obeyed too late, Which timely follow’d but the former night What numbers had been saved by Hector’s flight? That wise advice rejected with disdain, I feel my folly in my people slain.
Methinks my suffering country’s voice I hear, But most her worthless sons insult my ear, On my rash courage charge the chance of war, And blame those virtues which they cannot share. No–if I e’er return, return I must
Glorious, my country’s terror laid in dust: Or if I perish, let her see me fall
In field at least, and fighting for her wall.”
*[Footnote: Polydamas, a Trojan hero and a friend of Hector’s, had previously advised prudence and retreat within the wall.]
Thus pondering, like a god the Greek drew nigh; His dreadful plumage nodded from on high; The Pelian* javelin, in his better hand, Shot trembling rays that glitter’d o’er the land; And on his breast the beamy splendor shone, Like Jove’s own lightning, o’er the rising sun. As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise;
Struck by some god, he fears, recedes, and flies. He leaves the gates, he leaves the wall behind: Achilles follows like the winged wind.
Thus at the panting dove a falcon flies (The swiftest racer of the liquid skies), Just when he holds, or thinks he holds his prey, Obliquely wheeling through the aerial way, With open beak and shrilling cries he springs, And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings: No less fore-right* the rapid chase they held, One urged by fury, one by fear impell’d: Now circling round the walls their course maintain, Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain; Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad, (A wider compass), smoke along the road. Next by Scamander’s* double source they bound, Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground; This hot through scorching clefts is seen to rise, With exhalations streaming to the skies; That the green banks in summer’s heat o’erflows, Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows: Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills, Whose polished bed receives the falling rills; Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm’d by Greece) Wash’d their fair garments in the days of peace.* By these they pass’d, one chasing, one in flight The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might: Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play, No vulgar victim must reward the day:
Such as in races crown the speedy strife: The prize contended was great Hector’s life.
*[Footnote: _Pelian_ is an adjective formed from _Peleus_, the name of the father of Achilles.]
*[Footnote: _Fore-right_ means _straight forward_.] *[Footnote: The Scamander was a famous river that flowed near the city of Troy. According to the _Iliad_, its source was two springs, one a cold and one a hot spring.]
*[Footnote: It was not, in these very ancient times, thought beneath the dignity of even a princess to wash her linen in some clear river or spring.]
As when some hero’s funerals are decreed In grateful honor of the mighty dead;*
Where high rewards the vigorous youth inflame (Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame) The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal, And with them turns the raised spectator’s soul: Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly. The gazing gods lean forward from the sky.*
*[Footnote: The favorite way, among the ancients, of doing honor to a man after his death was to hold a sort of a funeral festival, where contests in running, wrestling, boxing, and other feats of strength and skill were held.]
*[Footnote: The gods play a very important part in the _Iliad_. Sometimes, as here, they simply watch the struggle from their home above Olympus; sometimes, as in the first lines of this selection, they actually descend to the battlefield and take part in the contest.]
As through the forest, o’er the vale and lawn, The well-breath’d beagle drives the flying fawn, In vain he tries the covert of the brakes, Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes; Sure of the vapor* in the tainted dews, The certain hound his various maze pursues. Thus step by step, where’er the Trojan wheel’d, There swift Achilles compass’d round the field. Oft as to reach the Dardan* gates he bends, And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends, (Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below, From the high turrets might oppress the foe), So oft Achilles turns him to the plain: He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain.
As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace, One to pursue, and one to lead the chase, Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake, Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake; No less the laboring heroes pant and strain: While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.
*[Footnote: _Vapor_ here means _scent_.] *[Footnote: _Dardan_ is an old word for _Trojan_.]
What god, O Muse,* assisted Hector’s force With fate itself so long to hold the course? Phoebus* it was; who, in his latest hour, Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power. And great Achilles, lest some Greek’s advance Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance, Sign’d to the troops to yield his foe the way, And leave untouch’d the honors of the day.
*[Footnote: The Muses were nine sister goddesses who inspired poetry and music. No ancient Greek poet ever undertook to write without first seeking the aid of the Muse who presided over the particular kind of poetry that he was writing. Homer here addresses Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry.]
*[Footnote: Phoebus is Apollo, whom at the opening of this selection we found aiding Hector by misleading Achilles.]
Jove* lifts the golden balances, that show The fates of mortal men, and things below: Here each contending hero’s lot he tries, And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies. Low sinks the scale surcharged with Hector’s fate; Heavy with death it sinks, and hell receives the weight.
*[Footnote: Jove, or Jupiter, was the king of gods and men.]
Then Phoebus left him. Fierce Minerva* flies To stern Pelides,* and triumphing, cries: “O loved of Jove! this day our labors cease, And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece. Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far, Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,
Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force, nor flight, Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.* See, where in vain he supplicates above, Roll’d at the feet of unrelenting Jove; Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on, And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun.”
*[Footnote: Minerva, goddess of wisdom, was the special protector of the Greeks. Throughout the struggle she was anxious to take part against the Trojans, but much of the time Jupiter would not let her fight; he allowed her merely to advise.] *[Footnote: The ending–_ides_ means _son of_. Thus Pelides means _son of Peleus._]
*[Footnote: The _god of light_ was Apollo.]
Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind Obey’d; and rested, on his lance reclined, While like Deïphobus* the martial dame
(Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same), In show and aid, by hapless Hector’s side Approach’d, and greets him thus with voice belied:
*[Footnote: Deïphobus was one of the brothers of Hector. Minerva assumes his form, and deceives Hector into thinking that his brother has come to aid him.]
“Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight Of this distress, and sorrow’d in thy flight: It fits us now a noble stand to make,
And here, as brothers, equal fates partake.”
Then he: “O prince! allied in blood and fame, Dearer than all that own a brother’s name; Of all that Hecuba* to Priam bore,
Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honor’d more! Since you, of all our numerous race alone Defend my life, regardless of your own.”
*[Footnote: _Hecuba_ was the name of Hector’s mother.]
Again the goddess:* “Much my father’s prayer, And much my mother’s, press’d me to forbear: My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay, But stronger love impell’d, and I obey. Come then, the glorious conflict let us try, Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly; Or let us stretch Achilles on the field, Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield.”
*[Footnote: _Spoke_, or _said_, is understood here.]
