he body of Patroclus unless
thou comest now. Thou needst not fight, Achilles, only show thyself to
the men of Troy, for sore is the need of Patroclus thy friend."

Then, all unarmed, did Achilles go forth, and stood beside the trench.
With a mighty voice he shouted, and at the sound of his voice terror
fell upon the Trojans. Backward in flight they went, and from among
the dead did the Greeks draw the body of Patroclus, and hot were the
tears that Achilles shed for the friend whom he had sent forth to
battle.

All that night, in the house of the Immortals, resounded the clang of
hammer on anvil as Hephaistus, the lame god, fashioned new arms for
Achilles.

Bronze and silver and gold he threw in his fire, and golden
handmaidens helped their master to wield the great bellows, and to
send on the crucibles blasts that made the ruddy flames dance.

No fairer shield was ever borne by man than that which Hephaistus made
for Achilles. For him also he wrought a corslet brighter than a flame
of fire, and a helmet with a golden crest.

And in the morning light did Thetis dart down from snowy Olympus,
bearing in her arms the splendid gift of a god.

Glad was Achilles as he put on the armor, and terrible was his war-cry
as he roused the Greek warriors. No man, however sore his wounds, held
back when the voice of Achilles called him to the fight once again.
Wounded was Agamemnon, overlord of the Greeks, but forth also came he.
And there, while the sun rose on many a warrior who would fight no
more, did Achilles and Agamemnon speak as friends once again, their
long strife ended.

Hungry for war, with Achilles as their leader, did the Greeks then
meet the Trojans on the plain. And as a fierce fire rages through the
forest, its flames driven by the wind, so did Achilles in his wrath
drive through the host of Troy.

Down to the Scamander he drove the fleeing Trojans, and the water
reddened with blood, as he smote and spared not.

Merciless was Achilles; pitilessly did he exult as one brave man after
another was sent by him to dye red the swift flood of the Scamander.

At length, at his lack of mercy, did even the river grow wrathful.

"Choked is my stream with dead men!" it cried, "and still thou
slayest!"

But when Achilles heeded not, in fierce flood the river up-rose
against him, sweeping the slain before it, and in furious spate
seeking to destroy Achilles. But as its waves smote against his
shield, Achilles grasped a