Jupiter, father of the gods, once fell deeply in love with a beautiful sea nymph named Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris,—

He was very anxious indeed to marry her, but, before taking such an important step, deemed it prudent to consult the Fates, who alone could inform him whether this union would be for his happiness or not. It was very fortunate for him that he did so, for the three sisters told him that Thetis was destined to be the mother of a son who would far outshine his father.

Jupiter carefully pondered this reply, and concluded to renounce the marriage rather than run any risk of being forced to surrender his power to one greater than he. Thetis’ hand he then decreed should be given in marriage to Peleus, King of Phthia, who had loved her faithfully, and had long sued in vain.

Thetis, however, was not at all anxious to accept the hand of a mere mortal after having enjoyed the attention of the gods (for Neptune also had wooed her), and demurred, until Jupiter promised his own and the gods’ attendance at the marriage feast. The prospect of this signal honor reconciled the maiden, and the wedding preparations were made in the coral caves of her father, Nereus, beneath the foam-crested waves. Thither, mindful of his promise, came Jupiter, with all the gods of Olympus.

The guests took their seats, and pledged the bride and groom in brimming cups of wine,—Bacchus’ wedding gift to Thetis. All was joy and merriment, when an uninvited guest suddenly appeared in the banquet-hall. All present immediately recognized Eris, or Discordia, goddess of discord, whose snaky locks, sour looks, and violent temper had caused her to be omitted from the wedding list,—

This omission angered her, and made her determine to have her revenge by troubling the harmony which evidently reigned among all the guests. For a moment she stood beside the bountiful board, then threw upon it a golden apple, and, exhaling over the assembly her poisoned breath, she vanished. The general attention was, of course, turned upon the golden fruit, whereon the inscription “To the fairest” was clearly traced.

All the ladies were at first inclined to contend for the prize; but little by little all the claimants withdrew except Juno, Minerva, and Venus, who hotly disputed for its possession. Juno declared that the queen of the gods, in her majesty and power, surely had the best right; Minerva, that the beauty of wisdom and knowledge far surpassed external charms; and Venus smiled, and archly requested to be informed who might assert greater claims than the goddess of beauty.

The dispute grew more and more bitter, and the irate goddesses called upon the guests to award the prize to the most deserving; but the guests, one and all, refused to act as umpires, for the apple could be given to but one, and the two others would be sure to vent their anger and disappointment upon the judge who passed over their charms in favor of a third. The final decision was therefore referred to Paris, who, although performing the lowly duties of a shepherd, was the son of Priam and Hecuba, King and Queen of Troy.

When but a babe, Paris had been exposed on a mountain to perish, because an oracle had predicted that he would cause the death of his family and the downfall of his native city. Although thus cruelly treated, he had not perished, but had been adopted by a shepherd, who made him follow his own calling.

When Paris reached manhood, he was a very handsome and attractive young man, and won the love of Œnone, a beautiful nymph to whom he was secretly united. Their happiness, however, was but fleeting, for the Fates had decreed that Paris’ love for the fair Œnone would soon die.

Instead of lingering by the fair nymph’s side, Paris wandered off to a lonely mountain top, where the three goddesses sought him to judge their quarrel. Minerva, in glittering armor, first appeared before his dazzled eyes, and proffered the bribe of extensive wisdom if he would but give her the preference.

Juno, queen of heaven, next appeared in royal robes and insignia, and whispered that he should have great wealth and unlimited power were he only to award the prize to her.

But all Minerva’s and Juno’s charms and bribes were forgotten when Venus, in her magic cestus, appeared before the judge. This artful simplicity was the result of much thought, for we are told that

Then, trembling lest her efforts should prove vain, she gently drew near the youth, and softly promised him a bride as fair as herself, in return for the coveted golden apple.

Won either by her superior attractions or by her alluring bribe, Paris no longer hesitated, but placed the prize in her extended palm.