Fraudful she said; then swiftly march’d before: The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more.
Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke: His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke;
“Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view’d Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued But now some god within me bids me try
Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die. Yet on the verge of battle let us stay, And for a moment’s space suspend the day; Let Heaven’s high powers be call’d to arbitrate The just conditions of this stern debate (Eternal witnesses of all below,
And faithful guardians of the treasured vow)! To them I swear; if, victor in the strife, Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life, No vile dishonor shall thy corse pursue; Stripp’d of its arms alone (the conqueror’s due) The rest to Greece uninjured I’ll restore: Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more.”*
*[Footnote: It meant more to an ancient Greek to have his body given up to his family, that it might be buried with proper rite’s, than it does to a modern soldier, for the Greeks believed that the soul could not find rest until the body was properly buried. This makes the refusal of Achilles to agree to Hector’s request seem all the more cruel.]
“Talk not of oaths” (the dreadful chief replies, While anger flash’d from his disdainful eyes), “Detested as thou art, and ought to be, Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee: Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine, Such leagues as men and furious lions join, To such I call the gods! one constant state Of lasting rancor and eternal hate:
No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life. Rouse then my forces this important hour, Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power. No further subterfuge, no further chance; Tis Pallas,* Pallas gives thee to my lance. Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath, Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death.”
*[Footnote: _Pallas_ was another name for Minerva.]
He spoke, and launch’d his javelin at the foe; But Hector shunn’d the meditated blow:
He stoop’d, while o’er his head the flying spear, Sang innocent, and spent its force in air. Minerva watch’d it falling on the land, Then drew, and gave to great Achilles’ hand, Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy,
Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.
“The life you boasted to that javelin given, Prince! you have miss’d. My fate depends on Heaven. To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown, Or* what must prove my fortune, or thy own. Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind, And with false terrors sink another’s mind. But know, whatever fate I am to try,
By no dishonest wound shall Hector die. I shall not fall a fugitive at least,
My soul shall bravely issue from my breast. But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart End all my country’s woes, deep buried in thy heart.”
*[Footnote: _Or_ is here used instead of _either_.]
The weapon flew, its course unerring held, Unerring, but the heavenly* shield repell’d The mortal dart; resulting with a bound From off the ringing orb it struck the ground. Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain, Nor other lance, nor other hope remain; He calls Deïphobus, demands a spear–
In vain, for no Deïphobus was there. All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh: “‘Tis so–Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh! I deem’d Deïphobus had heard my call,
But he secure lies guarded in the wall. A god deceived me: Pallas, ’twas thy deed, Death and black fate approach; ’tis I must bleed. No refuge now, no succor from above.
Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,* Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate! ‘Tis true I perish, yet I perish great: Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,
Let future ages hear it, and admire!”
*[Footnote: The armor of Achilles had been made for him by Vulcan, god of fire.]
*[Footnote: This reference is to Apollo.]
[Illustration: BEFORE HIS BREAST THE FLAMING SHIELD HE BEARS]
Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew, And, all collected, on Achilles flew.
So Jove’s bold bird,* high balanced in the air, Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare. Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares: Before his breast the flaming shield he bears Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone
The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun, Nodding at every step (Vulcanian frame!): And as he moved, his figure seem’d on flame. As radiant Hesper* shines with keener light, Far-beaming o’er the silver host of night, When all the starry train emblaze the sphere: So shone the point of great Achilles’ spear. In his right hand he waves the weapon round, Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound; But the rich mail Patroclus* lately wore Securely cased the warrior’s body o’er. One space at length he spies, to let in fate, Where ‘twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate Gave entrance: through that penetrable part Furious he drove the well-directed dart: Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour. Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies, While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:
*[Footnote: The eagle was sacred to Jove.] *[Footnote: _Hesper_ was the old name for Venus, the evening star, the brightest of the planets.]
*[Footnote: Patroclus was the friend of Achilles, whom Hector had killed. Hector had, after the usual custom, taken possession of the armor of Patroclus, which had originally belonged to Achilles.]
“At last is Hector stretch’d upon the plain, Who fear’d no vengeance for Patroclus slain: Then, prince! you should have fear’d what now you feel; Achilles absent was Achilles still:
Yet a short space the great avenger stayed, Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn’d, Forever honor’d, and forever mourn’d:
While cast to all the rage of hostile power, Thee birds shall mangle, and the dogs’ devour.”
Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death: By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath! By all the sacred prevalence of prayer; Oh, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear! The common rites of sepulture bestow,
To soothe a father’s and a mother’s woe: Yet their large gifts procure an urn at least, And Hector’s ashes in his county rest.”
“No, wretch accursed!” relentless he replies (Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes); “Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare, For all the sacred prevalence of prayer, Would I myself the bloody banquet join! So–to the dogs that carcase I resign.
Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store, And giving thousands, offer thousands more; Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame, Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame: Their Hector on the pile they should not see. Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee.”
Then thus the chief his dying accents drew: “Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew: The Furies* that relentless breast have steel’d, And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield. Yet think, a day will come, when fate’s decree And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate, And stretch thee here before the Scaean gate.”
*[Footnote: The Furies were three hideous sisters who sometimes drove people mad with rage and remorse.]
He ceased. The Fates suppress’d his laboring breath, And his eyes stiffen’d at the hand of death; To the dark realm the spirit wings its way (The manly body left a load of clay),
And plaintive glides along the dreary coast, A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!
Achilles, musing as he roll’d his eyes O’er the dead hero, thus unheard, replies. “Die thou the first! When Jove and heaven ordain, I follow thee.”–He said, and stripp’d the slain. Then forcing backward from the gaping wound The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground. The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes His manly beauty and superior size;
While some, ignobler, the great dead deface With wounds ungenerous, or with taunts disgrace.
“How changed that Hector, who like Jove of late Sent lightning on our fleets, and scatter’d fate!”
High o’er the slain the great Achilles stands, Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands; And thus aloud, while all the host attends: “Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends! Since now at length the powerful will of heaven The dire destroyer to our arm has given, Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers! See, if already their deserted towers
Are left unmann’d; or if they yet retain The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain. But what is Troy, or glory what to me?
Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee, Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal’d his eyes; Unwept, unhonor’d, uninterr’d he lies!
