Who writhed beside me, dying! With a boundI sprang up, empty-handed, groping roundFor spear or sword, when, lo, a young strong manWas close to me and slashed, and the sword ranDeep through my flank. I felt its passage well,So deep, so wide, so spreading . . . then I fell.And they, they got the bridles in their handAnd fled .... Ah! Ah! This pain. I cannot stand.The Guards catch him as he reels, and lay him on the ground.I know, I saw, thus much. But why or howThose dead men went to death I cannot know,Nor by whose work. But this I say; God send’Tis not foul wrong wrought on us by a friend.LEADER.Good charioteer of that ill-fortuned king,Suspect us not. ’Tis Greeks have done this thing.But yonder Hector comes. He hath been shownThe foul deed, and thy sorrows are his own.Enter HECTOR in wrath, with a band of Guards.HECTOR.Ye workers of amazement! Have your eyesNo sight? Ye watch and let these Argive spiesPass—and our friends are butchered in their sleep—P. 46, 11. 810-830. Hector and the Guard.]—There is intentional colour here—the impulsive half-barbaric rage of Hector, the oriental grovelling of the Guard, and of course the quick return to courteous self-mastery with which Hector receives the taunts of the wounded man.And then pass back unwounded, laughing deep