This act of partiality, of course, called down upon him the wrath and hatred of Juno and Minerva, who, biding their time, watched for a suitable opportunity to avenge themselves; while Venus, triumphant, and anxious to redeem her promise, directed Paris to return to Troy, make himself known to his parents,—who, the goddess promised, would welcome him warmly,—and obtain from them a fleet in which he might sail to Greece.

In obedience to these instructions, Paris ruthlessly abandoned the fair and faithful Œnone, and, joining a band of youthful shepherds, went to Troy, under pretext of witnessing a solemn festival. There he took part in the athletic games, distinguished himself, and attracted the attention of his sister Cassandra.

This princess was noted for her beauty, and it is said had even been wooed by Apollo, who, hoping to win her favor, bestowed upon her the gift of prophecy. For some reason the god’s suit had not prospered; and, as he could not take back the power conferred, he annulled it by making her hearers refuse to credit her words.

Cassandra immediately called her parents’ attention to the extraordinary likeness Paris bore to her other brothers; and then, breaking out into a prophetic strain, she foretold that he would bring destruction upon his native city. Priam and Hecuba, scorning her prophecy, joyfully received their long-lost son, lovingly compelled him to take up his abode in their palace, and promised to atone for their past neglect by granting his every wish.

Still advised by Venus, Paris soon expressed a desire to sail for Greece, under the pretext of rescuing Hesione, his father’s sister, whom Hercules had carried off, after besieging Troy. He was promptly provided with several well-manned galleys, and soon after appeared at the court of Menelaus, King of Sparta, whose young wife, Helen, was the most beautiful woman of her time, if we are to believe the testimony of her contemporaries.

A daughter of Jupiter and Leda (whom Jove had courted in the guise of a snow-white swan), Helen had many suitors who ardently strove to win her favor. The noblest, bravest, and best came to woo and hoped to win; but all were left in suspense, as the maiden did not show any preference, and refused to make known her choice.

Tyndareus, Helen’s stepfather, thinking the rejected suitors might attempt to steal her away from any husband she selected, proposed that all the candidates for her hand should take a solemn oath, binding themselves to respect the marital rights of the favored suitor, and help him regain possession of his wife should any one venture to kidnap her.

All agreed to this proposal, the oath was taken, and Helen, whose deliberations had come to an end, bestowed her hand upon Menelaus, King of Sparta.

On his arrival at Sparta, in LacedÆmonia, Paris was received with graceful hospitality by Menelaus and Helen. He had not sojourned there many days, however, before the king was called away from home, and departed, confiding to his wife the care of entertaining his princely guest. During his absence, Paris, urged by Venus, courted Helen so successfully, that she finally consented to elope with him, and allowed herself to be borne away in triumph to Troy.

Menelaus, on his return from Crete, discovered his guest’s treachery, and swore never to rest satisfied until he had recovered his truant wife, and punished her seducer. Messengers were sent in haste in every direction, to summon Helen’s former suitors to keep their oath, and join Menelaus at Aulis with men and weapons. All came promptly at his call except Ulysses, King of Ithaca, who, to console himself for Helen’s refusal of his suit, had married her cousin, Penelope, and had now no dearer wish than to linger by her side and admire his infant son, Telemachus.

In the presence of the messenger Palamedes, Ulysses feigned insanity, hoping thereby to elude the tedious journey to Troy; but the messenger was not so easily duped, and cleverly determined to ascertain the truth by stratagem. One day, therefore, when the king was plowing the seashore with an ox and horse harnessed together, and sowing this strange field with salt, Palamedes placed the babe Telemachus in the furrow, directly in front of the plow, and marked how skillfully Ulysses turned his ill-assorted team aside to avoid harming his heir. This action sufficed to prove to Palamedes that the king had not lost all control of his senses, and enabled him to force Ulysses to obey Menelaus’ summons.

At Aulis the assembled army with unanimous consent elected Agamemnon, Menelaus’ brother, chief of the expedition, which numbered, among many others, Nestor, noted for his wise counsel; Ajax, gigantic in strength and courage; and Diomedes, the renowned warrior.

