‘Let me not find thee, old man, lingering here beside the ships, lest the golden staff and garland of the god help thee naught!’ he cried. ‘Your daughter shall grow old as my slave, and never more return to thy land. Get ye gone!’ Silently along the shore of the sounding sea walked Chryses the priest. Alone he knelt down and prayed to Apollo, his god. ‘Hear me, god of the silver bow!’ he cried. ‘If I have built thee a temple that is fair in thine eyes, and have offered unto thee there the flesh of bulls and goats, hear me! Let the Greeks be paid by thine arrows for my tears!’ High up amongst the peaks of Olympus Apollo heard the prayer of his priest, and great anger filled his heart. As dark night falls upon the earth, so did the god come to where Agamemnon and his armies lay. A little apart from the ships he sat down, and drew back with a dreadful clang the string of his silver bow. Mules and dogs fell at first before his arrows of death. Then he smote men. For nine days did the Greeks fall dead at the will of the avenging god. For nine days did the black smoke from the funeral pyres of the Greek warriors roll out to sea. On the tenth day Achilles, son of a mortal warrior and a goddess, fleetest of foot and bravest of all Greek heroes, called an assembly of the Greeks. [Illustration: Achilles, fleetest of foot, and bravest of all Greek heroes (page 8)] ‘War and pestilence ravage us,’ he said. ‘Surely it is time to inquire of a priest or soothsayer why it is that Apollo is so wroth.’ Then Chalcas, wisest of soothsayers, arose and spoke. ‘These woes have come upon us,’ said he, ‘for the wrong that Agamemnon hath done to Chryses, priest of Apollo. With his arrows of pestilence Apollo will not cease to slay until we have given the bright-eyed Chryseïs back to her father, unbought and unransomed, and have taken a hundred beasts and offered them up at Chryse as a sacrifice to the angry god.’ So spake Chalcas, and sate him down. There uprose then from his seat the great Agamemnon, black anger in his heart, and with eyes flashing fire. ‘Ill prophet art thou indeed, Chalcas!’ he cried. ‘Naught but evil hast thou ever foretold to me! I would not take a goodly ransom for Chryseïs, because I love her even more than I love my own wedded wife. Yet will I give her back, rather than that my people should perish. But another prize must I have! Why should I alone, of all the Greeks, have my prize taken from me? It is not seemly that it should be so.’ ‘Nay, nay! most noble Agamemnon,’ said Achilles. ‘Too greedy art thou for gain. We have no common store of treasure with which to repay thee for that thou hast lost. What spoil we got from the cities we have taken hath already been divided. Nay, give back Chryseïs to her father, and when next we sack a city, thine shall be the richest spoil of all.’