III

The dwelling of Achilles, which, for want of a better word, we have

called a tent, was in reality a roomy building, constructed of solid

pine trunks, and thatched with moss and rushes. On this memorable

evening Achilles was sitting in the main apartment of the dwelling, and

two of his squires were removing the vessels used at the evening meal.

The light of the fire gleamed fitfully on his face, and he seemed in a

gentler and more placid mood than had been usual with him for many

days. He had partaken freely of food and wine, and conversed

cheerfully with his attendants. He was now silent, and sat musing

quietly by himself, when suddenly, to his amazement, an old man of tall

stature and regal port entered the room, and throwing himself on the

ground before him clasped his knees and kissed his hands--those

terrible murderous hands!--bathing them with his tears. Like a man who

has slain a fellow-countryman, and enters the house of some wealthy

noble, where a great company is gathered, to implore shelter and

protection--for the avenger of blood is at his heels--so seemed that

aged man to Achilles and those that were with him, so trembling,

helpless, and forlorn. And as they gazed in deep wonder, murmuring to

each other the name of Priam, he began, in a voice broken with weeping,

to urge his petition: "Pity me, Achilles, for thy father's sake, an old

man like me, standing on the brink of the grave. Maybe he is in sole

straits, oppressed by those that dwell about him, for want of thy

succouring arm. Yet still he has hope, as long as thou livest, and

looks forward to the joyful day of thy return. But what hope have I,

what solace, what refuge from the blows which fate aims without ceasing

at mine afflicted head? Fifty sons I had, when the sons of Greece

first came to these shores, and of these the greater part have paid

their last tribute to the stern god of war. And he, the bravest and

the best, the bulwark of my city, fell by thy hand not many days since.

Him have I come to ransom at a great price. In the name of thy father,

in the name of the gods whom we both adore, have mercy on me,

Achilles--on me, who have found it in my heart to do what mortal never

did before, to lift to my lips the hand that slew my son!"

Then at last that iron-hearted man was melted into compassion when he

saw the renowned King of Asia prostrate at his feet, humbled to the

dust for the sake of one poor boon--permission to give his son's body

to the grave. And the sight of all that misery awakened anew the

thought of his own sad lot, his recent loss, his brief and troubled

life, soon to be ended by a coward's hand, the desolation of his home,

and his father pining in solitary old age. Surely he also had cause

enough for tears!

So the two great enemies were united for the time by the common bond of

human sorrow. Then Achilles rose, and, taking the old man by the hand,

led him to a seat, and placing himself by his side said to him: "O

marked by sorrow's seal before all the children of men, what a heart

must thou have, to meet me face to face, who have given to death so

many of thy valiant sons! But thou knowest that it is the common lot:

only the gods know neither care nor grief, but mortal life is

encompassed with ills. Two caskets there are which stand by the throne

of Zeus, one filled with good gifts, and the other with evil gifts.

And for the more part Zeus mingles the gifts, and tempers much evil

with a little good; but now and then some wretch receives naught but

evil, and wanders from land to land as misery's thrall, branded by the

malice of fate. To Peleus, my father, good things were given at

first--wealth, power, and prosperity, and a goddess for his bride. But

now he is receiving his portion of ill. And thou too, Priam, wast in

old times renowned for the number of thy blessings, and men called thee

great king, happy father, and envied thine abundance. But in thy

latter years thou hast seen naught but wars and fightings, losses and

deaths. So shifts the tide, so turns the scale, now up, now down, and

naught that we can do will avail to raise or diminish by one tittle the

sum of our fate."

Up to this point Priam had prospered in his mission beyond his hopes.

But now he obtained a glimpse of the fearful passions which were

smouldering in the breast of Achilles, and ready at any moment to leap

up in devouring flames. Being invited by Achilles to stay and rest

awhile before resuming his journey, he would have refused, alleging

that he could not rest until he had the body of Hector safe in his

keeping. But that fierce and imperious nature brooked not the

slightest hint of opposition. "Provoke me no further, old man," said

the terrible chieftain, with a dark glance at his guest. "Hector's

body thou shalt have--but there must be no unseemly haste. My heart is

exceeding sore; touch not thou the galled spot, lest I should do thee

mischief, and break the ordinances of heaven."

Then, leaving Priam where he sat, Achilles went out with Automedon and

another of his squires, and, bidding Idæus attend his master, they

unyoked the mules, and brought in the ransom. "Now, haste thee,

Automedon," said Achilles, in a low tone, "go with the handmaids to the

place where Hector's body lies, and when they have washed and anointed

it return with it hither. Be silent, and be wary; for if Priam sees

what ye are doing--if he catches sight of Hector's body, where now it

lies--I fear that he will break out into anger against me, and becoming

outrageous provoke me to slay him."

Having carried out their orders with all due caution, they brought the

body, wrapped in fine linen, and Achilles with his own hands placed it

in the mule car. But he groaned in spirit when he thought of his

promise to Patroclus, and cried aloud, invoking his ghost: "Take it not

amiss, my Patroclus, when the news reaches thee in the house of the

dead, that I have restored the body of thy slayer. His father hath

paid me no mean ransom, whereof thou shalt have thy share."

The laws of hospitality required that Priam should not leave Achilles'

roof without breaking bread. Accordingly, on his return to the house,

Achilles urged his guest to take some food. "Remember," he said, "that

Niobe herself, so constant in her sorrow that even now, though turned

to a stone, she weeps and weeps for ever--even she tasted food when the

first anguish of her grief was passed. Thou knowest her sad story--how

she boasted that she had borne twelve fair children, six stalwart sons

and six lovely daughters--and taunted Leto that she had only borne two.

But those two were Apollo and Artemis, a god and a goddess, and they

slew all the children of Niobe, to avenge the insult to their mother.

Apollo slew the sons with his silver bow, and Artemis, the

archer-goddess, slew the daughters. For nine days they lay in their

blood, with none to give them burial; but on the tenth day the gods

buried them with their own hands. And if she, that stricken mother,

could sit down to meat, so do thou also, Priam; after that, thou shall

take some sleep, and at dawn I will send thee back in safety to Troy."

The meal was prepared, and they sat down face to face at the same

table, joined as host and guest, after all that had passed between

them. But Priam's eyes were exceeding heavy, for he had hardly closed

them in slumber since the awful day when he saw Hector stricken to

death before his sight; and after tasting a morsel he begged Achilles

to show him the place where he was to rest.