Onward in anger he moved. And the arrows, stirred by the motion, Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the midnight. Hard by the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the bow-string; Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all silvery-shining; First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of the herdsman; Afterward smote he the host. With a rankling arrow he smote them Aye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the corpse-fires. Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god: and the tenth day Dawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the people.” (Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the white-armed, Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around her.) So when all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly, Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed Achilles:— “Atreus’ son! it were better, I think this day, that we wandered Back, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfare _may_ be avoided); Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with Achaians. Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us, Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of God’s hand— Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus Apollo. Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered; Whether, accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats, Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.” Down sat the prince: he had spoken. And uprose to them in answer Kalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the augurs. Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was aforetime; He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia, All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus Apollo. Thus then, kindliest-hearted, arising spake he before them: “Peleus’ son! Thou demandest, a man heavenfavor’d, an answer Touching the Great King’s wrath, the afar-off-aiming Apollo: Therefore I lift up my voice. Swear thou to me, duly digesting All,—that with right good will, by word and by deed, thou wilt aid me. Surely the ire will awaken of one who mightily ruleth Over the Argives all: and upon him wait the Achaians. Aye is the battle the king’s, when a poor man kindleth his anger: For, if but this one day he devour his indignation, Still on the morrow abideth a rage, that its end be accomplished, Deep in the soul of the king. So bethink thee, wilt thou deliver.” Then unto him making answer arose swift-footed Achilles: “Fearing nought, up and open the god’s will, all that is told thee: For by Apollo’s self, heaven’s favourite, whom thou, Kalchas, Serving aright, to the armies aloud God-oracles op’nest: None—while as yet I breathe upon earth, yet walk in the daylight—