The troops were assembled, the vessels freighted; but before they departed, the chiefs considered it expedient to consult an oracle, to ascertain whether their expedition was destined to succeed. In a somewhat veiled and ambiguous manner, they received answer that Troy could never be taken without the aid of the son of Peleus and Thetis, Achilles, of whom the Fates had predicted that he would surpass his father in greatness (p. 305).

Thetis loved this only child so dearly, that when he was but a babe, she had carried him to the banks of the Styx, whose waters had the magic power of rendering all the parts they touched invulnerable. Premising that her son would be a great warrior, and thus exposed to great danger, she plunged him wholly into the tide with the exception of one heel, by which she held him, and then returned home.

Some time after, an oracle foretold that Achilles would die beneath the walls of Troy from a wound in his heel, the only vulnerable part of his body. With many tears Thetis vowed that her son should never leave her to encounter such a fate, and intrusted the care of his education to the Centaur Chiron, who had taught all the greatest heroes in turn.

From this instructor Achilles learned the arts of war, wrestling, poetry, music, and song,—all, in short, that an accomplished Greek warrior was expected to know,—and, when his studies were finished, returned to his father’s court to gladden his fond mother’s heart by his presence.

Thetis’ joy was all turned to grief, however, when rumors of the war imminent between Greece and Troy came to her ears. She knew her son would soon be summoned, and, to prevent his going, sent him off to the court of Lycomedes, where, under some pretext, he was prevailed upon to assume a disguise and mingle with the king’s daughters and their handmaidens. One messenger after another was dispatched to summon Achilles to join the fleet at Aulis, but one after another returned without having seen him, or being able to ascertain where he was hiding. The Greeks, however anxious to depart, dared not sail without him. They were in despair, until Ulysses, the wily, proposed a plan, and offered to carry it out.

Arrayed in peddler’s garb, with a pack upon his shoulders, Ulysses entered Lycomedes’ palace, where he shrewdly suspected Achilles was concealed, and offered his wares for sale. The maidens selected trinkets; but one of them, closely veiled, seized a weapon concealed among the ornaments, and brandished it with such skill, that Ulysses saw through the assumed disguise, explained his presence and purpose, and by his eloquence persuaded the young Achilles to accompany him to Aulis.

The Greeks were now ready to embark; but no favorable wind came to swell the sails, which day after day hung limp and motionless against the tall masts of their vessels.

Calchas, the soothsayer of the expedition, was again consulted, to discover how they might best win the favor of the gods; and the reply given purported that no favorable wind would blow until Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, was offered up in sacrifice to appease the everlasting gods.

Many other propitiatory methods were tried; but as they all proved ineffective, Agamemnon, urged by his companions, sent for his daughter, feigning that he wished to celebrate her nuptials with Achilles before his departure.

Iphigenia came to her father secretly delighted at being the chosen bride of such a hero; but, instead of being led to the hymeneal altar, she was dragged to the place of sacrifice, where the priest, with uplifted knife, was about to end her sufferings, when Diana suddenly appeared, snatched her up in a cloud, and left in her stead a deer, which was duly sacrificed, while Iphigenia was borne in safety to Tauris, where she became a priestess in one of the goddess’s temples.

The gods were now propitious, and the wind slowly rose, filled the sails of the waiting vessels, and wafted them swiftly and steadily over the sea to the Trojan shores, where an army stood ready to prevent the Greek troops from disembarking. The invaders were eager to land to measure their strength against the Trojans; yet all hesitated to leave the ships, for an oracle had foretold that the first warrior who attempted to land would meet with instant death.

Protesilaus, a brave chief, seeing his comrades’ irresolution, and animated by a spirit of self-sacrifice, sprang boldly ashore, and perished, slain by the enemy, as soon as his foot had touched the foreign soil. When the tidings of his death reached his beloved wife, Laodamia, whom he had left in Thessaly, they well-nigh broke her heart; and in her despair she entreated the gods to let her die, or allow her to see her lord once more, were it but for a moment. Her appeal was so touching, that the gods could not refuse to hear it, and bade Mercury conduct her husband’s shade back to earth, to tarry with her for three hours’ time.

