How the Giving of an Apple Brought War to Troy

P RIAM, King of Troy, was renowned throughout all the lands of the East for the long life of cloudless prosperity wherewith the gods had blessed him. Forty years had he reigned and still was in his prime, being yet a child when he inherited the kingdom; and in all those years it had been well with him. Peace was within his walls and plenteousness within his borders; his folk were leal and flourishing, his broad demesnes rich in corn and oil, his flocks and herds as the sands of the sea for multitude; but in nothing was he esteemed more fortunate than in the number of goodly children that Hecuba his Queen had borne to him.

Now when she had already reared eight sons and four daughters, the Queen dreamed that she brought forth a blazing torch; and the soothsayers, being called together to interpret the dream, declared with one voice that the child she next should bear would prove a firebrand to Troy and kindle a flame therein which should consume both city and folk. Not long after, she bore another son; and King Priam, in dread of that prophecy, bade a trusty slave take the babe secretly to the great mountain called Ida, that looks down on the plain of Troy, and there cast it forth to perish. And to grieve his Queen the less, he caused her women to tell her that the babe was born dead.

The slave carried away the new-born child as he was bidden; but when he was about to leave it on the cold hillside, his heart failed him for pity, and he brought it to certain herdsmen that dwelt on Ida, pretending to have found it by chance. Now the wife of one of these herdsmen, moved with compassion, took the foundling and reared it as her own, being herself childless.

So this king's son, to whom his foster-parents gave the name of Paris, grew up among the glens of many-fountained Ida with herdsmen and shepherds for his companions; but though bred a rustic, the delicate comeliness of the lad and his gracious bearing would have well beseemed a palace hall. He had, moreover, the gift of ready and persuasive speech, a voice musical as falling water, and a smile that melted the heart like a caress; few of his rough comrades were ever known to deny him anything, and the saying went among them that Paris could wile the bird from the bough. Nor was it over these simple folk only he could cast a glamour, as this tale will show.

There is among the vales of Ida one lovelier than all the rest, and lonelier, for it lies near the mountaintop, and its steep sides are walled with dense-growing pines. At the head of the glen, a brook comes leaping down rocky cornices, and swirling through fern-fringed pools and pebbly shallows, falls at its lower end over a sheer crag, in clouds of rainbow spray. Keen-eyed and sure-footed must you be to spy and to climb the dizzy ladder that here tough roots of broom, and there a jutting rock, make up the face of the crag, close to the foam and thunder of the cataract; few or none of the hill-folk had ever found that sole path to the fair, sequestered lawns above. But Paris had found it, roving one summer's day in idle mood, and found, too, that the glen was not wholly untenanted. It was the haunt of a Fairy—one of those swift, shy daughters of the Flood and Fell whom men of old called Oreads. White-limbed, slender, tall, with dusky, rippling hair, she stood before the intruder half-angered, half-afraid; swaying a little, as a sapling birth sways in the breeze, and her eyes were like dark hill-tarns that the breeze has ruffled.

Paris spoke to her, in that silver voice of his, wooing her to stay, to listen, to tell him who she was, beckoning gently the while as one might soothe a startled fawn; until with a fawn's timid grace she tripped nearer, still nearer, and looked into his smiling eyes, wonderingly. "I am Œnone, daughter of Ida," she said, soft and low. "And you, I think, must be the young Apollo, fairest of the heaven-dwelling gods. For I have heard that his sunny hair floats to his shoulders, even as yours, and that his eyes, too, are emerald, and how he loves to put on the guise of a shepherd."

Then Paris, laughing, told her he was no Immortal, but in good sooth the shepherd lad he seemed, who kept his peasant father's flock upon the hills, saving when he played truant for a day, as he was doing now. And much more he found to tell her; so much, that the golden hours of that summer's day fleeted ere they knew. Dusk had fallen when Paris left the glen, whispering that he would come again; and as he went the heart of the Oread went with him. Thenceforward all her bliss was in his comings; and those comings were many, for he could pass his time as he listed, never hindered or questioned by his doting foster-parents. Blithe as children, Œnone and her new playmate would frolic on the meadow-lawns, or weave each other wildflower garlands; or she would show him the lair of hill-fox or spotted pard, where—for all the wild things knew and loved the Oread—the mother-beast would suffer them to fondle her furry, romping cubs. But at sultry noontide they would seek hand in hand some cool recess of the rocks, or mossy hollow beneath the pines, and fall asleep to the lullaby of the brook.

So passed the summer; until one morning Paris found his sweet friend weeping, and, heartstruck, asked what ailed her.

"Alas," she answered, through her tears, "I have heard tidings of a thing that will surely sunder you and me."

"Nothing shall sunder us two," he cried, boldly.

"Nothing—while you love me," she murmured, "but my heart misgives me sorely that you will soon love me no more."

"Foolish Œnone," said Paris, tenderly, "have you forgotten what I have sworn to you so often—and so deeply? Shall I call the gods once more to witness that I will never have love or bride in all my life but you?"

"No, do not swear it!" exclaimed Œnone. "The gods laugh, 'tis said, at lovers' perjuries, and avenge not the breaking of vows made in fondness—and yet I have a dread of evil befalling you if you should prove forsworn."

"Put me to the test, then," answered Paris, smiling. "Come with me even now to my homestead, and this very day we will be wedded. At your bidding I have kept our meetings secret—none guesses that a daughter of Ida has stooped to love me—but now, since you doubt my faith, let me prove it as best a man may."

