Meanwhile to white-armed Helen Iris came A messenger. She took a form that seemed Laodice, the sister of Paris, whom Antenor’s son, King Helicaon, wed⁠— Fairest of Priam’s daughters. She drew near To Helen, in the palace, weaving there An ample web, a shining double-robe, Whereon were many conflicts fairly wrought, Endured by the horse-taming sons of Troy And brazen-mailed Achaians for her sake Upon the field of Mars. Beside her stood Swift-footed Iris, and addressed her thus:⁠—

“Dear lady, come and see the Trojan knights And brazen mailed Achaians doing things To wonder at. They who, in this sad war, Eager to slay each other, lately met In murderous combat on the field, are now Seated in silence, and the war hath ceased. They lean upon their shields, their massive spears Are near them, planted in the ground upright. Paris, and Menelaus, loved of Mars, With their long lances will contend for thee, And thou wilt be declared the victor’s spouse.”