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Rh sailors of his fleet, come near and slay him with the sword. The sight of the mangled carcasses around him aggravates this sense of shame; to think that he, the hero of a hundred fights, should have dyed his sword in the blood of dumb and defenceless beasts! There is only one escape open to him now;—

And he welcomes the thought. "O darkness," he continues, "my light! O gloom of Erebus, bright as day to such as me! Take me, take me to dwell with you; for I am no longer worthy to look on the race of gods or mortals for any profit that I can bring to man, since the warrior-daughter of Jove torments me to my death. Whither, then, can I fly? whither can I go and be at rest? for my glory is gone, my friends, and vengeance presses hard upon me."

Then he turns (as every hero in Sophocles turns) to Nature—to the familiar plains of Troy—and bids them all an affectionate farewell.

"O paths by the ocean waves, and caverns on the shore, and grove o'ershadowing the beach, too long, too long have ye held me here a weary while! but no longer shall ye hold me, while I have breath of life. Let him who is wise know this. O streams of Scamander, old friends of mine, never shall ye see me more; the bravest warrior of all the host that came from Greece!"

And then there crowd upon him the sweet and bitter memories of the past,—the promises of glory so