“Perhaps, too, you may be curious to hear the fate of Priam. When he saw his city fallen and captured, the 25 doors of his palace burst open, the foe in the heart of his home’s sanctuary, poor old man! helplessly and hopelessly he puts about his shoulders, trembling with age, his armour, long disused, and girds on his unavailing sword, and is going to his doom among the thick of the foe. In 30 the midst of the palace, under the naked height of the sky, stood a great altar, and by it a bay tree of age untold, leaning over the altar and enfolding the household gods in its shade. Here about the altar Hecuba and her daughters, all helpless, like doves driven headlong down 35 by a murky tempest, huddled together and clinging to the statues of the gods, were sitting. But when she saw Priam—yes, Priam—wearing the arms of his youth—‘What monstrous thought,’ cries she, ‘my most wretched spouse, has moved you to gird on these weapons? or to what are you hurrying? It is not help like this, not protections like those you wear, that the crisis needs. No, not even if my lost Hector were now at our side. Come, 5 join us here at last; this altar shall be a defence for us all, or we will die together.’ With these words she took him to where she was, and lodged his aged frame in the hallowed resting-place. “But, see! here is Polites, one of Priam’s sons escaped 10 from Pyrrhus’ murderous hand, through showers of darts and masses of foemen, flying down the long corridors and traversing the empty courts, sore and wounded, while Pyrrhus, all on fire, is pursuing him, with a deadly stroke, his hand all but grasping him, his spear close upon him. 15 Just as at last he won his way into the view and presence of his parents, down he fell and poured out his life in a gush of blood. Hereon Priam, though hemmed in by death on all sides, could not restrain himself, or control voice and passion. ‘Aye,’ cries he, ‘for a crime, for an outrage like 20 this, may the gods, if there is any sense of right in heaven to take cognizance of such deeds, give you the full thanks you merit, and pay you your due reward; you, who have made me look with my own eyes on my son’s death, and stained a father’s presence with the sight of blood. But 25 he whom your lying tongue calls your sire, Achilles, dealt not thus with Priam his foe—he had a cheek that could crimson at a suppliant’s rights, a suppliant’s honour. Hector’s lifeless body he gave back to the tomb, and sent me home to my realms in peace.’ So said the poor old 30 man, and hurled at him a dart unwarlike, unwounding, which the ringing brass at once shook off, and left hanging helplessly from the end of the shield’s boss. Pyrrhus retorts: ‘You shall take your complaint, then, and carry