_Pen._ Nay, if my son be safe. Watch there, and tell me.—Is he yet unhurt? _2nd._ They spring upon the beggar and the prince, And as they spring, they are slain.—They lie in heaps. _Pen._ Alas! what cries! Say, is the prince still safe? _2nd._ He shieldeth himself well, and striketh surely. His foes fall dead before him. Ah! now what see I? Who cometh? Lo! a dazzling helm, a spear Of silver or electron; sharp and swift 2690 The piercings. How they fall. Ha, shields are raised In vain. I am blinded, or the beggar-man Hath waxed in strength. He is changed, he is young. O strange! He is all in golden armour. These are gods, That slay the wooers. (_Runs to Pen._) O lady, forgive me! ’Tis Ares’ self. I saw his crispèd beard: I saw beneath his helm his curling locks. None will escape. O lady, save me, save me. [_Kneels._ _Maids all._ Let them not slay us. Lady! lady! forgive us! 2699 _Pen._ Why kneelest thou to me? Fools, why to me? I have nothing to forgive you. There is no wrong ’Twixt me and you: Or if the gods should punish, Can I protect? _Maids._ Forgive us, queen, forgive us! _Pen._ I see ye are dazed—no wonder.—The thing is true Ye say. The gods are come. I know it: I spake With one myself unweeting: and he bade Confront those robbers with the bow of death. That hath provoked our fate. Ah, cursèd day The Greeks set forth for Troy. Accurst was Helen, Accurst was Menelaus, Agamemnon 2710 Accurst, who o’er us drew a net of ill: Whence since is no escape, no not for one. Not Ilion burned, not Greece made bare of men, Not ten years’ war, nor to their widowed homes The barred return of heroes could suffice To fill the cup of evil, which the gods, Dooming one deed of all the deeds of men, The folly of one woman and one man, Have heaped upon us. Now the unending slaughter Falls on this house. Was joy, or woe, my crime? To have had, or lost the best of all the Greeks? My patience, watching twenty years, or now 2722 To have yielded but a little? O ye high gods, Smite all ill-doers; ay, smite me with death, Triumphant Ares, if within my body, My lord being dead, there is either hope or love That may be callèd life. I would not live, I have no cause to live: but O my son— Spare him! _2nd Maid._ O lady, ’tis not him, but us Ares will slay. _Pen._ Look, look again. _2nd._ I fear. 2730 ’Tis now more dread than ever. The cries have ceased. _Pen._ Hush, hark—ay, all is still. Look forth, I say. _Re-enter Tel., Eum., and neatherd._ My son, my son, thou livest. _Tel._ Thou art here! thou knowest?