"Nay, I cannot hearken to such foolishness. What war can come if I go to Troy for the sake of a bull?" "The cause of the war I know not, but come it surely will. O Paris, in that day come back to me, and I will heal thee of thy hurt! I know the use of herbs, for many a strange charm has my father taught me, and if any life is left in thee, I will call it back. But best of all, stay with me now, and go not down to the games." And, weeping, she threw her arms about his neck; but nothing she could say would stop him. So when the day came he went down into the city, and entered for the lists with the flower of the land, and all the folk marvelled who he might be. For he was tall and exceeding fair, and they had never seen his face before. When the turn came for his match, he set his teeth and wrestled like a young lion, for the bull that was the pride of his flock; and the strength of his adversaries was turned to weakness. With joy in his heart, he came forward to take his prize; and a loud cheer rose to heaven, for the people were glad that he had won. And the king's heart went out to him as he gave the prize, for he was the age his son would have been had he lived. "Young man," he said, "who art thou, and who is thy father?" "I am Paris, the foster-son of Agelaus the herdsman," he answered. "Is thine own sire dead, then?" asked Priam. "O king, thou askest me riddles I cannot answer," said Paris, "seeing I know not even who mine own sire may be." "This is a strange matter," said the king, and in spite of himself his heart beat fast within him. Now Cassandra the prophetess, his daughter, was standing by his side, and the time had come for her to speak. "O king," she said, "thou hast not far to seek for the father of this lad." "What meanest thou?" said Priam. "Put thy hands upon the lad's shoulders, and look into his eyes, and thou shalt see the image of his father," she answered. Trembling between hope and fear, the old king bent forward from his seat and put his hands upon the young man's shoulders. "Can it be--can it really be my son?" he asked. "Thy son he is," replied Cassandra, "and no other man's. The Fates decreed that he should live, and he has lived." "My son, my son!" cried the king, and fell upon his neck. "How I have longed for thee, and my soul has been weighed down with the burden of thy death! Now in mine old age the gods have given thee back to me, and my heart is glad. For thou art brave and fair, my son, and any father would be proud of thee, nor fear that ever thou shouldst bring dishonour on the land."