“For this one day, at least, we bear thee safe, O fiery chief, Achilles! But the hour Of death draws nigh to thee, nor will the blame Be ours; a mighty god and cruel fate Ordain it. Not through our neglect or sloth Did they of Troy strip off thy glorious arms From slain Patroclus. That invincible god, The son of golden-haired Latona, smote The hero in the foremost ranks, and gave Glory to Hector. Even though our speed Were that of Zephyr, fleetest of the winds, Yet certain is thy doom to be o’ercome In battle by a god and by a man.”

Thus far he spake, and then the Furies checked His further speech. Achilles, swift of foot, Replied in anger: “Xanthus, why foretell My death? It is not needed; well I know My fate⁠—that here I perish, far away From Peleus and my mother. I shall fight Till I have made the Trojans sick of war.”

He spake, and, shouting to his firm-paced steeds, Drave them, among the foremost, toward the war.