Such was the glorious group which tenanted the shrine of the Thymbrœan god on that auspicious day—such was the ceremonial of Achilles’ marriage! Yet was it passing strange that not one of the Grecian chiefs stood by the bravest of their nation, his comrade and his friend on that sublime occasion; it was yet stranger that not one of all her noble brethren, not one of Priam’s fifty sons stood by their lovely sister. Yet such had been the will of Priam; and with the noble confidence—the proud contempt, which were a portion of his nature—confidence in his own dauntless and unrivalled valor, contempt of any mortal peril, Achilles had acceded to the terms. And now the rites were finished—the sacrifice complete—the bridal chorus chanted! The pontiffs slew two lambs; one for the royal prince—one for the princely bridegroom—and filled two cups of wine, and they, the sire and son, touched the dead lambs and raised the wine-cups, and grasped each other’s hand in amity, and swore eternal peace, eternal amity, and love! They stretched their right hands to the god, tasted the wine, and poured the red libations over the holy altar—praying aloud—solemn and awful prayer—“that thus _his_ blood should flow upon the earth—_his_ own life-blood, his wife’s, his child’s, and that of all his race—who should the first transgress that solemn vow and treaty.” They swore, and it was ended! The hero turned to clasp his blooming bride—— Whence—what—was that keen twang—keen, shrill, and piercing, which broke the hush of feeling, that followed on that awful oath sworn between noble foes, now foes no longer? Why does Achilles start with a convulsive shudder! He reels, he staggers, he falls head-long—and see the arrow—fell and accursed deed—buried up to the very feather in the right heel of the prostrate hero! There was a moment’s pause—_one_ moment’s!—and then, with the bow in his left hand, and the broad falchion gleaming in his right, forth from among the priests—forth from the inmost shrine—forth leaped the traitor Paris! Deiphobus, the warrior—Helenus, the priest, followed!—all armed from head to foot, all with their weapons bare and ready! There was one frantic cry—the shriek of the heart-broken bride—and then no other sound except the clash of the weapons, driven sheer through the body of the hero, against the desecrated pavement. “Thus Hector is avenged—thus is Troy freed”—shouted the slaughterers of the mighty Greek; but if the shade of Hector was so appeased by a base vengeance, yet so was Troy not freed! For not long afterward, the flames rolled over it, that even its ruins perished, its site was lost forever!—and if Polyxena was then snatched from her spouse, yet, when in after days her living form was immolated on his tomb—their manes were united, never to part again, in the Elysian fields—the Islands of the Blessed. * * * * * LINES.