“Lo! The destroyer, furious Hector, comes! Let us stand firm, and face and drive him back.”
He said, and cast his brandished lance, nor missed The mark: it smote the helm on Hector’s head. The brass glanced from the brass; it could not pierce To the fair skin; the high and threefold helm— A gift from Phoebus—turned the point aside. The chief fell back, and, mingling with the throng, Dropped on one knee, and yet upheld himself With one broad palm upon the ground, while night Darkened his eyes. The son of Tydeus sprang To seize his spear, which now stood fixed in earth Among the foremost warriors. In that time Did Hector breathe again, and, having leaped Into his chariot, he avoided death, By mingling with the crowd; while, spear in hand, Brave Diomed pursued him, shouting thus:—
“This time, thou cur, hast thou escaped thy doom, Though it was nigh thee. Phoebus rescues thee— The god to whom thou dost address thy prayers— Whene’er thou venturest mid the clash of spears. Yet will I surely slay thee when we meet, If any god be on my side; and now I go to strike where’er I find a foe.”
He spake, and struck the son of Paeon down, Skilful to wield the spear. But now the spouse Of fair-haired Helen—Alexander—stood Leaning against a pillar by the tomb Of the Dardanian Ilus, who had been An elder of the people; and he bent His bow against the monarch Diomed, Who at that moment knelt to strip the slain Of the rich breastplate, and the shield that hung Upon his shoulders, and the massive casque. The Trojan drew the bow’s elastic horn, And sent an arrow that not vainly flew, But, striking the right foot, pierced through, and reached The ground beneath. Then Paris, with a laugh, Sprang from his ambush, shouting boastfully:—