Can his dear image from my soul depart, Long as the vital spirit moves my heart? If in the melancholy shades below,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow, Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay’d, Burn on through death, and animate my shade. Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing. Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore, Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more.”
Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred (Unworthy of himself, and of the dead); The nervous* ancles bored, his feet he bound With thongs inserted through the double wound; These fix’d up high behind the rolling wain, His graceful head was trail’d along the plain. Proud on his car the insulting victor stood, And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood. He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies; The sudden clouds of circling dust arise. Now lost is all that formidable air;
The face divine, and long-descending hair, Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand; Deform’d, dishonor’d, in his native land, Given to the rage of an insulting throng, And, in his parents’ sight, now dragg’d along!
*[Footnote: _Nervous_ here means _strong, sinewy_.]
The mother first beheld with sad survey; She rent her tresses, venerable gray,
And cast, far off, the regal veils away. With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans, While the sad father answers groans with groans. Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o’erflow, And the whole city wears one face of woe: No less than if the rage of hostile fires, From her foundations curling to her spires, O’er the proud citadel at length should rise, And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.
THE WOODEN HORSE
_From VERGIL’S AENEID_
NOTE.–As the _Iliad_ is the greatest of Greek poems, so the _Aeneid_ is the greatest of Latin poems. It was written by Vergil, who lived in the first century B. C., and is one of the classics which every one who studies Latin takes up. References to it are almost as frequent in literature as are references to the _Iliad_, to which it is closely related. The translation from which this selection of the _Wooden Horse_ is taken is by John Conington.
The _Iliad_ deals with the Trojan War (see introductory note to _Death of Hector_), while the _Aeneid_ deals with the wanderings of a Trojan hero after the fall of his city. Aeneas, from whom the _Aeneid_ takes its name, was the son of Anchises and Venus, goddess of love, and was one of the bravest of the Trojan heroes; indeed, he was second only to Hector.
When Troy was taken by the stratagem which Aeneas describes in this selection, he set sail with numerous followers for Italy, where fate had ordained that he should found a great nation. Juno, however, who hated the Trojans, drove the hero from his course, and brought upon him many sufferings. At last in his wanderings he came to the northern shore of Africa, where he found a great city, Carthage. Dido, queen of the Carthaginians, received Aeneas hospitably, and had prepared for him a great feast, at the conclusion of which she besought him to relate to her the story of the fall of Troy. Aeneas objected at first, as he feared he could not endure the pain which the recital would give him, but in the end he complied with her request.
The following selection gives the account of the stratagem by which the Greeks, after thirteen years’ siege, finally took Troy.
Torn down by wars,
Long beating ‘gainst Fate’s dungeon-bars, As year kept chasing year,*
The Danaan* chiefs, with cunning given. By Pallas,* mountain-high to heaven
A giant horse uprear,
And with compacted beams of pine
The texture of its ribs entwine,
A vow for their return they feign: So runs the tale, and spreads amain.
There in the monster’s cavernous side Huge frames of chosen chiefs they hide, And steel-clad soldiery finds room
Within that death-producing womb.
*[Footnote: The Greeks besieged Troy, or Ilium, for nine years without making much head against it, and in the tenth year succeeded in taking the city only by fraud, which Aeneas here describes.]
*[Footnote: _Danaans_ is a poetical name for the Greeks.] *[Footnote: Pallas was Minerva, daughter of Jupiter, and one of the most powerful of the goddesses. She favored the Greeks, and longed to take their part against the Trojans, but was forbidden by Jupiter to aid them in any way except by advising them.]
An isle there lies in Ilium’s sight, And Tenedos its name,
While Priam’s fortune yet was bright, Known for its wealth to fame:
Now all has dwindled to a bay,
Where ships in treacherous shelter stay.
[Illustration: THE WOODEN HORSE]
Thither they sail, and hide their host Along its desolated coast.
We thought them to Mycenae* flown
And rescued Troy forgets to groan. Wide stand the gates: what joy to go
The Dorian camp to see,
The land disburthened of the foe,
The shore from vessels free!
There pitched Thessalia’s squadron, there Achilles’ tent was set:
There, drawn on land, their navies were, And there the battle met.
Some on Minerva’s offering gaze,
And view its bulk with strange amaze: And first Thymoetes loudly calls
To drag the steed within our walls, Or by suggestion from the foe,
Or Troy’s ill fate had willed it so. But Capys and the wiser kind
Surmised the snare that lurked behind: To drown it in the whelming tide,
Or set the fire-brand to its side, Their sentence is: or else to bore
Its caverns, and their depths explore. In wild confusion sways the crowd:
Each takes his side and all are loud.
*[Footnote: Mycenae was the capital city of Agamemnon, the leader of the Greeks in the Trojan War.]
Girt with a throng of Ilium’s sons, Down from the tower Laocoön runs,
And, “Wretched countrymen,” he cries, “What monstrous madness blinds your eyes? Think you your enemies removed?
Come presents without wrong
From Danaans? have you thus approved Ulysses,* known so long?
Perchance–who knows?–the bulk we see Conceals a Grecian enemy,
Or ’tis a pile to o’erlook the town, And pour from high invaders down,
Or fraud lurks somewhere to destroy: Mistrust, mistrust it, men of Troy!
Whate’er it be, a Greek I fear,
Though presents in his hand he bear.” He spoke, and with his arm’s full force Straight at the belly of the horse
His mighty spear he cast:
Quivering it stood: the sharp rebound Shook the huge monster; and a sound
Through all its caverns passed.
And then, had fate our weal designed Nor given us a perverted mind,
Then had he moved us to deface
The Greeks’ accursed lurking-place, And Troy had been abiding still,
And Priam’s tower yet crowned the hill.
*[Footnote: Ulysses was the craftiest of the Greeks, the man to whom they appealed when in need of wise advice.]
Now Dardan* swains before the king
With clamorous demonstration bring, His hands fast bound, a youth unknown,
Across their casual pathway thrown By cunning purpose of his own,
If so his simulated speech
For Greece the walls of Troy might breach, Nerved by strong courage to defy
The worst, and gain his end or die. The curious Trojans round him flock,
With rival zeal a foe to mock.
