Then fierce the hero o'er the threshold strode; Stript of his rags, he blazed out like a god. Full in their face the lifted bow he bore, And quiver'd deaths, a formidable store; Before his feet the rattling shower he threw, And thus, terrific, to the suitor-crew: "One venturous game this hand hath won to-day; Another, princes! yet remains to play: Another mark our arrow must attain. Phoebus, assist! nor be the labor vain." Swift as the word the parting arrow sings; And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings. Wretch that he was, of unprophetic soul! High in his hands he rear'd the golden bowl: E'en then to drain it lengthen'd out his breath; Changed to the deep, the bitter draught of death! For fate who fear'd amidst a feastful band? And fate to numbers, by a single hand? Full through his throat Ulysses' weapon pass'd, And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last. Grimly announcing his second arrow will reach a different goal by Apollo's aid, Ulysses shoots the insolent Antinous through the heart and then begins to taunt and threaten the other suitors. Gazing wildly around them for weapons or means of escape, these men discover how cleverly they have been trapped. One after another now falls beneath the arrows of Ulysses, who bids his son hasten to the storeroom and procure arms for them both as there are not arrows enough to dispose of his foes. Through Telemachus' heedlessness in leaving the doors open, the suitors contrive to secure weapons too, and the fight in the hall rages until they all have been slain. Then the doors are thrown open, and the faithless maids are compelled to remove the corpses and purify the room, before they are hanged!