With an inarticulate cry of joy, Laodamia beheld the beloved countenance of Protesilaus once more, and from his own lips heard the detailed account of his early death. The three hours passed all too quickly in delicious intercourse; and when Mercury reappeared to lead him back to Hades, the loving wife, unable to endure a second parting, died of grief.

The same grave, it is said, was the resting place of this united pair, and kind-hearted nymphs planted elm trees over their remains. These trees grew “until they were high enough to command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh branches sprang from the roots.”

Hostilities had now begun, and the war between the conflicting hosts was waged with equal courage and skill. During nine long years of uninterrupted strife, the Greeks’ efforts to enter Troy, or Ilium, as it was also called, were vain, as were also the Trojans’ attempts to force the foe to leave their shores. This memorable struggle is the theme of many poems. The oldest and most renowned of all, the Iliad, begins with the story of the tenth and last year’s events.

Among a number of captives taken in a skirmish by the Hellenic troops, were two beautiful maidens, Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, and Briseis. The prisoners were, as usual, allotted to various chiefs, and Agamemnon received the priest’s daughter as reward for his bravery, while Achilles triumphantly led to his tent the equally fair Briseis.

When Chryses heard that his child had fallen into the hands of the enemy, he hastened to Agamemnon’s tent to offer a rich ransom for her recovery; but the aged father’s entreaties were all unheeded, and he was dismissed with many heartless taunts. Exasperated by this cruel treatment, he raised his hands to heaven, and implored Apollo to avenge the insults he had received by sending down upon the Greeks all manner of evil. This prayer was no sooner heard than answered, by the sun god’s sending a terrible plague to decimate the enemy’s troops.

The Greeks, in terror, now consulted an oracle to know why this calamity had come upon them, and how they might check the progress of the deadly disease which was so rapidly reducing their forces. They were told that the plague would never cease until Agamemnon surrendered his captive, and thus disarmed Apollo’s wrath, which had been kindled by his rude refusal to comply with the aged priest’s request.

All the Greek chiefs, assembled in council, decided to send Achilles to Agamemnon to apprise him of their wish that he should set Chryseis free,—a wish which he immediately consented to grant, if Briseis were given him in exchange.

The plague was raging throughout the camp; the cries of the sufferers rent the air; many had already succumbed to the scourge, and all were threatened with an inglorious death. Achilles, mindful of all this, and anxious to save his beloved companions, consented to comply with this unreasonable request; but at the same time he swore, that, if Agamemnon really took his captive away, he would not strike another blow.

Chryseis was immediately consigned to the care of a herald, who led her back to her aged father’s arms. Ready to forgive all, now that his child was restored to him, Chryses implored Apollo to stay his hand, and the plague instantly ceased.

As for Agamemnon, he sent his slaves to Achilles’ tent to lead away Briseis; and the hero, true to his promise, laid aside his armor, determined to fight no more.

Thetis, hearing of the wanton insult offered her son, left her coral caves, ascended to Olympus, cast herself at Jupiter’s feet, and with many tears tremulously prayed he would avenge Achilles and make the Greeks fail in all their attempts as long as her son’s wrath remained unappeased.

Jupiter, touched by her beauty and distress, frowned until the very firmament shook, and swore to make the Greeks rue the day they left their native shores,

In consequence of a treacherous dream purposely sent by Jupiter to delude him, Agamemnon again assembled his troops, and proposed a new onslaught upon the Trojan forces. But when the army was drawn up in battle array, Hector, the eldest son of Priam, and therefore leader of his army, stepping forward, proposed that the prolonged quarrel should be definitely settled by a single combat between Paris and Menelaus.