Now listen while my tongue declares The tale you ask of Danaan snares,
And gather from a single charge
Their catalogue of crimes at large. There as he stands, confused, unarmed,
Like helpless innocence alarmed,
His wistful eyes on all sides throws, And sees that all around are foes,
“What land,” he cries, “what sea is left, To hold a wretch of country reft,
Driven out from Greece while savage Troy Demands my blood with clamorous joy?”
That anguish put our rage to flight, And stayed each hand in act to smite:
We bid him name and race declare,
And say why Troy her prize should spare. Then by degrees he laid aside
His fear, and presently replied:
*[Footnote: The Trojans were called _Dardans_, from Dardanus, the founder of Troy.]
“Truth, gracious king, is all I speak, And first I own my nation Greek:
No; Sinon may be Fortune’s slave;
She shall not make him liar or knave, If haply to your ears e’er came
Belidan Palamedes’* name,
Borne by the tearful voice of Fame, Whom erst, by false impeachment sped,
Maligned because for peace he pled, Greece gave to death, now mourns him dead,– His kinsman I, while yet a boy,
Sent by a needy sire to Troy.
While he yet stood in kingly state, ‘Mid brother kings in council great,
I too had power: but when he died, By false Ulysses’ spite belied
(The tale is known), from that proud height I sank to wretchedness and night,
And brooded in my dolorous gloom
On that my guiltless kinsman’s doom. Not all in silence; no, I swore,
Should Fortune bring me home once more, My vengeance should redress his fate,
And speech engendered cankerous hate. Thence dates my fall: Ulysses thence
Still scared me with some fresh pretence, With chance-dropt words the people fired, Sought means of hurt, intrigued, conspired. Nor did the glow of hatred cool,
Till, wielding Calchas* as his tool– But why a tedious tale repeat,
To stay you from your morsel sweet? If all are equal, Greek and Greek,
Enough: your tardy vengeance wreak. My death will Ithacus* delights,
And Atreus’* sons the boon requite.”
*[Footnote: It was Palamedes who induced Ulysses to join in the expedition against Troy. Preferring to remain at home with his wife Penelope and his infant son Telemachus, Ulysses pretended madness, and Palamedes, when he came to beg for his aid, found him plowing up the seashore and sowing it with salt. Palamedes was quite certain that the madness was feigned, and to test it, set Telemachus in front of the plow. By turning aside his plow, Ulysses showed that he was really sane. Later Palamedes lost favor with Grecian leaders because he urged them to give up the struggle and return home.]
*[Footnote: Calchas was the most famous of the Grecian sooth-sayers or prophets. They never began any important operations until Calchas had first been consulted and had told them what the gods willed.]
*[Footnote: _Ithacus_ is a name given to Ulysses, who was from Ithaca.]
*[Footnote: The sons of Atreus were Agamemnon, leader of the Grecians, and Menelaus, King of Sparta, the theft of whose wife, Helen, was cause of the Trojan War.]
We press, we yearn the truth to know, Nor dream how doubly base our foe:
He, faltering still and overawed,
Takes up the unfinished web of fraud. “Oft had we planned to leave your shore, Nor tempt the weary conflict more.
O, had we done it! sea and sky
Scared us as oft, in act to fly:
But chiefly when completed stood
This horse, compact of maple wood, Fierce thunders, pealing in our ears,
Proclaimed the turmoil of the spheres. Perplexed, Eurypylus we send
To question what the fates portend, And he from Phoebus’* awful shrine
Brings back the words of doom divine: ‘With blood ye pacified the gales,
E’en with a virgin slain,*
When first ye Danaans spread your sails, The shores of Troy to gain:
With blood ye your return must buy: A Greek must at the altar die.’
That sentence reached the public ear, And bred the dull amaze of fear:
Through every heart a shudder ran, ‘Apollo’s victim–who the man?’
Ulysses, turbulent and loud,
Drags Calchas forth before the crowd. And questions what the immortals mean,
Which way these dubious beckonings lean: E’en then were some discerned my foe,
And silent watch the coming blow.
Ten days the seer, with bated breath, Restrained the utterance big with death: O’erborne at last, the word agreed
He speaks, and destines me to bleed. All gave a sigh, as men set free,
And hailed the doom, content to see The bolt that threatened each alike
One solitary victim strike.
The death-day came: the priests prepare Salt cakes, and fillets for my hair;
I fled, I own it, from the knife,
I broke my bands and ran for life, And in a marish lay that night,
While they should sail, if sail they might. No longer have I hope, ah me!
My ancient fatherland to see,
Or look on those my eyes desire,
My darling sons, my gray-haired sire: Perhaps my butchers may requite
On their dear heads my traitorous flight, And make their wretched lives atone
For this, the single crime I own.
O, by the gods, who all things view, And know the false man from the true,
By sacred Faith, if Faith remain
With mortal men preserved from stain, Show grace to innocence forlorn,
Show grace to woes unduly borne!”
*[Footnote: Phoebus Apollo, god of the sun and of prophecy.] *[Footnote: When the Greeks set out for Troy, their ships were becalmed at Aulis, in Boeotia. Calchas consulted the signs and declared that the delay was caused by the huntress-goddess Diana, who was angry at Agamemnon for killing one of her sacred stags. Only by the death of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, could the wrathful goddess be placated. The maiden was sent for, but on her arrival at Aulis she was slain by the priest at Diana’s altar. According to another version of the story, Iphigenia was not put to death, but was conveyed by Diana to Tauris, where she served as priestess in Diana’s temple.]
Moved by his tears, we let him live, And pity crowns the boon we give:
King Priam bids unloose his cords, And soothes the wretch with kindly words. “Whoe’er you are, henceforth resign
All thought of Greece: be Troy’s and mine: Now tell me truth, for what intent
This fabric of the horse was meant; An offering to your heavenly liege?
An engine for assault or siege?”
Then, schooled in all Pelasgian* shifts, His unbound hands to heaven he lifts:
“Ye slumberless, inviolate fires,
And the dread awe your name inspires! Ye murderous altars, which I fled!
Ye fillets that adorned my head!
Bear witness, and behold me free
To break my Grecian fealty;
To hate the Greeks, and bring to light The counsels they would hide in night,
Unchecked by all that once could bind, All claims of country or of kind.
Thou, Troy, remember ne’er to swerve, Preserved thyself, thy faith preserve,
If true the story I relate,
If these, my prompt returns, be great.
