He spake, and in the middle of the neck Smote Dryops with his spear. The Phrygian fell Before him at his feet. He left him there, And wounding with his spear Philetor’s son, Demuchus, tall and valiant, in the knee, Stayed him until he slew him with his sword. Then from their chariot to the ground he cast Laogonus and Dardanus, the sons Of Bias, piercing with a javelin one, And cutting down the other with his sword.

And Tros, Alastor’s son, who came to him And clasped his knees, in hope that he would spare A captive⁠—spare his life, nor slay a youth Of his own age⁠—vain hope! He little knew That not by prayers Achilles could be moved, Nor was he pitiful, nor mild of mood, But hard of heart⁠—while Tros embraced his knees And passionately sued, Pelides thrust His sword into his side; the liver came Forth at the wound; the dark blood gushing filled The Phrygian’s bosom; o’er his eyes there crept A darkness, and his life was at an end.