This proposal having been received favorably, Menelaus and Paris soon engaged in a duel, which was witnessed by both armies, by Helen and Priam from the Trojan walls, and by the everlasting gods from the wooded heights of Mount Ida; but in the very midst of the fight, Venus, seeing her favorite about to succumb, suddenly snatched him away from the battlefield, and bore him unseen to his chamber, where he was joined by Helen, who bitterly reproached him for his cowardly flight.

Indignant at this interference on Venus’ part, the gods decreed that the war should be renewed; and Minerva, assuming the form of a Trojan warrior, aimed an arrow at Menelaus, who was vainly seeking his vanished opponent. This act of treachery was the signal for a general call to arms and a renewal of hostilities. Countless deeds of valor were now performed by the heroes on both sides, and also by the gods, who mingled in the ranks and even fought against each other, until recalled by Jupiter, and forbidden to fight any more.

For a little while fortune seemed to favor the Greeks; and Hector, hastening back to Troy, bade his mother go to the temple with all her women, and endeavor by her prayers and gifts to propitiate Minerva and obtain her aid. Then he hastened off in search of his wife Andromache and little son Astyanax, whom he wished to embrace once more before rushing out to battle and possible death.

He found his palace deserted, and, upon questioning the women, heard that his wife had gone to the ScÆan Gate, where he now drove as fast as his noble steeds could drag him. There, at the gate, took place the parting scene, which has deservedly been called the most pathetic in all the Iliad, in which Andromache vainly tried to detain her husband within the walls, while Hector gently reproved her, and demonstrated that his duty called him out upon the field of battle, where he must hold his own if he would not see the city taken, the Trojans slain, and the women, including his mother and beloved Andromache, borne away into bitter captivity.

Then he stretched out his arms for his infant son, who, however, shrank back affrighted at the sight of his brilliant helmet and nodding plumes, and would not go to him until he had set the gleaming headdress aside. After a passionate prayer for his little heir’s future welfare, Hector gave the child back to Andromache, and, with a last farewell embrace, sprang into his chariot and drove away.

Paris, ashamed now of his former flight, soon joined his brother upon the battlefield, and together they performed many deeds of valor. The time had now come when Jupiter was about to redeem the promise given to Thetis, for little by little the Greeks were forced to yield before the might of the Trojans, who, stimulated by their partial success, and fired by Hector’s example, performed miracles of valor, and finally drove their assailants into their intrenchments.

Death and defeat now dogged the very footsteps of the Greek forces, who were driven, inch by inch, away from the walls, ever nearer the place where their vessels rode at anchor. They now ardently longed for the assistance of Achilles, whose mere presence, in days gone by, had filled the Trojan hearts with terror; but the hero, although Briseis had been returned unmolested, paid no heed to their entreaties for aid, and remained a sullen and indifferent spectator of their flight, while the Trojans began to set fire to some of the vessels of their fleet.

Discouraged by all these reverses, in spite of their brave resistance, the Greeks, in despair, concluded that the gods had entirely forsaken them, and beat a hasty and ignominious retreat to the shore, closely followed by the enemy, who uttered loud cries of triumph.

Patroclus, Achilles’ intimate friend, then hastened to the hero’s side to inform him of his comrades’ flight, and implore him once more to rescue them from inevitable death. But Achilles, summoning all his pride to his assistance, did not waver in his resolve. Suddenly Patroclus remembered that the mere sight of Achilles’ armor might suffice to arrest the enemy’s advance and produce a diversion in favor of the Greeks: so he asked permission to wear it and lead the Myrmidons, Achilles’ trusty followers, into the fray.

Achilles had sworn, it is true, not to return to the scene of strife, but was quite willing to lend men and arms, if they might be of any use, and immediately placed them at his friend’s disposal. Hastily Patroclus donned the glittering armor, called aloud to the Myrmidons to follow his lead, and rushed forth to encounter the enemy.