*[Footnote: _Pelasgian_ means _Grecian_. The name is derived from that of Pelasgus, an early Greek hero. By their neighbors the Greeks were regarded as a deceitful, double-dealing nation.]
“The warlike hopes of Greece were stayed, E’en from the first, on Pallas’ aid:
But since Tydides,* impious man,
And foul Ulysses, born to plan,
Dragged with red hands, the sentry slain, Her fateful image* from your fane,
Her chaste locks touched, and stained with gore The virgin coronal she wore,
Thenceforth the tide of fortune changed, And Greece grew weak, her queen* estranged Nor dubious were the sig’ns of ill
That showed the goddess’ altered will. The image scarce in camp was set,
Out burst big drops of saltest sweat O’er all her limbs: her eyes upraised
With minatory lightnings blazed;
And thrice untouched from earth she sprang With quivering spear and buckler’s clang. ‘Back o’er the ocean!’ Calchas cries:
‘We shall not make Troy’s town our prize, Unless at Argos’ sacred seat
Our former omens we repeat,
And bring once more the grace we brought When first these shores our navy sought.’ So now for Greece they cross the wave,
Fresh blessings on their arms to crave, Thence to return, so Calchas rules,
Unlocked for, ere your wonder cools. Premonished first, this frame they planned In your Palladium’s stead to stand,
An image for an image given
To pacify offended Heaven.
But Calchas bade them rear it high With timbers mounting to the sky,
That none might drag within the gate This new Palladium of your state.
For, said he, if your hands profaned The gift for Pallas’ self ordained,
Dire havoc–grant, ye powers, that first That fate be his!–on Troy should burst: But if, in glad procession haled
By those your hands, your walls it scaled, Then Asia should our homes invade,
And unborn captives mourn the raid.”
*[Footnote: Tydides was Diomedes, son of Tydeus. The termination _-ides_ means _son of_; thus _Pelides_ is Achilles, son of Peleus.] *[Footnote: There was in a temple of Troy an image of Minerva, or Pallas, called the _palladium_, which was supposed to have fallen from the sky. The Greeks learned of a prophecy which declared that Troy could never be taken while the palladium remained within its walls, and Ulysses and Diomedes were entrusted with the task of stealing it. In disguise they entered the city one night, procured the sacred image and bore it off to the Grecian camp.] *[Footnote: Minerva, supposedly angered at the desecration of her statue.]
Such tale of pity, aptly feigned,
Our credence for the perjurer gained, And tears, wrung out from fraudful eyes, Made us, e’en us, a villain’s prize,
‘Gainst whom not valiant Diomede,
Nor Peleus’ Larissaean* seed,
Nor ten years’ fighting could prevail, Nor navies of a thousand sail.
*[Footnote: Achilles. Larissa was a town in Thessaly, of which Peleus, the father of Achilles, was king.]
[Illustration: LAOCOÖN
_Statuary Group in The Vatican, Rome_]
But ghastlier portents lay behind,
Our unprophetic souls to bind.
Laocoön, named as Neptune’s priest, Was offering up the victim beast,
When lo! from Tenedos–I quail,
E’en now, at telling of the tale– Two monstrous serpents stem the tide,
And shoreward through the stillness glide. Amid the waves they rear their breasts, And toss on high their sanguine crests: The hind part coils along the deep,
And undulates with sinuous sweep.
The lashed spray echoes: now they reach The inland belted by the beach,
And rolling bloodshot eyes of fire, Dart their forked tongues, and hiss for ire. We fly distraught: unswerving they
Toward Laocoön hold their way;
First round his two young sons they wreathe, And grind their limbs with savage teeth: Then, as with arms he comes to aid,
The wretched father they invade
And twine in giant folds: twice round His stalwart waist their spires are wound, Twice round his neck, while over all
Their heads and crests tower high and tall. He strains his strength their knots to tear,* While gore and slime his fillets smear, And to the unregardful skies
Sends up his agonizing cries:
A wounded bull such moaning makes, When from his neck the axe he shakes,
Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks. The twin destroyers take their flight
To Pallas’ temple on the height;
There by the goddess’ feet concealed They lie, and nestle ‘neath her shield. At once through Ilium’s hapless sons
A shock of feverous horror runs:
All in Laocoön’s death-pangs read
The just requital of his deed,
Who dared to harm with impious stroke Those ribs of consecrated oak.
“The image to its fane!” they cry: “So soothe the offended deity.”
Each in the labour claims his share: The walls are breached, the town laid bare: Wheels ‘neath its feet are fixed to glide, And round its neck stout ropes are tied: So climbs our wall that shape of doom,
With battle quickening in its womb, While youths and maidens sing glad songs, And joy to touch the harness-thongs.
It comes, and, glancing terror down, Sweeps through the bosom of the town.
O Ilium, city of my love!
O warlike home of powers above!
Four times ’twas on the threshold stayed: Four times the armour clashed and brayed. Yet on we press with passion blind,
All forethought blotted from our mind, Till the dread monster we install
Within the temple’s tower-built wall. E’en then Cassandra’s* prescient voice
Forewarned us of our fatal choice– That prescient voice, which Heaven decreed No son of Troy should hear and heed.
We, careless souls, the city through, With festal boughs the fanes bestrew,
And in such revelry employ
The last, last day should shine on Troy.
*[Footnote: The death of Laocoön and his sons has always been a favorite subject in art and in poetry. (See illustration.)] *[Footnote: Cassandra was a daughter of Priam, king of Troy. She had been loved by Apollo, who bestowed on her the gift of prophecy; but she had angered him by failing to return his love, and he, unable to take back the gift, decreed that her prophecies should never be believed. All through the siege she had uttered her predictions and always they proved true; but no one ever paid heed to her warnings.]
Meantime Heaven shifts from light to gloom, And night ascends from Ocean’s womb,
Involving in her shadow broad
Earth, sky, and Myrmidonian* fraud: And through the city, stretched at will, Sleep the tired Trojans, and are still.
*[Footnote: Here Myrmidonian means simply Grecian.]
