But one Greek, over-trusting in his strength, Or by Fate's malice to destruction drawn, Curbed in mid flight from war's turmoil his steed, And strove to wheel him round into the fight To face the foe. But fierce Agenor thrust Ere he was ware; his two-edged partizan Shore though his shoulder; yea, the very bone Of that gashed arm was cloven by the steel; The tendons parted, the veins spirted blood: Down by his horse's neck he slid, and straight Fell mid the dead. But still the strong arm hung With rigid fingers locked about the reins Like a live man's. Weird marvel was that sight, The bloody hand down hanging from the rein, Scaring the foes yet more, by Ares' will. Thou hadst said, "It craveth still for horsemanship!" So bare the steed that sign of his slain lord. Aeneas hurled his spear; it found the waist Of Anthalus' son, it pierced the navel through, Dragging the inwards with it. Stretched in dust, Clutching with agonized hands at steel and bowels, Horribly shrieked he, tore with his teeth the earth Groaning, till life and pain forsook the man. Scared were the Argives, like a startled team Of oxen 'neath the yoke-band straining hard, What time the sharp-fanged gadfly stings their flanks Athirst for blood, and they in frenzy of pain Start from the furrow, and sore disquieted The hind is for marred work, and for their sake, Lest haply the recoiling ploughshare light On their leg-sinews, and hamstring his team; So were the Danaans scared, so feared for them Achilles' son, and shouted thunder-voiced: "Cravens, why flee, like starlings nothing-worth Scared by a hawk that swoopeth down on them? Come, play the men! Better it is by far To die in war than choose unmanly flight!"