and terrible in his wrath: “What, with my friend’s 10
trophies upon you, would you escape my hand? It is
Pallas, Pallas, who with this blow makes you his victim,
and gluts his vengeance with your accursed blood.”
With these words, fierce as flame, he plunged the steel into
the breast that lay before him. That other’s frame grows 15
chill and motionless, and the soul,[287] resenting its lot, flies
groaningly to the shades.