And now from Tenedos set free
The Greeks are sailing on the sea, Bound for the shore where erst they lay, Beneath the still moon’s friendly ray:
When in a moment leaps to sight
On the king’s ship the signal light, And Sinon, screened by partial fate,
Unlocks the pine-wood prison’s gate. The horse its charge to air restores,
And forth the armed invasion pours. Thessander,* Sthenelus, the first,
Slide down the rope: Ulysses curst, Thoas and Acamas are there,
And great Pelides’ youthful heir,
Machaon, Menelaus, last
Epeus, who the plot forecast.
They seize the city, buried deep
In floods of revelry and sleep,
Cut down the warders of the gates, And introduce their banded mates.*
*[Footnote: These are all Grecian heroes.] *[Footnote: After the Greeks entered the gates the chief Trojan citizens were put to death, and the city was set on fire, Aeneas, with his little son and his aged father, escaped and took ship for Italy, accompanied by a band of followers.]
ULYSSES
_Adapted From_ THE ODYSSEY
NOTE.–The _Odyssey_ is one of the most famous of the old Greek poems, one that is still read and enjoyed by students of the Greek language, and one that in its translations has given pleasure to many English and American readers. Its influence on the works of our best writers has been remarkable, and everybody wishes to know something about it.
It is in twenty-four books or parts, and tells of the wanderings and adventures of the Greek hero, Ulysses, king of Ithaca, after the Trojan War. His wanderings lasted for ten years, but most of the _Odyssey_ is taken up with the events that happened in the last few weeks of this time, during which period, at intervals, Ulysses himself tells the story of his wanderings, winning everywhere the sympathy and admiration of those to whom he tells it.
It is customary to speak of the _Odyssey_ as one of Homer’s poems, but the probability is that it was written at different times by different people, and at a date later than that at which the _Iliad_ was written. One of the standard translations of the _Odyssey_ is that of Alexander Pope, which is followed in this story. The tale has of necessity been very much abridged; the details of the journeyings of Ulysses are omitted entirely, and the emphasis is placed on his return home.
* * * * *
When Ulysses departed to join in the Trojan War, he left his wife Penelope and his young son Telemachus at home. He was one of the foremost of the Greek chieftains in the Trojan War, and his deeds are a prominent part of the story in the _Iliad_.
After Ulysses had been many years absent, he was thought by most of his friends to be dead, and many disorders grew up in his kingdom. Most disturbing of all was the fact that many wicked and treacherous men came about Penelope as suitors for her hand, claiming that there was no reason why she should not marry, as her husband had not been heard of since the Trojan War, and had undoubtedly long since died. Both Penelope and Telemachus still clung to the thought that Ulysses might be living, and the mother would by no means consent to taking another husband.
At this time the gods in council decided that Ulysses should be brought back home, and accordingly Telemachus was inspired to travel in search of his father. Hoping that his journey might be successful, Telemachus, guided by Minerva in the shape of the wise old Mentor, set out on his long and trying journey. In time he learned that his father was still living, and had been held for many years in the Island of Calypso. During the absence of Telemachus, the suitors of Penelope planned to destroy him on his voyage home, but failed to accomplish their purpose.
After much persuasion by the gods, Calypso was induced to release Ulysses, and he, building a boat with his own hands, set out on his homeward journey, but in a terrible tempest was shipwrecked and barely escaped with his life, being rescued by a princess to whom he tells the story of his journeyings.
He told how at one time he was in a ship driven by a tempest far from shore, and finally landed upon the flowery coast of the land of Lotus, where he found a hospitable race who lived a lazy, happy life, eating and drinking the things which nature provided them. So divinely sweet were the lotus leaves that whosoever ate them were willing to quit his house, his country and his friends, and wish for no other home than the enchanting land where the lotus plant flourished.
Denying themselves the pleasure of tasting the lotus leaves, Ulysses and his men sailed from the coast to the land of Cyclops, where they were appalled by the sight of a shepherd, enormous in size, unlike any human being, for he had but one eye, and that a huge one in the center of his forehead. Ulysses with a few of his men landed upon the shore and visited the giant’s cavern home. While they were inspecting this strange place, the monster returned, bearing on his back half a forest which he cast down at the door, where it thundered as it fell. After building a huge fire, the giant entered the cavern, and in a voice of thunder asked Ulysses who he was, and why he came to this shore. Ulysses explained, and for an answer the huge Cyclops seized two of the followers of Ulysses, dashed them against the stony floor, and like a mountain beast devoured them utterly, draining the blood from their bodies and sucking the marrow from their bones.
[Illustration: ULYSSES OUTWITTED THE CYCLOPS]
After satisfying his hunger, the monster slept upon the ground, and all night long Ulysses and his followers lay in deadly terror. The next day Ulysses gave the giant wine, and when he was sleeping in a drunken stupor, the Greek hero took a green stick, and heating it until it burnt and sparkled a fiery red, thrust its flaming point into the only eye the Cyclops had.
Raging with pain, the monster stumbled about the cave trying without success to find Ulysses and his followers, though he did discover the door, and stationed himself there to prevent their escape. In the cave were the great sheep that made the herd of the Cyclops, and throwing themselves beneath the animals and clinging to their wool, Ulysses and his followers escaped through the door, while the blind giant was touching his sheep one by one to see that nothing but sheep passed out. Soon the hero and his men were safe on board the ship, though they narrowly escaped destruction from a big boulder that the giant threw into the sea when he discovered that his victims had made their escape.
Aeolus, ruler of the winds, anxious to aid Ulysses, gave him prosperous winds and tied the treacherous winds up in a bag, but some of the curious mariners untied the bag, and the conflicting winds escaping, destroyed several of the ships and threw Ulysses and the survivors upon the island of Circe.
This famed enchantress, following her usual custom, turned the followers of Ulysses into swine, but he, aided by Mercury, released them from their enchantment.
After a year’s stay on this island, he was urged by Circe to make a descent into the Infernal Regions, where he saw the tortures inflicted upon the wicked who had died before him. On his return he was sent upon another voyage, where he met the Sirens, who lured some of his men to destruction by their charming songs; but Ulysses himself escaped by having himself chained to the mast. He sailed between Scylla and Charybdis safely, though he lost some of his men in the terrible passage.
After Ulysses told in full his story, the kindly princess put him on board a magic ship and sent him to Ithaca, where he was placed on shore with all his treasures, though he did not at first know where he was.