"You must prove it, indeed," sighed the Oread, "but not thus, belovéd. Now hear my tidings. When I woke at dawn, a rainbow spanned the glen, and beneath its arch I saw Iris the Messenger, waving her many-coloured wings. In her hand was an apple that shone like pure gold. She called to me by name, and holding forth the wondrous fruit—'Œnone,' she said, this was cast yester-eve upon the board where all the gods adorned with their presence the marriage-feast of a highly favoured mortal. To that feast came also a guest unbidden, undesired, even Discord, hated of gods and men; this apple flung she down, crying, "For her whose title it bears," and so departed with an evil laugh. But on the apple was engraven FOR THE MOST FAIR, and loud debate arose, which of the goddesses should take it; until three who surpass in divine beauty stood forth and claimed it, the rest yielding them pre-eminence. These three were Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, among whom none of the gods would presume to judge, as they said. Then spake King Zeus, "We will make a mortal the judge; thus shall we defeat the intent of loathéd Discord, to sow feuds and ill-will among us. This judge must be prudent, yet simple; a stranger to courts and cities, yet no churl; neither must he know or be known by any of the three goddesses. Such a judge will declare his mind without fear or favour—and such is Paris, the shepherd lad of Mount Ida." ' "

At these words, Paris gave a cry of astonishment. "I  the judge of goddesses!" he exclaimed. "Have you not dreamed all this, Œnone? You shake your head, and sigh—ah, now I guess what bred your doubt of me; you think the sight of these beautiful heaven-dwellers will turn my heart from you! I tell you, if indeed I am made judge of the fairest, that apple is yours; never a goddess of them all can vie in loveliness with my woodland queen."

"Hush, hush," murmured the Oread, laying a finger on his lips, "you know not what you say. As a glowworm's spark to the splendour of the moon, so is all Earth-born beauty to that of the Sky-Children. Hear my tidings to the end. Iris said further, that by command of Zeus the three goddesses would shortly be here; she bade me prepare you for your high task and give you the marvellous prize you are to bestow."

So saying, she drew the apple of Discord from her bosom and laid it in the youth's hand. Of purest gold it was, and smelt ambrosially, for it was a fruit magical, grown on the dragon-guarded Tree of the Hesperides. Thence had Discord stolen it, unseen of the sleepless warder; for that Wicked One flies abroad invisible at her pleasure, and she had bethought her how it might serve to stir up strife among the happy gods. Paris read aloud the inscription on its gleaming rind, and, between jest and earnest, would have slipped it into Œnone's hand again; but she put it aside with a startled gesture, glided from him, and was lost to view amid the pines.

She had marked, though he did not, a crested peacock alight on the nearest tree-top, and a golden cloud brooding above the peacock. As the bird uttered its shrill scream, Paris looked upward; he saw the cloud take the shape of a pillar and float to earth; white radiance glowed within it, while the enveloping gold turned bluish-grey, curling forth on the bright air in wreaths of odorous vapour. And as that incense-breathing cloud parted and dissolved, a Lady stood revealed; taller than the daughters of men, arrayed in white robes that dazzled the eye like snow-drifts in sunshine, and wearing a glittering veil thrown back from her crownéd brows. Lilies of pearl and gold made her diadem; the sceptre she bore was ivory, topped by a cuckoo carved out of sapphire. But more plainly than these splendours, her countenance and mien, august beyond all earthly majesty, proclaimed the goddess.

Bending on Paris her large eyes, brown and lustrous as the eyes of kine, she spoke thus, in deep, mellow tones: "Look on me, shepherd of Ida! I am Hera, Queen of Gods, Hera, Bride of Zeus. Riches and honour come of me; royal sway, the revenues of wide dominions, the homage of cities and peoples—these are my gifts to mortals, and all these shall be yours if you accord me the prize that is my due. Look on me, Paris, look well, and say, am I not peerless?"

"Look on me also," broke in another voice, that rang sweet and clear as a silver trumpet.

With that, Paris was aware of a stately form that stood at his right hand, leaning on a great, gleaming spear. It was the form of an armed Maiden. Her head was covered by a golden helm, embossed with shapes of wingéd steeds, and crested with a steed's milk-white mane; she wore a breastplate of golden scales, thickly fringed with gold serpents, over her azure tunic, and carried a golden shield inwrought with combats of gods and giants. By these accoutrements, Paris knew her for the Virgin Warrior, Athena, whom men call also Pallas.

"Look at me well, Paris," she said again, "for they that judge me fairest must do so for mine own sake, without guerdon promised. Yet if, being mortal, your eyes are bewildered in the light of heavenly presences, remember this: Athena's gift is wisdom, wherein alone lies true sovereignty. Hera can make you king over others, but I can make you lord of yourself, and master of your fate. For the wise man, having conquered fear and desire, is himself unconquerable by men or gods."

The speaker paused, and Paris earnestly regarded her. He marked that the hair clustered beneath her helm was the colour of winter beechwoods; her shape, even taller than Hera's, as nobly though less bounteously moulded; her features, though softened by immortal bloom, were masculine in their severe perfection, their impress of thought and of power. Suddenly the goddess raised her downcast eyelids and flashed full upon him those eyes that have not their like in earth or heaven. Twin founts of living fire—twin stars whose springing radiance overflowed in a tide that seemed engulfing him—which was it he beheld? Shrinking, yet powerless to avert his gaze, the youth stood terror-charmed, like a bird that helplessly returns the serpent's stare. But in another moment, the blinding brilliance passed; a film of twilight seemed to curtain those twin orbs, and as his sight undazzled he knew them for what they were—two eyes of darkest grey, lovely, steadfast, inscrutable.

"They are more glorious than even Queen Hera's," he murmured half aloud, "but—they are terrible; were Athena angered, surely she could slay with a look! I am bewildered, as she said—how shall I dare to choose? Hera promises me power, Athena wisdom——"

"But I," said a laughing voice behind him, "will promise you something better than either—a wife who is the most beautiful woman alive. Turn, and look on Aphrodite, shepherd!"

Paris turned and saw, throned on a flowery knoll, one whose deep gold hair was crowned with roses, and fell in shining waves to her very feet. The Third Goddess drew back that resplendent veil from either shoulder with pearly, slender fingers, as she stepped lightly to his side. "Am not I  the fairest?" she asked him, in a voice like the cooing of doves; and with an exquisite smile she lifted eyes of the wild hyacinth's blue to his. Who may declare what then he looked upon? As all the breath and bloom of summer is garnered in a rose, as all the changeful sheen of ocean is housed in a pearl, so all bodily beauty that mind can dream of, or heart desire, dwelt eternal in Aphrodite. And nevertheless, even while he feasted his eyes on her who is Love's Queen and Mother both, Paris felt that something diviner than her loveliness, more serene than Hera's majesty, illumined the full brow of Pallas Athena.

