They went on. They came To the farthest fields, whose tenants are the warriors, Illustrious throng. Here Tydeus came to meet him, Parthenopaeus came, and pale Adrastus, A fighter’s ghost, and many, many others, Mourned in the world above, and doomed in battle, Leaders of Troy, in long array; Aeneas Sighed as he saw them: Medon; Polyboetes, The priest of Ceres; Glaucus; and Idaeus Still keeping arms and chariot; three brothers, Antenor’s sons; Thersilochus; a host To right and left of him, and when they see him, One sight is not enough; they crowd around him, Linger, and ask the reasons for his coming. But Agamemnon’s men, the Greek battalions, Seeing him there, and his arms in shadow gleaming, Tremble in panic, turn to flee for refuge, As once they used to, toward their ships, but where Are the ships now? They try to shout, in terror; But only a thin and piping treble issues To mock their mouths, wide-open. One he knew Was here, Deiphobus, a son of Priam, With his whole body mangled, and his features Cruelly slashed, and both hands cut, and ears Torn from his temples, and his nostrils slit By shameful wounds. Aeneas hardly knew him, Shivering there, and doing his best to hide His marks of punishment; unhailed, he hailed him:-- “Deiphobus, great warrior, son of Teucer, Whose cruel punishment was this? Whose license Abused you so? I heard, it seems, a story Of that last night, how you had fallen, weary With killing Greeks at last; I built a tomb, Although no body lay there, in your honor, Three times I cried, aloud, over your spirit, Where now your name and arms keep guard. I could not, Leaving my country, find my friend, to give him Proper interment in the earth he came from.” And Priam’s son replied:--“Nothing, dear comrade, Was left undone; the dead man’s shade was given All ceremony due. It was my own fortune And a Spartan woman’s deadliness that sunk me Under these evils; she it was who left me These souvenirs. You know how falsely happy We were on that last night; I need not tell you. When that dread horse came leaping over our walls, Pregnant with soldiery, she led the dancing, A solemn rite, she called it, with Trojan women Screaming their bacchanals; she raised the torches High on the citadel; she called the Greeks. Then--I was worn with trouble, drugged in slumber, Resting in our ill-omened bridal chamber, With sleep as deep and sweet as death upon me-- Then she, that paragon of helpmates, deftly Moved all the weapons from the house; my sword, Even, she stole from underneath my pillow, Opened the door, and called in Menelaus, Hoping, no doubt, to please her loving husband, To win forgetfulness of her old sinning.