However, he finally learned that he was home again, and visited the house of a favorite servant, who gave him a full account of what had happened during his absence.
In the meantime Telemachus returned home, having learned that his father was still living; and, directed by the gods, he went to the house of the same old servant with whom Ulysses had taken refuge. That night the father and son recognized each other, and after a joyful reunion they lay down to rest, having decided that in the morning Telemachus should repair to the palace and tell Penelope that her husband was still alive, but leave her in ignorance of the fact that he was near at hand.
In the rosy light of the morning the young prince hastened across the dewy lawn on his way to his mother. When he reached the palace he propped his spear against the wall, leaped like a lion over the threshold, hastened with running steps across the hall, and threw himself into the arms of his loving mother. The passionate joy of their meeting was shadowed only by the story that Telemachus had to tell, yet the story was lightened somewhat by the knowledge that Ulysses still lived, though under enchantment, and might in time be able to return to his kingdom.
Penelope, knowing that her husband was still living, became more than ever incensed at the outrageous conduct of the suitors, who had quartered themselves in her palace and were living in luxury and vice. However, even with Telemachus at her side, it was impossible to drive out the powerful men, so that she felt compelled still to endure their unwelcome presence.
According to the plans made by Ulysses and his son, the former about this time started for the palace, clothed like a beggar, with a scrip flung over his shoulders around his patched and ragged gown. Leaning upon a rude staff which his old servant had given him, Ulysses and his servant passed along the road and descended into the town.
On the way they met a most wicked and treacherous former servant of Ulysses, who, now risen to power, insulted the beggared chief by word and blow. It was with difficulty that Ulysses restrained himself, for all his mighty rage was roused, and he swung his staff as though to strike his insulter dead. However, remembering what was at stake, he conquered himself and endured the insults.
As they drew near the gates of the city, they saw lying in the filth of the gutter an old, decrepit dog, who had been the pet and joy of Ulysses before he left for war. Argus was now grown old and feeble, and had been kicked from the palace by the cruel servants and left to starve in the street. No sooner, however, had the chieftain approached than Argus knew his master, and dragged himself, panting, to kiss the feet of the returned hero.
Ulysses, recognizing the dog, exclaimed, “See this noble beast lying abandoned in the gutter! Once he was vigorous, bold and young; swift as a stag, and strong as a lion. Now he lies dying from hunger. Surely his age deserves some care. Was he merely a worthless beauty, and is he despised for that reason?”
“No,” replied the servant, “he once belonged to Ulysses, but since the chieftain left his home, nothing restrains the servants; and where riot reigns there can be no humanity.
“Whenever man makes himself a slave, half his worth is taken away.”
While they were speaking, Argus raised his head, took one last look at his master, and closed his eyes forever.
A moment later, Ulysses, a despicable figure, old and poor, in ragged clothing, trembling and leaning on his staff, rested against the pillar of his own gate. Telemachus was the first to see his father, and ordered that food should be given the poor beggar, and that he should be invited to enter the hall and share the comforts of the palace. The experiences of the poor old mendicant in the palace were more trying than any that he had had, for he met with nothing but insults and abuse from the assembled suitors, in spite of the fact that Telemachus more than once urged them to be generous, and himself set the example repeatedly.
Once only did Ulysses give way to his rage, and that was when another beggar insulted him and challenged him to fight. Then Ulysses spread his broad shoulders, braced his limbs, expanded his ample chest, and struck but once with his powerful right arm. Although he expended but half his strength, the blow crushed the jaw-bone of the beggar, and felled him, stunned and quivering, to the ground, while from his mouth and nostrils poured a stream of purple blood.
This happened in the street before the palace, and Ulysses, taking no notice of his fallen foe, flung his tattered scrip across his shoulder, knotted the thong around his waist, and returned to the palace, where the nobles joined in sarcastic compliments on his strength.
While Ulysses hung about the palace in beggar’s garb, only one person recognized him, and that was his old nurse Euryclea, who saw upon his knee a scar, that came from a wound which he had received when a youth in hunting a wild boar. Then the old nurse had tended the wound, and now she knew at once her fallen master. With difficulty Ulysses restrained her joy, and urged her to keep his secret till the time came to disclose it.
While these things were happening, the suitors grew more and more insistent, and at a great banquet in the palace they became so riotous that both Penelope and Telemachus knew that something must be done.
Ulysses was subjected to continual insult, and the suitors, quarreling among themselves, insisted that Penelope should give them some definite answer.
Finally the queen and her son perfected a plan and announced to the suitors that at a certain time after the feast the queen would decide which she would accept. Penelope then went to the inmost room of the palace and unlocked the door where the royal treasures lay, and taking from among them the great bow which Ulysses had carried, and the quiver that contained his arrows, she brought them down to the hall. This bow was a gift to Ulysses in his youth, and the warrior had used it in many a fierce combat, but so powerful was it that none but himself could bend it.
Taking the bow before the assembled suitors, the majestic queen spoke as follows: “You make vain pretense that you love me; you speak of me as a prize, and you say you seek me as a wife. Now hear the conditions under which I will decide, and commence the trial. Whichever one of you shall first bend the bow of Ulysses, and send a fleet arrow through the eyes of twelve axes truly arranged, him will I follow, leaving this home which has been my delight and which now has come to be but a torture to me.”
She spoke carefully, and at the same time showed the rings and the bow. But as she touched the powerful weapon, thoughts of her lost king filled her eyes with tears.
The suitors did not like the plan Penelope proposed, but saw no other way to gratify their hopes. Although they objected, Telemachus insisted that Ulysses should be present at the trial, and that he himself should be the first to make the attempt, for he said, “If I win, then will my mother go with me.”
Three times Telemachus twanged the bow, and three times his arrows sped along the hall, each time missing by a narrower margin the difficult mark. As he was about to make the fourth attempt, Ulysses signaled him to stop, feeling sure that on this trial the young man would succeed.
Disappointed and grieving, Telemachus obeyed, saying, “I have failed, but it is because of my youth and not my weakness. So let the suitors try.”
The first to make the attempt was Leiodes, a blameless priest, the best of all the suitors, the only one in the throng who was a decent man, and who detested the conduct of the wretches who hung about the queen. However strong his heart, his feeble fingers were not able to bend the bow, and in despair he passed it on to the next. One after another the suitors tried and failed, till only two remained; but they were the mightiest and the best.
