"They may think me, in your mail, the brave Achilles," he said, "and pause from fighting, and the warlike sons of Greece, tired as they are, may breathe once more and gain a respite from the conflict." So Achilles loaned this captain, Patroclus, his radiant armor and his chariot, and marshalled his men to follow into the field. At first the assault was successful, but there came a change of fortune. Patroclus' chariot driver was killed; then he met Hector in single combat, at the same time receiving a spear thrust at the back. So Patroclus fell, mortally wounded, and it was a great sorrow as well as a tragedy for Greece, for Patroclus had been Achilles' beloved friend, and Hector stole the armor of Achilles from his body. News of the defeat went even to Mount Olympus and Jupiter covered all the heavens with a black cloud. But Thetis, the mother of Achilles, hastened to the smithy of Vulcan and told him that her son was in sore straits, having no suit of mail. She found the lame artisan of the gods at his forge, sweating and toiling, and with busy hands plying the bellows. But Vulcan laid by his work at once to weld a splendid suit of armor for Achilles. There was, first of all, a shield decorated with the insignia of war; then a helmet crested with gold and a corselet and greaves of metal so tempered that no dart could penetrate them. The task was done in a night and Thetis carried the armor to her son and laid it at his feet at dawn of the next day. No man before had ever worn such sumptuous armor. Arrayed in Vulcan's mail Achilles went forth to battle, and the bravest of the Trojan warriors fled before him or fell under his spear. Achilles, his armor flashing lightning, and he, himself, as terrible as Mars, pursued the entire army as far as the gates of Troy. His triumph would have been complete, but he had an enemy among the company of the gods on Mount Olympus. No arrow shot by the hand of man could have hurt Achilles, but Apollo's shaft wounded him mortally. Apollo and Mars were then, and will be for all time, enemies; light and music and song have no sympathy with war.