The Trojans paused in dismay, thinking Achilles had come, and were about to take flight, when all at once they discovered the fraud. With renewed courage, they opposed the Greek onslaught. Many heroes bit the dust in this encounter, among others Sarpedon, the son of Jupiter and Europa (p. 45),—whose remains were borne away from the battlefield by the twin divinities Sleep and Death,—ere Hector, son of Priam, and chief among the Trojan warriors, challenged Patroclus to single combat. Needless to say, the two closed in deadly battle, and fought with equal valor, until Patroclus, already exhausted by his previous efforts, and betrayed by the gods, finally succumbed.

With a loud cry of victory, Hector wrenched the armor off the mangled corpse, and quickly withdrew to array himself in the brilliant spoils. The tidings of Patroclus’ fall spread rapidly all through the Grecian camp, and reached Achilles, who wept aloud when he heard that his beloved friend, who had left him but a short time before full of life and energy, was now no more. So noisily did the hero mourn his loss, that Thetis, in the quiet ocean depths, heard his groans, and rushed to his side to ascertain their cause.

Into his mother’s sympathetic ear Achilles poured the whole story of his grief and loss, while she gently strove to turn his thoughts aside from the sad event, and arouse an interest for some pursuit less dangerous than war. All her efforts were vain, however; for Achilles’ soul thirsted for revenge, and he repeatedly swore he would go forth and slay his friend’s murderer.

Then, in sudden dread lest Hector should fall by another’s hand, or withdraw from the battlefield and thus escape his vengeance, Achilles would have rushed from his tent unarmed; but his mother prevailed upon him to wait until the morrow, when she promised to bring him a full suit of armor from Vulcan’s own hand. Rapidly Thetis then traversed the wide space which separates the coast of Asia Minor from Mount Ætna, where Vulcan labored at his forge.

Arrived before him, she breathlessly made known her errand, and the god promised that the arms should be ready within the given time, and immediately set to work to fashion them. By his skillful hands the marvelous weapons were forged; and when the first streak of light appeared above the horizon, he consigned them to Thetis, who hastened back to her son’s tent, where she found him still bewailing the loss of Patroclus.

During Thetis’ absence, messengers had come to Achilles’ tent to warn him that Patroclus’ body was still in the enemy’s hands, and to implore him to come and rescue the precious corpse. Mindful of his promise to his mother, Achilles still refused to fight, but, springing upon the rampart, uttered his mighty war-cry, the sound of which filled the enemy’s hearts with terror, and made them yield to the well-directed onslaught of Ajax and Diomedes, who finally succeeded in recovering the body, which they then reverently bore to Achilles’ tent.

To console Achilles for his friend’s death, Thetis exhibited the glorious armor she had just obtained, helped him put it on, and then bade him go forth and conquer.

Thus armed, mounted in his chariot drawn by his favorite steeds, and driven by his faithful charioteer Automedon, Achilles went forth to battle, and finally seeing Hector, whom alone he wished to meet, he rushed upon him with a hoarse cry of rage. The Trojan hero, at the mere sight of the deadly hatred which shone in Achilles’ eyes, turned to flee. Achilles pursued him, and taunted him with his cowardice, until Hector turned and fought with all the courage and recklessness of despair.

Their blows fell like hail, a cloud of dust enveloped their struggling forms, and the anxious witnesses only heard the dull thud of the blows and the metallic clash of the weapons. Suddenly there came a loud cry, then all was still; and when the dust-cloud had blown away, the Trojans from the ramparts, where they had waited in agony for the issue of the fight, beheld Achilles tear the armor from their champion’s body, bind the corpse to his chariot, and drive nine times round the city walls, Hector’s princely head dragging in the dust. Priam, Hecuba, and Andromache, Hector’s beautiful young wife, tearfully watched this ignominious treatment, and finally saw Achilles drive off to the spot where Patroclus’ funeral pile was laid, and there abandon the corpse.

Achilles then returned to his tent, where for a long time he continued to mourn his friend’s untimely end, refusing to be comforted.

