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.”