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:⁠—

“Lo, thou art smitten! Not in vain my shaft Has flown; and would that it had pierced thy groin And slain thee! Then the Trojans had obtained Reprieve from slaughter⁠—they who dread thee now As bleating goats a lion.” Undismayed, The valiant Diomed made answer thus:⁠—