The gods, from their celestial abode, had also witnessed this heartrending scene, and now Jupiter sent Iris to Thetis, and bade her hasten down to Achilles and command him to restore Hector’s body to his mourning family. He also directed Mercury to lead Priam, unseen, into Achilles’ tent, to claim and bear away his son’s desecrated corpse. Thetis, seeking Achilles in his tent, announced the will of Jove:—

Mercury acquitted himself with his usual dispatch, and soon guided Priam in safety through the Grecian camp to Achilles’ tent, where the aged king fell at the hero’s feet, humbly pleading for his son’s body, and proffering a princely ransom in exchange.

Achilles, no longer able to refuse this entreaty, and touched by a father’s tears, consigned Hector’s corpse to the old man’s care, and promised an armistice of fourteen days, that the funeral rites in both camps might be celebrated with all due pomp and solemnity; and with the burial of Hector the Iliad comes to a close.

At the end of the truce the hostilities were renewed, and the Trojans were reinforced by the arrival of Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who, with a chosen troop of warrior maidens, came to offer her aid. The brave queen afforded them, however, only temporary relief, as she was slain by Achilles in their very first encounter.

He, too, however, was doomed to die “in the flower of his youth and beauty,” and the Fates had almost finished spinning his thread of life. In an early skirmish, while in close pursuit of the Trojans, Thetis’ son had once caught sight of Polyxena, daughter of Priam, and had been deeply smitten by her girlish charms. He now vainly tried to make peace between the conflicting nations, hoping that, were the war but ended, he might obtain her hand in marriage.

His efforts to make peace failed; but at last he prevailed upon Priam to celebrate his betrothal with Polyxena, with the stipulation that the marriage would take place as soon as the war was over. The betrothal ceremony was held without the city gates; and Achilles was just about to part from his blushing betrothed, when Paris, ever treacherous, stole behind him and shot a poisoned arrow into his vulnerable heel, thus slaying the hero who had caused so many brave warriors to bite the dust.

His armor—the glorious armor forged by Vulcan—was hotly contested for by Ulysses and Ajax. The former finally obtained the coveted weapons; and Ajax’ grief at their loss was so intense, that he became insane, and killed himself in a fit of frenzy, while Polyxena, inconsolable at her betrothed’s death, committed suicide on the magnificent tomb erected over his remains on the Trojan plain.

The oracles, silent so long, now announced that Troy could never be taken without the poisoned arrows of Hercules, then in the keeping of Philoctetes (p. 238). This hero had started with the expedition, but had been put ashore on the Island of Lemnos on account of a wound in his foot, which had become so offensive that none of the ship’s company could endure his presence on board.

Ten long years had already elapsed since then, and, although a party of Greeks immediately set out in search of him, they had but little hope of finding him alive. They nevertheless wended their way to the cave where they had deposited him, where, to their unbounded surprise, they still found him. The wound had not healed, but he had managed to exist by killing such game as came within reach of his hand.

Incensed by the Greeks’ former cruel desertion, no entreaty could now induce Philoctetes to accompany the messengers to Troy, until Hercules appeared to him in a dream, and bade him go without delay, for there he would find Machaon (p. 64), Æsculapius’ son, who was to heal his wound.

The dream was realized. Philoctetes, whole once more, joined the Greek host, and caused great dismay in the enemy’s ranks with his poisoned arrows. One of his deadly missiles even struck Paris, and, as the poison entered his veins, it caused him grievous suffering. Paris then remembered that his first love, Œnone, who knew all remedies and the best modes of applying them, had once told him to send for her should he ever be wounded. He therefore sent for Œnone; but she, justly offended by the base desertion and long neglect of her lover, refused her aid, and let him die in torture. When he was dead, Œnone repented of this decision; and when the flames of his funeral pyre rose around him, she rushed into their midst, and was burned to death on his corpse.

Two of Priam’s sons had already expired, and yet Troy had not fallen into the hands of the Greeks, who now heard another prophecy, to the effect that Troy could never be taken as long as the Palladium—a sacred statue of Minerva, said to have fallen from heaven—remained within its walls (p. 60). So Ulysses and Diomedes in disguise effected an entrance into the city one night, and after many difficulties succeeded in escaping with the precious image.