He held the fateful apple out at arm's length, looking irresolutely from one to another of the waiting three.

"Give it to me, Paris," said Hera, proudly. "Behold, all men strive for Power, but few seek after Wisdom, for that is a barren gift, which the strong need not, and the weak find of small avail. Know, fair youth, that, though peasant-bred, the blood of kings runs in your veins. Does it not leap to your heart at the thought of a kingly crown? Then yield me the apple, and a crown you shall wear, by grace of Heaven's Queen."

Almost persuaded, so much surprise and newborn ambition thrilled him at these words, Paris took one step towards Hera—then turned once more to Athena, expecting that she also would speak again. But Athena held her peace.

"What profits it, my Paris," came Aphrodite's low voice in his ear, "what profits it a man to gain all power and all wisdom, if therewithal he have no pleasure in his days? Youth withers like the rose, loveless, joyless Age creeps on apace, Death ends all, as a tale that is told. Can you take your glory or riches or knowledge with you into the land where all things are forgotten? Nay, mortal, leave these gifts to the ever-living gods, and choose rather my  gifts—Love, Delight, heart-easing Mirth, that your little life may be sweet while it lasts; this is the one good for creatures of a day. Come, own me fairest, and pleasures beyond thought shall be yours, through the bride I promised you even now. For I myself have clothed her in such beauty that I am well nigh jealous to behold it; there is none like her among women, nor shall be to the end of Time; and with better reason than they know, do men call her the World's Desire."

Thus spoke she, the heavenly temptress; and Paris, overborne by visions of unknown bliss, forgot in that instant honour and plighted faith, and put the shining apple into her outstretched hand.

Sweetly laughed Aphrodite in her triumph, and at that sound Paris started like one awaking from a dream—to find himself alone. Gone were those celestial visitants, and looking round on the familiar, silent scene, he could have thought their coming a dream indeed, until a muffled sound of sobbing came to him out of the near pines, as it were the sough of the wind among their branches. Then, not enduring to look on her whom he had betrayed, he fled from the glen like a guilty thing pursued. For so it was with Paris then and thereafter, that he shunned the sight of pain more than the giving of it.

Now the next day and the next, he would fain have returned to Œnone, and made her what amends he could. But ever a voice within him whispered, "It is too late. The gods never recall their gifts. You have taken a bride at the hand of Aphrodite—hers you are and shall be to the end." There haunted him also that word of Hera's that he was king-born. He had long known that those whom he called father and mother were not his true parents, for the story of his finding was common talk; but happy in his free, simple life, he had never given a thought to the mystery of his birth. Now, however, he felt himself born to greater things, and nursed the secret hope that some high fortune was in store for him. Shunning the wooded heights, he led his flock day by day to the mountain's lower slopes, whence the eye had clearer prospect of the plain with its winding rivers, and the sparkling sea beyond, and towered Troy itself, that as yet he had never visited. Yonder, he would fancy, as he gazed at the spacious city, some splendid lot awaited him; yonder, perhaps, he was to meet the wondrous Unknown—the World's Desire!

It befell about this time that King Priam sent servants to Mount Ida to take his yearly toll of sheep and cattle from the hillmen. Now, the foster father of Paris owned one young bull, the finest beast of all the herds on Ida, which, when the King's servants saw, they claimed and drove off, although the old man pleaded hard, saying that, except a few sheep, it was all the livestock he had. So that night when Paris brought home his flock, he found the bull's stall empty and the old folks lamenting, and his heart grew hot within him at their tale.

"To-morrow," he said to them, "I will go down to Troy and stand before the King, and bid him right this wrong his greedy servants have done us in his name. For sure, being royal, he will think scorn to deal so meanly as to take our one beast, and he with a thousand of his own."

The old herdsman was well content that he should go, for he thought Paris could talk over any man, even the King, and next to his pride in Paris was his pride in the young bull. But his wife, who had the name of a wise woman among her neighbours, looked troubled, and prayed her foster-son to bide at home. "Troy town is no place for you," said she, "and evil will come of your errand, or I am the more deceived. Only last night I dreamed that I saw you feasting in the King's hall. The couch you lay on was all heaped over with rose-leaves, and behold, while you drank and laughed, a serpent crawled out of the rose-leaves and stung you on the breast—and at your shriek I awoke. Here was a plain sign that some deadly peril lurks for you in Troy."

"Good mother," answered Paris, merrily, "have I not heard you say that a snake-bite in a dream signifies an arrow-wound? No fear of that in peaceful Troy, so think no more of your dream."

Next morning before daybreak he set out with a light heart for the city. It was the hour of full market when he entered its landward gate and passed through wide, straight streets into the market-place, where King Priam was sitting in a marble chair, giving judgments to his folk. Wisely and mildly dealt he with the suits they pleaded before him, healing disputes between neighbours, upholding the cause of the widow and the orphan, and meting equal justice to rich and poor. Seeing this, Paris was the more emboldened; he stepped forward in his turn and made request to have the bull restored, pleading his father's poverty and the injury he suffered by so heavy a toll on his small substance. And all who heard the young shepherd wondered at his discreet, fair-flowing speech, and his mien that was so princely, though modest as became his years.

But the King, looking fixedly on him, knew him—so like he was to the princes, his brothers—and eagerly questioned him of his name and parentage. Then Paris told all his story, and being asked further, what man it was that brought him a babe to the herdsmen, answered, they knew not his name, but he was one of the King's household. When Priam heard that, he rose up and bade Paris follow him into the palace; And taking him into a chamber apart and, he sent for that slave, now grown old and feeble, whom he had charged to make riddance of the fatal child. The slave no sooner saw Paris than he likewise knew him, and fell down at the King's feet, confessing his disobedience. But Priam pardoned him with right good will, for his heart yearned over his son, seeing how goodly and gracious a youth he was become, and in his gladness he recked no more of the soothsayers' prophecy concerning him. So that day all Troy kept high festival, because the dead was alive again and the lost was found.

