Hector.
The Greeks! . . . Choose any save the Atridae twain.
Dolon.
Kill both, an it please thee. I make prayer for none.
Hector.
Thou wilt not ask for Ajax, Îleus' son?
Dolon.
A princely hand is skilless at the plough.
Hector.
'Tis ransom, then? . . . What prisoner cravest thou?