Men and chiefs, impatient of further delay, now joyfully hailed Ulysses’ proposal to take the city by stratagem. They therefore secretly built a colossal wooden horse, within whose hollow sides a number of brave warriors might lie concealed. The main army feigned weariness of the endless enterprise, and embarked, leaving the horse as a pretended offering to Minerva; while Sinon, a shrewd slave, remained to persuade the Trojans to drag the horse within their gates and keep him there, a lasting monument of their hard-won triumph.

To the unbounded joy of the long-besieged Trojans, the Greek fleet then sailed away, until the Island of Tenedos hid the ships from view. All the inhabitants of Troy poured out of the city to view the wooden horse, and question Sinon, who pretended to have great cause of complaint against the Greeks, and strongly advised them to secure their last offering to Minerva. The Trojans hailed this idea with rapture; but Laocoon, a Trojan priest, implored them to leave the horse alone, lest they should bring untold evil upon their heads.

Deaf to all warnings and entreaties, they dragged the colossal image into the very heart of their city, tearing down a portion of their ramparts to allow its passage, while Laocoon hastened down to the shore to offer sacrifice to the gods. As he stood there by the improvised altar, with one of his sons on either side to assist him in his office, two huge serpents came out of the sea, coiled themselves around him and his sons, and crushed and bit them to death.

The awestruck witnesses of this terrible scene, of course, declared that the gods resented his interference concerning the wooden horse, and had justly punished the sacrilegious hand which had dared strike it with a spear, merely to demonstrate, that, being hollow, it might contain an armed band. Ever since then, Laocoon and his sons’ struggle with the serpents has been a favorite subject for poets and artists.

In the mean while, the Greeks had been hiding behind Tenedos; but when night came on, they returned to the site of their ten-years’ encampment, and were let into the city by Sinon, who also released their companions from their prison within the wooden horse. Although taken by surprise, the city guards made desperate attempts to repel the Greeks; but it was now too late, for the enemy had already broken into houses and palaces, and were killing, pillaging, and burning all in their way.

The royal family, even, was not exempt from the general massacre; and the aged Priam, who lived to see his last son perish before his eyes, finally found relief in death.

Their object accomplished, the Greeks immediately sailed for home, their vessels heavily laden with plunder and slaves. But the homeward journey was not as joyful as might have been expected; and many, after escaping from the enemy’s hands, perished in the waves, or found death lying in wait for them by their own fireside.

Menelaus, with his wife Helen, who, in spite of the added ten years, retained all her youthful beauty, were detained in Egypt by contrary winds, sent to punish them for omitting the usual sacrifice to the gods. He at last consulted Proteus, who revealed how the wrath of the gods could best be allayed, and how favorable winds could be secured to waft him home.

As for Agamemnon, leader of the Greeks, he returned to Argos only to be murdered by his wife ClytÆmnestra and her paramour Ægisthus.

Then, mortally afraid lest Orestes, Agamemnon’s son, should avenge his father’s death, Ægisthus prepared to slay him too; but Electra, the boy’s sister, discovering this intention, helped him to escape, and placed him under the fatherly protection of Strophius, King of Phocis, whose son, Pylades, became his inseparable friend. In fact, their devotion to each other was so great, that it has become proverbial in every tongue.

Electra had not forgotten her father’s base murder, although years had elapsed since it occurred; and when Orestes had attained manhood, she bade him come and punish those who had committed the crime. Orestes came, slew Ægisthus and ClytÆmnestra, and then, terrified at what he had done, took flight, but only to be pursued by the Furies and Nemesis, goddess of revenge, sent by the gods to punish him for taking justice into his own hands.

Arrived at Delphi, Orestes consulted the oracle, and learned that his crime would be forgiven if he brought a statue of Diana in Tauris back to Greece. The young prince hastened thither, accompanied by the ever-faithful Pylades, who never left his side; and there, in a temple, he found his long-lost sister Iphigenia, who helped him obtain the image he sought, and accompanied him back to his native land, where Nemesis left him forever.