Queen Hecuba received her son with tears of joy, and a loving welcome he had from all his brothers and sisters, except one, who greeted him in strange sort. Cassandra was the name of this princess; in earliest girlhood she had chosen to become Apollo's priestess, and vowed herself to his service for ever, and the god in recompense had endued her with the gift of prophecy. But before she had dwelt long in his holy temple, an earthly love made her false to her sacred vows; she was now dwelling again under her father's roof, and soon, it was said, would be married to the son of a neighbour king, who had wooed and won her by stealth. Cassandra came into the hall when all the rest were already gathered at the feast the King made in his long-lost son's honour; and the instant that she caught sight of Paris, where he sat on Priam's right hand, she threw up her white arms and reeled backward, crying out in a frenzy, "The firebrand! Trample out the firebrand! See, see, it sets alight our purple hangings—the blaze leaps to the rafters—they kindle too—now all is one flame! All Troy is burning, burning! O, O, all Troy's on fire!" And with a shriek that curdled the blood to hear, she fell down in a swoon.

Then did Priam and Hecuba tremble and turn pale, bethinking themselves of the prophecy; yet on the morrow both were ready to make light of it, for the beauty of Paris and his winning ways subdued their hearts to extravagant fondness. Haggard with weeping, Cassandra sought the King alone, and implored him to send her new-found brother out of the land; "I cannot look on him," she said, "but straightway a fire dances before me and a shout of armed men rings in mine ears. O father, banish him hence! I feel—I know, by the god-given power within me, that if he bides here he will bring destruction on us all." But Priam would not heed her, for her mood had been very strange of late; and as for her vision of the firebrand, he thought that she had somehow heard the tale of Hecuba's dream and its interpretation—although he had commanded the soothsayers to keep it secret—and that had wrought her distempered mind to this dread and horror of Paris. Therefore he gently chid his daughter, bidding her beware of yielding to unwholesome fantasies, perilous alike to health and wits. Then Cassandra wrung her hands and cried, "Behold, the curse is come upon me that Apollo spoke when he knew me faithless. For he appeared to me in the temple and said, Though I cannot take away a gift once given, I will make mine fruitless unto thee, and it shall prove thy bane. Still shalt thou foresee what is to come, but henceforth no man shall believe thy prophecies." 

Now for a time all went merrily in Troy, and Paris increased daily in favour with all his kindred, except the Seer-maiden, who scarce endured the sight of him. King Priam had sent back the bull to his foster-parents, and therewith such rich rewards for their kindness to the foundling that they could live at ease all the rest of their days. But Paris had no mind to revisit that lowly home, and the herdsman's wife looked for him long in vain. At last she said, "The lad I nursed in my bosom has forgotten me—ay, and more than me. It is borne upon my mind that another heart aches for him on Ida, with a bitterer pang than mine."

"That may be," said her husband, "for lads will be lads, and every maid on the mountain had a smile for our Paris. But never fret yourself, good wife; though he is a prince now and has other things to think of, he will come back to us one of these days."

"In an ill day for him, then," said she, "for I will tell you another thought that sticks in my mind—I shall see him next with the deathwound in his breast that my dream foreboded."

It chanced, soon after this, that a Phœnician trader came in his ship to Troy, bringing jewels and costly stuffs for sale, and Paris was by when he showed his choicest wares to Queen Hecuba and her daughters. Among them was a girdle of rare device, studded with sapphires, which the trader vowed had not its match in the world, except one that he had sold to a queen, who was well worthy of such a masterpiece, being accounted the fairest woman under the sun.

"What may be her name?" asked Paris, eagerly.

"She is called Helen," replied the trader, "but the bards of her country have given her the name of World's Desire.  They say she chose her husband among fifty suitors, all kings or sons of kings; he is King Menelaus of Sparta, in the land of Greece."

Paris needed no more to assure him that this Helen must be the peerless bride promised him by Aphrodite; the trader's report made him long to behold her, and surely, he thought, the goddess herself had sent him tidings of her name and habitation so that he might go in quest of her. After pondering long, he went to King Priam and prayed leave to voyage with the trader as far as the great harbour town of Sidon, whither he was next bound, and thence to journey home by land, seeing men and cities. For even as a shepherd, he said, he had longed for a sight of the wonders in far countries; and now he was come to high estate, it irked him all the more to be so ignorant of the great world, that had ever been the school of princes and heroes.

Priam was very loth to part with his now best-beloved son, but, being still more loth to cross him in anything, consented; he gave him a retinue befitting a prince, and great store of gold, and offered up sacrifices to all the gods of Troy for his prosperous voyaging, when the ship set sail.

Prosperous, in truth, was the voyage, but it was not to Sidon, for Paris had secretly hired the Phœnician to carry him straight to Sparta. And being come to the city of Menelaus, he made himself known to that King as Priam's son, journeying through Greece to pay vows of thanksgiving at holy Delphi, which is the chiefest seat and sanctuary of Apollo.

King Menelaus made the Trojan prince right welcome, and soon conceived such friendship for him that he took all means to prolong his sojourn, giving nightly feasts in his honour, and entertaining him by day with great huntings of the hart and the wild boar. Three se'nnights had passed in this manner when a business that brooked no delay called the hospitable king overseas to the Isle of Crete; but since he would not be absent long, he urged his guest to await his return.

"My Queen," said he, "will play the hostess to you meanwhile, and I have charged her, as she loves me, to see you lack nothing our house can afford for your ease and pleasure."

