Still fought the other warriors, and the noise Of a perpetual tumult filled the air. Aeneas, rushing upon Aphareus, Caletor’s son, who turned to face him, thrust A sharp spear through his throat. With drooping head, And carrying shield and helmet to the ground, He fell, and rendered up his soul in death. Antilochus, as Thoön turned away, Attacked and smote him, cutting off the vein That passes through the body to the neck. This he divided sheer; the warrior fell Backward, and lay in dust, with hands outstretched To his beloved friends. Antilochus Flew to the slain, and from his shoulders stripped The armor, casting cautious glances round; While toward him pressed the Trojans on all sides, 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