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All that of martial spoils remain

Thy hand infuriate slew.

Such slanders does Ulysses bear,

Such whispers breathe in every ear:

His calumnies glad credence gain;

As he who speaks, so they who hear,

Insulting mock thy pain;

He rarely errs who flings on high

At gallant souls his contumely;

Whilst I of lowlier lot evade

The penalty by greatness paid;

For envy steals with silent aim

On nobler birth and loftier fame."—(D.)

Let their chief but come forth from his tent, and he will confound his enemies by his presence; at sight of him they will scatter "like a flock of birds."

Then the Chorus pause, waiting for an answer; but no word of response comes from the closed curtains of the tent of Ajax. They are alarmed by this strange silence. Can there be, after all, they ask, some truth in this dark rumour? Can Diana or the god of war have sent this curse of madness on their prince? Heaven help him, if this be so! But if Ulysses has invented the story,—"Up from thy seat," is their last appeal, "where all too long thou hast been tarrying, while the insolence of thy foes sweeps on like a breeze through wind-swept dells, mocking thee to thy heart's grief and to my abiding sorrow."

There is still no answer from Ajax, but a woman comes forth from his tent, weeping bitterly. The sailors know her well. It is Tecmessa, a captive of the