Paris made a feint of refusal, under plea of desiring to set forward at once to Delphi, but at last he yielded, with joy in his heart. For from the first hour he saw Queen Helen, he knew that he must win her or die; she was his star, fairer than the thousands that gemmed Night's kirtle—and hitherto she had seemed remote as they. It was as though, when he came into her presence, an invisible barrier rose about her, holding him aloof. Not that she failed in gentle courtesy to the stranger within her gates; but whether at the banquet, or when, seated beside the hearth of an evening, she plied her ivory distaff, listening to the talk between Menelaus and his guest, the Queen was ever as one whose thoughts are far away, spoke seldom, nor so much as glanced at Paris. But now, he promised himself, all this should be altered; he saw the hand of Aphrodite in the seeming chance that took Menelaus from home, "and it shall go hard," he thought, "but I will profit by this luck the goddess sends me. With her to aid, and sweet Helen left unguarded, what may I not achieve?"

Thus did Paris, glorying in his heart, set his feet upon the road that lay plain and smooth before him, and little recked whither it might lead at the last.

II

AFTER scarce a month's absence, King Menelaus came home again, nothing doubting that his wife would greet him on the threshold, and his Trojan guest be waiting to carouse and hunt with him as before. But dreary silence in the palace, and the pale, dismayed faces of his household, heralded the news that had to be told him—news that at first he angrily refused to believe. His Queen had stolen away with the Trojan stranger, three nights ago; they had been seen by certain fishermen to embark at dawn upon his ship, which lay in readiness off a lonely headland and at once stood out to sea with oar and sail.

When Menelaus, who was for a while like a man stunned, at length grasped the truth of these tidings, his grief and fury were dreadful to behold. No lioness robbed of her whelps could rage more terribly than he. Now he would give command to launch all his ships in chase of the runaways; anon, recollecting that by now they had gained three days' start on their unknown course, he would revoke that order, and fall to threatening and upbraiding his whole household because they had not suspected and hindered the treason afoot. An old nurse, hoping to soften the king's mood, brought in to him the only child of his marriage, a darling little maid of two years old; but he turned away with a groan, and fiercely bade her keep the brat that was too like its traitress mother out of his sight, lest he did it a mischief.

In the height of his distress came the elder brother of Menelaus to visit him, with a great train, having heard what had befallen. This brother, Agamemnon by name, was likewise a king, ruling the land of Argos, that marches with Sparta on the eastward, and holding lordship over the princes of many cities besides. And here let it be told how both these two brothers came to be kings. Agamemnon inherited the sceptre of their father, Atreus; and at that time there was a king in Sparta called Tyndareus. Now Helen was the daughter of Tyndareus; who, when all the princes of Greece desired to wed the incomparable maiden, told them she should make her own choice among them, if they for their part would be bound by a certain condition. This was, that whomsoever she might choose, all the rest should swear to maintain his rights over her, and fight in that cause, if ever need arose. In this manner Tyndareus provided against the twofold danger he foresaw, of himself offending the other suitors if he preferred any one of them, and of their making war against Helen's husband out of revenge. All the suitors took the solemn oath he required of them; and Helen's choice fell on Menelaus, the least in rank and renown, but in person the goodliest. Not long after, the old Tyndareus died, and because he had no son living, bequeathed his kingdom to Menelaus. He left, however, one other daughter, called Clytemnestra, whom—as it was said, against her will—Agamemnon had taken to wife when he found himself rejected by her sister. Certain at least it was that Clytemnestra was betrothed to another when the powerful King of Argos demanded her in marriage; but willing or unwilling, she had made him a loyal wife and governed her great household well. Thus, then, it came to pass that the two sons of Atreus ruled neighbour countries, and were the husbands of two sisters.

And so, too, it befell, when the anguish of Menelaus had a little abated under his brother's kindly comforting, that he saw a way to recover Helen even from distant and well-walled Troy, if, as he doubted not, Paris had carried her thither. Forthwith he reminded Agamemnon of the covenant made with her suitors, and begged him, as his elder, and chief among Greek princes, to call the rest to war against the Trojans. But Agamemnon was troubled at the request, and had much to urge against it. First he said, if a wife proved so fickle and so false, a man was well rid of her—the treacherous wanton was not worth another thought. Menelaus answered that he could never rest until he had dealt her, and Paris also, the doom such traitors merited, for it concerned his honour to be avenged on them both. "But not to be avenged on the king and folk of Troy," replied his brother, "unless indeed they aid and abet these evildoers, which is yet to be seen. Moreover, if we proclaim war against them, we publish to the whole world the shame that is fallen on our house. Let us rather send a trusty herald to Troy, as privately as may be, to see if Helen be there, and if she is, to bid King Priam surrender her straightway, on pain of war with all the Greeks."

Menelaus was forced to consent to this, but loud and long he protested that it was mere throwing away of time and labour, since Helen, for all her wickedness, was a prize that the Trojans and all men else with eyes to see, would keep at any hazard. And it seemed he was right; for the herald brought back word that Helen was indeed at Troy, and married to Paris, nor had King Priam vouchsafed any answer but this, that he was ready to protect his dear daughter  against all the blusterers in Greece.

That taunt stung Agamemnon's pride to the quick; yet still he would fain have turned Menelaus from his purpose, so much his heart misgave him at the thought of leading the Greek host over the pathless deep to fight in a far country—and all for a worthless woman's sake. Had not his oath bound him, even the great love he bore his brother would hardly have won him to undertake that enterprise. But bound he was; and so Menelaus had his way at last, and the summons went forth to all those who were his sworn champions at need, to gather with their vassals and ships of war at the seaport of Aulis.

East and west and south and north fared the heralds of the brother kings on their errand, and everywhere they found the Greek princes as unwilling for the war as Agamemnon. For some were now past their prime, and most had wife and children, and to all it seemed a hard thing that they must leave home and kingdom to brave the perils of the sea and of foreign war, in another's man's quarrel. Nevertheless, none durst refuse, knowing that the high gods visit the oathbreaker with their heaviest plagues.

