We pay our service to a gap between
A grandsire and a grandchild. Dost thou take me?
Ul. Yes, friend: thy master is away or dead.
Eum. Both as I think. The while, for lack of tidings,
We make believe he lives. His ancient father,
Decrepit and despairing, lies aloof,—
We call him king no longer;—and his son,
The old man’s grandchild, is away on quest
Of any tidings to be gleaned from those
Who years agone fought with his sire at Troy.