tor and the Trojans.

The fight then became more scattered and they killed one another where
they best could. Hector killed Stichius and Arcesilaus, the one, leader
of the Boeotians, and the other, friend and comrade of Menestheus.
Aeneas killed Medon and Iasus. The first was bastard son to Oileus, and
brother to Ajax, but he lived in Phylace away from his own country, for
he had killed a man, a kinsman of his stepmother Eriopis whom Oileus
had married. Iasus had become a leader of the Athenians, and was son of
Sphelus the son of Boucolos. Polydamas killed Mecisteus, and Polites
Echius, in the front of the battle, while Agenor slew Clonius. Paris
struck Deiochus from behind in the lower part of the shoulder, as he
was flying among the foremost, and the point of the spear went clean
through him.

While they were spoiling these heroes of their armour, the Achaeans
were flying pell-mell to the trench and the set stakes, and were forced
back within their wall. Hector then cried out to the Trojans, "Forward
to the ships, and let the spoils be. If I see any man keeping back on
the other side the wall away from the ships I will have him killed: his
kinsmen and kinswomen shall not give him his dues of fire, but dogs
shall tear him in pieces in front of our city."

As he spoke he laid his whip about his horses' shoulders and called to
the Trojans throughout their ranks; the Trojans shouted with a cry that
rent the air, and kept their horses neck and neck with his own. Phoebus
Apollo went before, and kicked down the banks of the deep trench into
its middle so as to make a great broad bridge, as broad as the throw of
a spear when a man is trying his strength. The Trojan battalions poured
over the bridge, and Apollo with his redoubtable aegis led the way. He
kicked down the wall of the Achaeans as easily as a child who playing
on the sea-shore has built a house of sand and then kicks it down again
and destroys it--even so did you, O Apollo, shed toil and trouble upon
the Argives, filling them with panic and confusion.

Thus then were the Achaeans hemmed in at their ships, calling out to
one another and raising their hands with loud cries every man to
heaven. Nestor of Gerene, tower of strength to the Achaeans, lifted up
his hands to the starry firmament of heaven, and prayed more fervently
than any of them. "Father Jove," said he, "if ever any one in
wheat-growing Argos burned you fat thigh-bones of sheep or heifer and
prayed t