It were long to tell the names and lineage of all the chieftains who mustered at the trysting-place, and here we will speak only of those who played the greatest part in the coming war. From the ancient city of Argos came Diomed, good at need, who held sway there under Agamemnon's suzerainty. From Ithaca in the west came Odysseus, son of Laertes; lord of a barren isle, he brought no great following; but none was more powerful in the council of the princes, by reason of his subtle wit and ever-ready tongue. Not less revered for wisdom, which in him was the fruit of long experience, was Nestor, king of sandy Pylos, whose life had been prolonged through three generations of men. Many a tale could he tell of heroes, once his comrades, whose children's children now bore arms; yet his eye was not dimmed nor the warlike spirit in him abated, and he thought scorn to bide at home, but sailed to Aulis with his valiant sons. But the sons of two renowned kings whom age had enfeebled came in their fathers' stead, namely Ajax, son of Telamon, and Achilles, son of Peleus. No warrior in all the host could compare with these two princes in strength or stature; the towering bulk of Ajax drew all eyes when he walked abroad; but when the young Achilles first appeared, word flew through the camp that some god was come among them. And indeed, though mortal, he came of immortal race; for the mother that bore him was Thetis the Sea-Fairy, whom Peleus won for his bride by the favour of high Zeus. When Achilles was born, Thetis would have made her babe immortal also, by passing him through fire; but Peleus in great fear snatched him from her, not knowing what she did; and because he broke that sacred spell, Thetis fled to the sea-deeps again, never more to house with men. So Achilles had his rearing in the mountain cave of Chiron, the wise Centaur, teacher of many a hero; until Peleus, moved by a prophecy that one of his blood should overthrow Troy, sent for the youth to lead his vassals in the war now toward.

Now while the Greek host lay at Aulis, making ready to embark, a thing befell that was the beginning of many sorrows. Hunting in the near woodlands one day, King Agamemnon roused a hare and chased her to the border of a grove, wherein stood an altar. There, out of the bracken, started up a tall peasant girl, and barred his way, saying to him "I forbid thee, King, to slay the hare; for she is heavy with young, and she has taken sanctuary at yonder altar, that belongs to Artemis, Lady of the Wild Things."

But in his eagerness, Agamemnon thrust her aside, and slew the hare with his arrow as she cowered by the altar-stone. Then he turned to bid his huntsmen seize that insolent stranger; but she had disappeared among the trees of the grove and they searched the place for her in vain. For she was great Artemis herself, who loves the helpless, innocent creatures of Earth, and abhors all such as destroy them wantonly.

On the morrow, all things being now ready, the Greek fleet was in act to sail, when suddenly so furious a wind blew landward that not a ship could leave harbour; and that tempest raged day after day, and week after week; until the storm-stayed host in their discouragement clamoured to be led home again, since the gods plainly willed that they should never see Troy town.

Then did their captains inquire of Calchas, the wise seer that was to voyage along with them, what offended Power had sent these contrary gales, and for what cause? And in full council of the princes, he declared the wrath of Artemis against their general, Agamemnon, and how it would not cease from him until he made atonement for the slaughter of her suppliant, the hare. But what that atonement must be, Calchas would not reveal until Agamemnon and all present had sworn to hold him blameless and keep him scathless, when they heard it. Then, covering his face with a corner of his mantle, he said in tremulous tones: "Innocent blood for the innocent blood—the fruit of a man's body for the sin of his soul—this law is ancient in heaven. Therefore, O King Agamemnon, Artemis requires of thee thy first-born daughter's life, whom thine own hands must slay for a sacrifice upon her altar. But if thou wilt not, then disband this host thou hast gathered together; for not a man of them shall pass hence to Troy, though they tarry till their beards be grey."

Awe and horror held the council mute while the seer uttered these words; when he ceased, the sons of Atreus sprang up and dashed their sceptres on the ground, crying as with one voice that they would forfeit revenge, honour, nay, life itself, rather than consent to such a deed. Of the two, Menelaus was loudest in protestation: "My ships," he exclaimed, "shall rot upon this shore—their crews and I perish here of cold and hunger—before I will see my noble brother become for my sake the murderer of his child!"

The sound of that dreadful name goaded the stricken father past endurance; he rushed from the council to hide himself in his tent, whither Menelaus hastily followed.

That day, and many hours of that night, Agamemnon paced to and fro like a caged lion, refusing meat or drink, his proud soul racked with humiliation and despair. What visions of glory and triumph had risen before him as he surveyed the mighty armament at his command—how soon that gallant sight had quelled his earlier misgivings! And now—must those hopes perish? Must the Trojans exult, and the whole world be set laughing at the tale of the king who mustered a thousand ships, only to send them home again? Coward,  they would call him. Ay, the name of Agamemnon would become a byword among men for craven-heartedness, for folly and failure, unless—unless!  He shuddered at the thought that came to him then, but it would not be driven away; and before morning dawned he could face it calmly, though it was the thought of yielding Artemis her victim.

That was the work of Odysseus. Well skilled to read the hearts of men, he knew the sons of Atreus infirm of purpose, stubborn if thwarted, but easily led by any who would flatter their pride; he saw the mischief that might ensue to all Greece did they hold their resolve to disband the host, and one girl's life seemed to him but a small thing in comparison. Biding his time until Agamemnon's passion should have spent itself, he came to the king's tent late in the night and craved speech with him on a matter deeply importing the general weal. Then, with all the craft he was master of, Odysseus set forth the shame and loss that must befall the princes who at so much labour and cost had manned the greatest fleet ever seen in Greece, if they were forced to turn back on the very threshold of their enterprise; the bitter grudge they must thenceforth bear the house of Atreus; above all, the fatal consequences that might flow from their resentment. "By all I can hear," he said, "the chiefs of our host are in a dangerous mood. Even to me, your known friend, they let fall hints of seeking nearer home the conquest and plunder you promised them at Troy; and much I fear lest the strength of their array tempt them to such reprisals on you and your kingdom as will plunge all Greece into long and bloody war."

"Odysseus, my friend," said Agamemnon, slowly, "you do not tell me all this without some purport in view. If your wisdom has found any remedy for the evils that beset me, say on."

