Blood-streaked made on the flushed cheeks crimson bars. Fierce without pause they fought, and never flagged Epeius, but threw all his stormy strength Into his onrush. Yet did Theseus' son Never lose heart, but baffled the straight blows Of those strong hands, and by his fighting-craft Flinging them right and left, leapt in, brought home A blow to his eyebrow, cutting to the bone. Even then with counter-stroke Epeius reached Acamas' temple, and hurled him to the ground. Swift he sprang up, and on his stalwart foe Rushed, smote his head: as he rushed in again, The other, slightly swerving, sent his left Clean to his brow; his right, with all his might Behind it, to his nose. Yet Acamas still Warded and struck with all the manifold shifts Of fighting-craft. But now the Achaeans all Bade stop the fight, though eager still were both To strive for coveted victory. Then came Their henchmen, and the gory gauntlets loosed In haste from those strong hands. Now drew they breath From that great labour, as they bathed their brows With sponges myriad-pored. Comrades and friends With pleading words then drew them face to face, And prayed, "In friendship straight forget your wrath." So to their comrades' suasion hearkened they; For wise men ever bear a placable mind. They kissed each other, and their hearts forgat That bitter strife. Then Thetis sable-stoled Gave to their glad hands two great silver bowls The which Euneus, Jason's warrior son In sea-washed Lemnos to Achilles gave To ransom strong Lycaon from his hands. These had Hephaestus fashioned for his gift To glorious Dionysus, when he brought His bride divine to Olympus, Minos' child Far-famous, whom in sea-washed Dia's isle Theseus unwitting left. The Wine-god brimmed With nectar these, and gave them to his son; And Thoas at his death to Hypsipyle With great possessions left them. She bequeathed The bowls to her godlike son, who gave them up Unto Achilles for Lycaon's life. The one the son of lordly Theseus took, And goodly Epeius sent to his ship with joy The other. Then their bruises and their scars Did Podaleirius tend with loving care. First pressed he out black humours, then his hands Deftly knit up the gashes: salves he laid Thereover, given him by his sire of old, Such as had virtue in one day to heal The deadliest hurts, yea, seeming-cureless wounds. Straight was the smart assuaged, and healed the scars Upon their brows and 'neath their clustering hair