But what were the feelings of the Trojans watching on the walls when
they saw their great champion fall, and with what eyes did the aged
king and the fond mother behold their Hector, their joy and pride, and
chief defence, butchered, mutilated, and dragged through the dust!
Through all the city arose a great cry of lamentation, and such horror
was written on every face as if the Greeks had carried Troy by storm,
and were filling her streets with fire and slaughter. Priam was hardly
restrained from going forth at once, with the purpose of entering the
Grecian camp, and throwing himself at the feet of Achilles.
But there was another, bound by an even nearer and dearer tie to the
slain, who was the last to learn the fearful news. This was
Andromache, Hector's wife, who was sitting at her loom in the
retirement of her chamber, weaving a piece of flowered tapestry.
Presently she left her task, and calling her handmaids bade them
prepare the bath for their master against his return from battle. Her
face was cheerful and serene, and she smiled as she thought of the
happy meeting which seemed so near. But in the midst of these pleasant
household cares a dreadful sound reached her ears--a shrill note, as of
women shrieking, mingled with the deeper groans of men. "Hark!" she
said, turning deadly pale, and dropping the shuttle, which she had been
holding in her hand: "What mean these cries?" Then, as she paused
again to listen, she heard the voice of Hecuba, raised in loud anguish
above the rest. With a woman's quick instinct she divined that the
worst had befallen her, and shrieking: "Hector, my Hector, is slain!"
she hastened, with ashy cheeks, and tottering knees, to the walls. The
crowd fell back at her approach, and every voice was hushed when they
saw her bending over the battlements, and gazing with wild eyes across
the plain. Then she saw Achilles in full career towards the ships,
dragging her husband's body behind his car. At that sight she gave one
gasping cry, and reeling back fell swooning into the arms of her
kinswomen who were standing ready to aid. Thus for awhile she lay,
motionless and lifeless, with her long hair, escaped from its bands,
streaming about her. At last she drew a deep, sobbing breath, and
opening her eyes looked into the anxious faces bent over her. Then the
full consciousness of her loss rushed back upon her in a bitter flood,
and breaking from the gentle hands which held her she made as if she
would fling herself down from the battlements. She was prevented by
kindly force, and led away, moaning and weeping, to her widowed home.
[Illustration: Captive Andromache. Lord Leighton. By permission of
the B.P.C., London]