Striking the fair broad buckler with their darts, Yet could not even score with pointed brass The tender skin of Nestor’s son; for still Neptune, the shaker of the sea-coast, kept Watch o’er him while the weapons round him showered. Yet he withdrew not from his foes, but moved Among the crowd, nor idle was his spear, But wielded right and left, and still he watched With resolute mind the time to strike the foe At distance, or assault him near at hand.
The son of Asius, Adamas, beheld The hero meditating thus, and struck, In close attack, the middle of his shield With a sharp brazen spear. The dark-haired god Who rules the deep denied to Adamas The life he sought, and weakened the hard stroke. Part of the Trojan’s weapon, like a stake Hardened by fire, stood fixed within the shield, Part lay on earth, and he who cast it slunk Among his comrades to avoid his fate. Meriones, pursuing with his spear, Smote him between the navel and the groin, Where deadliest are the wounds in battle given To man’s unhappy race. He planted there The cruel blade, and Adamas, who fell, Writhed panting round it, as a bullock bound By cowherds on the mountain with strong cords Pants as they lead him off against his will. So wounded, Adamas drew heavy breath, And yet not long. The brave Meriones, Approaching, plucked the weapon forth, and night Came o’er the eyes of Adamas. At hand Stood Helenus, and struck Deipyrus Upon the temple with his ponderous sword, Of Thracian make, and cut the three-coned helm Away, and dashed it to the ground; it rolled Between a Grecian warrior’s feet, who stooped And took it up, while o’er its owner’s eyes The darkness gathered. Grieved at this, the son Of Atreus, Menelaus great in war, Rushed forward, threatening royal Helenus. He brandished his sharp spear; the Trojan drew His bow; advancing, one to hurl a lance, And one to send an arrow. Priam’s son Let fly a shaft at Menelaus’ breast. The bitter missile from the hollow mail Glanced off. As when from the broad winnowing-fan On some wide threshing-floor the swarthy beans, Or vetches, bound before the whistling wind And winnower’s force, so, bounding from the mail Of gallant Menelaus, flew afar The bitter shaft.