ants in the distance, and sees the flames rising in the air from the galley of Ajax. He can no longer restrain his feelings, but hurries his comrade forth. Patroclus puts on the harness of his chief, and takes his sword and shield: only the mighty 'spear he forbears to touch;—
"None save Achilles' self that spear could poise,
The far-famed Pelian ash, which to his sire,
On Pelion's summit felled, to be the bane
Of mightiest chiefs, the centaur Chiron gave."
He mounts the hero's chariot, driven by the noble Automedon, and drawn by the three horses, Xanthus, Balius, and Pedasus—or as we should call them, Chestnut, Dapple, and Swift-foot. The battalions of the Myrmidons eagerly gather round their leaders,—even old Phœnix taking command of one detachment. Achilles himself gives them a few fiery words of exhortation. "They have long chafed at their enforced idleness, and clamoured for the battle; lo! there lies the opportunity they have longed for." Then, standing in the midst, he pours from his most costly goblet the solemn libation to Jove, and prays of him for Patroclus victory and a safe return. The poet tells us, with that licence of prognostication which has been considerably abused by some modern writers of fiction, that half the prayer was heard, and half denied.
"Like a pack of ravening wolves, hungering for their prey," the Myrmidons launch themselves against the enemy. The Trojans recognise, as they believe, in the armed charioteer who heads them, the terrible Achilles, and consternation spreads through their ranks. Even Hector, though still fighting gallantly, is borne back over the stockade, and the ditch is filled with broken
