The man of craft, Ulysses, smiled, and said:⁠— “Truly, thy hope was set on princely gifts⁠— The steeds of war-renowned Aeacides, Hard to be reined by mortal hands, or driven as By any, save by Peleus’ son himself, Whom an immortal mother bore. But come, Tell me⁠—and tell the truth⁠—where hast thou left Hector, the leader of the host, and where Are laid his warlike arms; where stand his steeds; Where are the sentinels, and where the tents Of other chiefs? On what do they consult? Will they remain beside our galleys here, Or do they meditate, since, as they say, The Greeks are beaten, a return to Troy?”