He spake, and all were silent. Only rose Euryalus, whose father was the king Mecisteus of Talaion’s line, the same Who went to Thebes and overcame, of old, In all the funeral games of Oedipus, The sons of Cadmus. To Euryalus Came Diomed, the spearman, bidding him Expect the victory which he greatly wished His friend might gain. Around his waist he drew A girdle, adding straps that from the hide Of a wild bull were cut with dextrous care. And, fully now arrayed, the twain stepped forth Into the middle space, and both began The combat. Lifting their strong arms, they brought Their heavy hands together. Fearfully Was heard the crash of jaws; from every limb The sweat was streaming. As Euryalus Looked round, his noble adversary sprang And smote him on the cheek⁠—too rude a blow To be withstood; his shapely limbs gave way Beneath him. As upon the weedy shore, When the fresh north wind stirs the water’s face, A fish leaps forth to light, and then again The dark wave covers it, so sprang and fell