At this point Ulysses, still in disguise, summoned two of his old servants, the masters of his herds and flocks, and with them passed out of the banquet hall. Once by themselves, the king made himself known, and in a moment both the men were at his feet, embracing his knees and shedding tears of joy and gratitude.
Without delay, Ulysses spoke, “We have no time now to indulge in unseemly joy. Our foes are too numerous and too fierce, and almost before we know it some one may betray us. Let us return to the banquet separately; I first, and you following me a few moments later. Tell no one who I am, but when the remaining suitors refuse to allow me to make the attempt with the bow, you, Eumaeus, bring the instrument at once. In the meantime lock every gate of the palace, and set some woman to lock each door within and leave it locked, no matter what sound of arms, or shouts, or dying groans they hear. You, Philaetius, guard the main gate to the palace; guard it faithfully with your life!”
When Ulysses was within, he spoke to the two powerful suitors as follows: “Take my advice, noble lords, let the bow rest in peace this day, and tomorrow dispute for the prize. But as you delay the contest, let me take the bow for one moment and prove to you that I whom you despise may yet have in my feeble arm some of its ancient force.”
Antinous, with lightning flashing from his eyes, yet with some terror at the bold carriage of the beggar, cried, “Is it not enough, O miserable guest, that you should sit in our presence, should be admitted among princes? Remember how the Centaur was treated; dragged from the hall, his nose shortened and his ears slit. Such a fate may be yours.”
But the queen interfered, saying, “It is impious to shame this stranger guest who comes at the request of our son Telemachus. Who knows but that he may have strength to draw the bow? Virtue is the path to praise; wrong and oppression can bring no renown. From his bearing, and from his face and his stature, we know our guest can have descended from no vulgar race. Let him try the bow, and if he wins he shall have a new sword, a spear, a rich cloak, fine embroidered sandals, and a safe conveyance to his home.”
“O royal mother,” interrupted Telemachus, “grant me a son’s just right! No one but a Grecian prince has power to grant or deny the use of this bow. My father’s arms have descended to me alone. I beg you, O queen, return to your household tasks and leave us here together. The bow and the arms of chivalry belong to man alone, and most of all these belong to me.”
With admiration for her manly son, Penelope left the banquet hall and returned to her chamber, where she sat revolving in her mind her son’s words, while thoughts of his noble father brought abundant tears to her eyes.
In the hall was riot, noise, and wild uproar as Euinaeus started to place the bow in the hand of Ulysses.
“Go back to thy den, far away from the society of men, or we will throw you to your dogs!” cried the crowd of disappointed suitors to the trembling servant.
“Slight their empty words, listen not to them,” shouted Telemachus. “Are you so foolish as to think you can please so many lords? If you give not the bow to the suppliant, my hands shall drive you from the land, and if I were strong enough I would expel this whole shoal of lawless men.” Thus encouraged, Euinaeus handed the great bow to the king.
In the meantime the gates had been closed, and Philaetius secured them with strong cables, after which he returned silent to the banquet room, and took his seat with his eyes upon his lord.
In his hands Ulysses turned the bow on all sides, and viewed it over and over, wondering if time had weakened it, or other injury had come to it during his long absence. Snarling in anger, the suitors spoke derisively, but the chieftain disdained reply, and continued with exact eye to study every inch of his weapon. Then with ease he held the bow aloft in one hand, and with the other tried its strength. It twanged short and sharp like the shrill cry of a swallow. Every face paled, and a general horror ran through all present, for from the skies the lightning burst, and Jove thundered loudly on high.
Then sitting as he was, Ulysses fitted an arrow to the string and drew back, leveling his eye to every ring. Then with a mighty pull, he drew back the bow and gave the arrow wing. Straight it left the string, and straight it passed through every ring and struck the gate behind, piercing even the solid wood through and through.
[Illustration: ULYSSES GAVE THE ARROW WING ]
“I have brought no shame to you,” said Ulysses, turning to Telemachus, “nor has my hand proved unfaithful to my aim. I have not lost my ancient vigor, and ill did I deserve the disdain of these haughty peers. Let them go and find comfort among themselves, if they can, in music and banqueting.”
Even as Ulysses spoke, Telemachus girded on his shining sword, seized a javelin, and took his stand at his father’s side.
From that moment Ulysses ceased to be the beggar, and stripped of his rags he stood forth like a god, full before the faces of the astonished suitors. He lifted his bow, and threw before his feet a rattling shower of darts.
“We have another game to play this day, O coward princes!” he exclaimed. “Another mark we must reach with our arrows. May Phoebus assist us, and our labor not be in vain!”
With the last word, the great chieftain loosed his arrow, and on its wing death rode to Antinous, who at that moment had raised a golden bowl from which to drink. The fateful arrow passed through his neck, and he fell upon the floor, and the wine from the tumbling goblet mingled with his blood.
The rest of the suitors were confounded at what they saw, and thronged the hall tumultously, half in fear and half in anger.
“Do you aim at princes?” they cried. “This is the last of the unhappy games you shall play. Death now awaits you, and vultures shall tear your body.”
“Dogs, you have had your day,” the Greek warrior spoke. “You thought there was no further fear of Ulysses, and here you have squandered his wealth, made his house your home, and preyed upon his servants. Worse than all, fired by frenzy, you have claimed even the wife of your chieftain. You have known neither shame nor dread of the gods, and now is come the hour of vengeance. Behold your King!”
The confused suitors stood around with pale cheeks and guilty heads before the dreadful words of Ulysses.
Eurymachus alone was bold enough to speak. “If you are indeed Ulysses, great are your wrongs, for your property has been, squandered, and riot and debauchery have filled your palace. But at your feet now lies Antinous, whose wild ambition meant to slay your son and divide your kingdom. Since he is dead, spare the rest of your people. Our gold and treasures shall defray the expense, and the waste of years shall be refunded to you within the day. Until then, your wrath is just.”
With high disdain the king thus sternly spoke, “All the treasures that we had before you began your pillage, joined with all your own, would not bring you mercy. I demand your blood and your lives as prizes, and shall not cease till every one of you lies as pale as yonder wretch upon the floor. You have but one choice–to fight or to fly.”