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. Then Menelaus, great In battle, smote the hand of Helenus That held the polished bow; the brazen spear Passed through the hand, and reached the bow, and there Stood fixed, while Helenus, avoiding death, Drew back among his comrades, with his hand Held low, and trailing still the ashen stem.