eir spears gripped firm in their hands.

Then did Paris hurl his spear and smite the shield of Menelaus. But
the shield was strong and the spear could not pierce it.

His hand lifted up for the cast, Menelaus looked upwards and called to
Zeus.

"Grant me revenge, great Zeus!" he cried. "On him that hath done me
grievous wrong, grant me vengeance, so that all men hereafter may
shudder to wrong one who hath treated him as his honored guest."

Then hurled he his mighty spear. Through the bright shield it went,
and through the shining breastplate, tearing the tunic of Paris on his
thigh. But Paris swerved aside, and so escaped death.

Then Menelaus drew his silver-studded sword and drove it crashing down
upon the helmet of Paris. But in four pieces was the sword shattered,
and fell from the hand of Menelaus.

"Surely art thou the most cruel of all the gods, Zeus!" angrily he
cried. "My spear is cast in vain, and my sword shattered, and my
vengeance is still to come!"

So saying, he leapt upon Paris. By the crest on his helmet he seized
him, and, swinging him round, he dragged him towards the Greek host.
The embroidered strap beneath the helmet of Paris strangled him, and
so he would have shamefully died, had not Aphrodite marked his plight.
Swiftly did she burst the leather strap, and the helmet was left
empty in the grasp of Menelaus.

Casting the empty helmet, with a swing, to his comrades, Menelaus
sprang back, ready, with another spear, to slay his enemy.

But Aphrodite snatched Paris up, and in thick mist she hid him, and
bore him away to his own home. Like a wild beast Menelaus strode
through the host, searching for him. But no Trojan would have hidden
him, for with a bitter hatred did the men of Troy hate Paris, most
beautiful of mortal men.

Then said Agamemnon:

"Hearken to me, ye Trojans. Now hath Menelaus gained the victory. Give
us back Helen, and all that is hers, and pay me the recompense that ye
owe me for all the evil days that are gone."

So spake he, and glad were the shouts of the Greeks as they heard the
words of their king.

IV

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE

From where the battle still raged went Hector, son of Priam. At the
oak-tree by the gates of Troy there came running to meet him wives and
daughters of those who fought. For eagerly did they long for tidings
of many a warrior who now lay dead on the field.

When he reached the beautiful, many-pillared palace of his father, his