of death among your people, months of manifold suffering
to Troy and her sons, spent and weary, we look upon you
now! What unworthy cause has marred the clear beauty
of those features, or why do I behold these wounds?’ 35
He answers nought, and gives no idle heed to my vain
inquiries, but with a deep sigh, heaved from the bottom
of his heart—‘Ah! fly, goddess-born!’ cries he, ‘and
escape from these flames—the walls are in the enemy’s
hand—Troy is tumbling from its summit—the claims
of country and king are satisfied—if Pergamus could be