"Give me patient hearing, then," replied Odysseus, "for the medicine that alone can cure them is a bitter one, and you will shrink but to hear it named. But why should I name it—why tell you the thing your own noble heart, I know, bids you do for the common good? This much, then, I will say; it is expedient that one maiden die for her race; it is a king's part to be a father to his people, cherishing them no less than his own offspring. King of Argos, be true to your royal nature! Let your people rise up and call you blessed, let this great host be proud to follow you to the death, because you spared not the most precious thing you had, to save Greece!"

With these words Odysseus rose up and went out quickly; and going to old Nestor's tent, where some of the princes held late and anxious converse—for few slept that night—he bade them hope good tidings on the morrow, since he was much deceived if Agamemnon were not already turned from his purpose of abandoning the war.

Even so it was; next morning all were summoned early to council, and Agamemnon, with a mournful dignity, proclaimed his submission to the will of Artemis. The sacrifice required of him, he said, he would perform, cost him what grief it might, out of zeal for the common welfare of Greece. And scarcely had he said this, when the tempestuous east wind died away, and the raging sea was still. Then all the host shouted for gladness, and fain would have sailed that very hour; but needs must they wait her coming, whose death was the appointed price of their seafaring.

Now Agamemnon knew that Clytemnestra his wife, being of a resolute spirit, would defy his messengers if she learned their true errand; therefore by advice of Odysseus, he sent for his daughter under pretext of wedding her to Achilles, flower of warriors, as a sure pledge of alliance. So the maiden, who was fifteen summers old, and named Iphigeneia, was brought to the camp decked in bridal array, a sight so fair and piteous that none of all that warrior multitude looked on it unmoved. Stern, bearded chiefs, who many a time had sat at Agamemnon's feasts when the young princess filled her father's wine-cup and chanted in her fresh voice the hymn that hallows the revel, turned away their faces as she passed by, lest she should see their tears. But dry-eyed the father met his heart's darling, steeling himself for the thing that he must do, and she must hear of—from his own lips. Ah, heavier task than that deed itself was the undeceiving of the maiden lured by a maiden's tenderest hopes to her doom!

But meanwhile Achilles knew nothing of his feigned betrothal to one whom he had never seen; and some report that when it came to his ears, he would have braved the wrath of Greeks and of goddess to rescue Iphigeneia, could he have gained her consent. For having bribed the princess's guards, he visited her that night and told her he was Achilles, come to save her, and make her his bride in right earnest that very hour, would she but go with him to his tents; where the good swords of his clansmen should defend their chieftain's wife against the whole Greek army, if king or seer dared claim her then. But she gently answered him, she could not purchase life by the ruin of her country's cause; neither beseemed it a weak, unlessoned girl to question the decree of her father and king; but rather, since death must come soon or late, to die as she had lived, in obedience to him and to the gods. And seeing her thus steadfast, Achilles marvelled, and went away sorrowful.

But others say, he knew neither the fraud of Odysseus, nor Iphigeneia's coming to Aulis, until too late; for Agamemnon and his subtle counsellor feared the youth's impetuous spirit, that loathed and scorned a lie; so they contrived to send him hunting with certain companions who should delay his return, under colour of pursuing their sport, until after the day of sacrifice.

When that day dawned in angry, blood-red light, the assembled Greeks saw the royal virgin led to her doom, unfaltering, uncomplaining, as became the daughter of a great heroic line. Through the hushed ranks of spearmen and bowmen she passed, to where kings and priests waited in circle around a new-built altar; there, while Calchas prayed aloud, she stood in her meek loveliness, looking with tear-dimmed eyes on those familiar faces—silently, wistfully, as a picture looks. Then, at a sign from Calchas, the ministers of the goddess bound the passive victim, swathing her long veil close about her face, and with all reverence lifted her to the altar-slab. . . . From sight of that which followed, all covered their eyes; even he that, shuddering, raised the sacrificial knife did it with averted head, and hand guided by another. Moments passed, and seemed long like hours, ere any durst look again at the altar and its burden; but suddenly a great shout broke from Calchas—"A miracle! Behold a miracle! See, see what Artemis hath wrought, and adore her unspeakable mercy!"

In breathless wonder, kings and commons stared at the shape that lay on the encrimsoned altar. It was not the body of a maiden—but of a slender, dappled fawn. Artemis, as it seemed, had saved the life she claimed, and provided herself another sacrifice; but of the vanished Iphigeneia's fate, no sign or token could be found, neither was it revealed to Calchas, or to any man, until many years after.

And now the Greeks might hoist sail at last; sped by a favourable breeze they came straight to the Asian coast; but for lack of a guide they landed at first too far southward, near a city they mistook for Troy. The king of that country, seeing a great host come against him, went forth with all his men to give them battle; at the first onset he fell wounded by the spear of Achilles, who took him prisoner, asking him his name. And the king said, "I am Telephus of Mysia, a son of Heracles." At that, Achilles shouted with a great shout to the Greeks to stay the fight, for this land and people were none of Priam's. So they made their peace with the King of Mysia and departed; and it grieved Achilles much that he had wounded a son of Heracles, that mighty Helper of men, who now was with the gods above. After this, the fleet touched at certain islands, and having learned their true course, came at last to the Trojan shore.

News of their approach had reached King Priam, and they found all his warriors drawn up along the beach to dispute their landing; nevertheless they rowed the ships close in, and arming in haste were ready to spring ashore, when a voice out of the waves cried on the name of Achilles, warning him that the first Greek whose foot touched Trojan ground must die the self-same hour. It was the voice of Thetis, who like all the sea-people had knowledge of things to come, and never ceased to watch over Achilles with a mother's love. Then all the Greeks hung back, even the dauntless son of Peleus; for to die now was to lose not life alone, but victory and fame. But one there was to whom his country's glory was dearer than his own; the chieftain Protesilaus leaped suddenly overboard, and shouting his war-cry flung himself upon the Trojan spears. Instantly the whole Greek host likewise dashed to land; and before their furious onset the Trojans broke and fled. The invaders pursued them almost to Troy walls, killing many by the way; but when reinforcements were seen issuing from the city gate, old Nestor bade the chiefs sound a retreat, nor risk a pitched battle so far from their ships, which meanwhile lay unguarded, an easy prey for Trojan skirmishers. The younger warriors were for storming the town then and there; but the counsel of Nestor prevailed with the sons of Atreus. So the Greeks drew back unmolested to the shore; there they made their encampment, stretching in front of the long line of ships, and there they buried Protesilaus, raising a great mound over his grave, for an everlasting remembrance. Thus began the Siege of Troy.

