the utterance of a human voice reaches my ear: ‘Why, 20 Æneas, mangle a wretch like me? Spare me at length in my grave—spare those pious hands the stain of guilt. It was not an alien to you that Troy bore in bearing me—it is no alien’s blood that is trickling from the stem. Ah! fly from this land of cruelty, fly from this shore of greed, 25 for I am Polydorus. Here I lie, pierced and buried by a growing crop of spears that has shot into sharp javelins.’ “Then, indeed, terror, blank and irresolute, came over me—I was aghast—my hair stood erect, my tongue clove to my mouth. Yes, this Polydorus had long ago 30 been sent secretly by Priam, unhappy then as ever, with a vast weight of gold, to be brought up by the king of Thrace, when he had already come to despair of the arms of Dardania, and saw the siege folding closer round his city. When the power of the Trojans had been broken, 35 and their star set, the Thracian followed Agamemnon’s fortunes, and joined the standard of the conqueror—every tie of duty is snapped—he murders Polydorus, and by violence possesses himself of the gold. Cursed lust of gold, to what dost thou not force the heart of man? After the cold shuddering had ceased to tingle in my marrow, I lay this portent from heaven before the select senate of our nation, and my father as their chief, and ask them 5 what they think. All are of the same mind, to depart from the land of crime, to leave the home of violated friendship, and indulge our fleet with the gales that wooed it. So we give Polydorus a solemn funeral: earth is heaped high upon his mound; there stand the altars reared to his 10 manes,[145] in all the woe of dark fillets and sad-coloured cypress: and round them are daughters of Ilion, their hair unbound in mourner fashion: we offer bowls of new milk warm and frothing, and dishes of consecrated blood: so we lay the spirit to rest in its grave, and with a loud 15 voice give the farewell call.[146]