But in those far-off days, all that we call siege-craft was yet unknown. No engines of battery, no undermining of walls or blockading by counterwalls or earthworks then threatened a beleaguered town. There were only two means of taking a fortified place—to fight your way in, or to starve the garrison into surrender. And the Greeks soon learned that they must not hope to reduce Troy by famine. Not only had Priam—as their spies reported—laid up vast stores of corn, oil and wine on the first rumour of the war, but the circuit of Troy's wall was too great for even their numbers to besiege closely. Were they to spread their camp right round the city, they could not guard it at all points from sallies of the besieged. Succours and supplies, therefore, could still reach the Trojans from inland; but the Greeks could, and did, cut them off from the coast and from the sea-borne trade that brought them the chief part of their wealth. Also, Achilles and his clansmen made forays far and wide in Priam's country and in all the regions round about, laying waste both fields and towns, and carrying off captives, flocks, herds and all manner of spoil; whereby the Trojan allies were impoverished, and the Greek host maintained in plenty.

Meanwhile the rest of the commanders led many assaults upon Troy town; but always they were beaten back with loss, so valiantly its folk defended it, fighting both on the walls and in sorties from the gates. Of all the princes that led them, the Greeks most dreaded Hector, Priam's eldest born, a lion in daring and in strength, whom they named the Bulwark of Troy.

After this manner the war went on, with varying fortune to besiegers and besieged, until nine summers and nine winters had slipped away.

Now in the tenth year fell out that bitter quarrel between Achilles and King Agamemnon, sung in the greatest of all poems. Who knows not the story that lives for all time in the strong-winged verse of Homer? Briefly as I may, I set down what has been re-told in so many tongues, from age to age.

There came to the Greek camp one day a reverend old man, priest of Phœbus Apollo, craving to have his daughter restored to him, who had been captured in a raid and given to Agamemnon as his tithe of the spoil. But the King haughtily repulsed him; and he went away along the sea-beach, muttering prayers to his god, not unheard. For straightway a pestilence smote the Greek host, which Calchas the Seer declared to be Apollo's vengeance on the oppressors of his priest. Thereupon Agamemnon sent back the damsel to her home, but, heaping wrong on wrong, he seized Briseis, the fairest captive of Achilles, to make good his loss. For that insult done him, Achilles withdrew himself from council and fight, and abode in his tent; nor would be pacified when the King, humbled by reverses in battle, offered him Briseis again, and untold treasure besides. At last his loved comrade Patroclus gained his leave to succour the Greeks, whom Hector had routed and pursued even to their ships. Great glory won Patroclus that day, driving back the Trojans to their walls and well-nigh breaking into the town; but heedless of his friend's parting charge, he dared combat with great Hector's self, and fell by his spear. With that stroke, Hector wrought doom to himself, and for his house an irredeemable woe; for like an avenging god Achilles rushed to battle, and after a slaughter grim and great he encountered Hector singly, without the city-gate called Scaean, and there slew him under the eyes of his agéd father and mother, and his kindred, that watched upon the wall. Nor did this glut the wrath of Thetis' son; in the frenzy of that hour he tied the corse to his chariot-wheels, and dragged it through the bloody dust of the battlefield, to lie unburied, a prey to dogs and vultures, near the mounded sepulchre of Patroclus. But dear to the gods was noble Hector, who honoured them meetly all his days; and they preserved his body from corruption, neither suffered beast or bird to touch it. And when Greeks and Trojans had mourned certain days, these for Hector, those for Patroclus, Hermes, the Herald, taking mortal shape, guided old Priam by night to Achilles' tent, to beg the body of his son. The god himself drove the sleek mules of Priam's car, and by his power the eyes of the Greek sentinels were holden, as they passed through the camp.

Now when Achilles saw that white-haired king sink prostrate at his feet, and heard him falter out a plea for mercy in the name of his own father Peleus, who yet might know such a grief as this; when he felt the old man's tears fall on the hand so lately reddened with his first-born's blood—his own tears began to flow. For the thought of all the sorrow there is under the sun and the bitter changes and chances that darken man's brief life, knocked upon his heart. Gently he raised up Priam, gently led him to a seat, and for a little space those two wept together, as father and son may weep a common loss. But when the old king would have urged his request, Achilles checked him imperiously, not trusting himself to hear the slayer of Patroclus so much as named, without some access of rage; then he spoke apart to his henchmen, and they went forth and reverently took up dead Hector, and having wrapped about him the precious webs of sea-purple that Priam had brought for his ransom, they laid him in the car. As for the rest of the ransom, chosen by Priam among his costliest treasures, Achilles would not refuse it, out of his great courtesy; and saying he would offer those gifts at the tomb of Patroclus, he thereby marked his reverence for the giver. And because he saw that the old man was spent with grief and weariness, he made him lie down to sleep on a couch prepared apart; so Priam slept in peace under guard of that noble foe. But when the stars paled their fires, he mounted his car and drove softly homeward; for Achilles had warned him that the chiefs would not let such a hostage as the King of Troy escape them, if they knew he was in their midst.

Now he granted Priam a truce of eleven full days, wherein to bury his son with sacrifices and solemn feasts and all wonted honours of the dead; so during that time the Trojans mourned for Hector with a great mourning.

Thus far has divine Homer told the tale, and where he closed his lay begins the last scene of all; from the death of Hector, the tide of Troy's fortunes ebbed ever lower, until the royal city paid at last the price of her rulers' guilt—until the smoke of her burning had gone up to heaven as from a funeral pyre, kindled for all his race by the Fire-brand born of Hecuba.