"The bravest of the Greeks," said he, "are lying among the ships smitten and wounded. Everywhere the men of Troy press upon them; they have broken over the wall into the camp, and they are even throwing fire into the ships. If thou withhold thy help longer, surely thou art without pity—thou canst not be the son of Peleus and gentle Thetis, but art rather born of the gray sea and the beetling rocks. But if that old prophecy of the soothsayer holds thee back, then I pray thee let me go forth leading the Myrmidons to the help of our kinsmen. And lend me thine armor and chariot and the war steeds, Swift and Old-Gold, so that the Trojans will mistake me for thee and perhaps be dismayed at my coming."

Achilles was moved by his friend's entreaties, and the more so as, looking toward the Grecian ships, he saw thick smoke arise and then great sheets of flame.

"Truly, you may go!" he cried. "Gird on my armor quickly, and I will call the Myrmidons."

Patroclus made haste to don the armor great and fair which the gods had given to old Peleus on his marriage day. Round his shoulders he belted the sword of bronze, on his head he set the glittering helmet, and in his hands he took the mighty shield and two strong lances. But the ashen spear that Cheiron had made he left in the hut, for no man but Achilles could wield it. Then the horses, Swift and Old-Gold, were led out by Automedon, the skillfullest of charioteers, and harnessed in their places. Very glad were the noble steeds when they smelled the battle and knew that they were soon to take part in the dreadful fray. And in the side-traces Automedon put a third horse, a chestnut-colored steed named Pedasos, which had been captured in Cilicia.

In the meanwhile Achilles had called the Myrmidons to arms, and now they came forward in close-serried ranks, shield pressed against shield, helm against helm, and man against man—the horsehair crests on the bright helmet-ridges touching each other when they nodded, so closely together did they stand. And the proud war horses, Swift and Old-Gold, guided by the strong arms of Automedon and drawing the car in which stood the fearless Patroclus, led the way into the thick of battle. And in one mass the Myrmidons fell upon the Trojans that were besetting the ships, and the din of the conflict waxed wondrous great.

Now, when the Trojans saw the chariot drawn by the world-famous steeds and in it Patroclus shining in armor, they wavered in the fight, for they thought that Achilles himself had come out against them. Then, as if every man sought only his own safety, they turned and in dreadful panic fled as best they could away from the encampment of the Greeks. And wherever they were thickest in the flight, there followed Swift and Old-Gold, glorying in their strength and speed, crushing men beneath their feet, and overturning many a fleeing car. When they came to the great ditch that the Greeks had digged outside their camp, many were the horses and very many the men that fell in one terrible, struggling heap; but our swift steeds, guided by Automedon, leaped straight over all in their mad pursuit of the mighty Hector, who was speeding across the plain toward the shelter of his own gates.

But why tell of all the terrible deeds of that terrible day? Why tell of the fight beneath the walls of Troy, of the brave rallying of the Trojans under great Hector, and of the fierce onset of Sarpedon, who slew the goodly trace-horse Pedasos with his spear? Then indeed it might have gone hard with Patroclus had not Automedon reached over with his long-edged sword and quickly cut adrift the unlucky beast; and Swift and Old-Gold, no longer cumbered in their course, strained forward upon the reins and rushed furiously onward.

At length, however, there was a turn in the tide of battle, for Patroclus, still eager to meet the great Hector, was struck from behind. His helmet was smitten from his head and rolled rattling away beneath the horses' hoofs; the long lance which he bore was shattered in his hands, and the tasseled shield fell with a crash to the ground. The Greeks afterward said that no mortal dealt that blow, but only Apollo, whom no man can withstand. Dazed and blind and sorely wounded, Patroclus would have fled to the succor of his comrades. But Hector, seeing his sorry plight, now rushed upon him and with his spear gave him his death wound. With a crash the hero fell headlong to the ground, and the swift-footed steeds bore the chariot and Automedon, the driver, away from the field.

Then, throughout the rest of the day, Trojans and Greeks fought around the body of Patroclus, these that they might carry it to the ships, and those that they might drag it in triumph into the city. Swift and Old-Gold, when they had gotten away from the thick of battle and knew their warrior had fallen, would move no farther but stood still and wept. Vainly did Automedon try to coax them with gentle words; vainly did he ply the cruel lash; they would neither go back to the ships nor return to the field of fight. With their heads bowed to the ground, they wept hot tears for Patroclus, and their shining manes were covered with dust. At length, however, as if new courage had been put into their knees, they rallied and made a fierce onset upon the enemy, and behind them Automedon fought wildly, sweeping upon his foes as a vulture upon wild geese. Being alone in the car, however, he could do small harm, for he was unable to wield his spear and at the same time guide his fiery team.

So the fighting went on over the body of Patroclus, from which Hector had already stripped the gory armor, and it was not until the evening that the Greeks were at last able to bear it from the field, and, with the stress of war waxing fierce behind them, carry it in sorrow back to the ships. And Swift and Old-Gold, their heads drooping and their manes bedraggled in dust and blood, returned with Automedon and the battered chariot to the tent of their master Achilles.

From noon till evening on that eventful day, ever in the thickest of the fight, they had drawn their master's chariot without fear or weariness; and when at length the darkness had put an end to the dreadful combat, it was with high heads and tossing manes that they betook themselves to the camp of the victorious Trojans. They knew that behind them rode the hero of the day, and at his feet lay the armor which he had stripped from Patroclus—the matchless armor which the gods had given to old Peleus. From out of the mêlée of battle they had come unscathed by any wound, and as fresh as when the grooms had led them from their stalls. All through that night they stood beside the chariot in the blazing light of the watch-fires, and champed white barley and spelt, and waited impatiently for the day.

"To-day our master will drive the Greeks into the sea," said red Æthon as the dawn arose behind the distant mountains.

"Yes," said Galathe, "to-day he will rid Troy of her foes. See! he has donned the armor of the gods which he stripped from foolhardy Patroclus. Not even Achilles would dare meet him now."

And when the sun had risen, gilding the towers of Troy with his beams, Hector marshaled his host and mounting his chariot led them forth to battle again.

In the meanwhile the death of Patroclus had wrought a great change in the stubborn heart of Achilles. His wrath toward Agamemnon was laid aside, and he vowed that he would not rest until he had slain Hector and avenged his friend. All night long he sat before the tents and wept, and as soon as morning dawned he hastened to prepare himself for the battle. The armor with which he girded himself was better even than that which he had lost through Patroclus's sad misfortune. For it had been wrought by Vulcan, the lame blacksmith of the gods, and its likeness for beauty and service had never been seen. When he had proved the armor to see whether it fitted him, he took in hand the ashen spear, great and heavy and strong, which Cheiron had given to his father and which none of the Greeks could wield. Forthwith the grooms led out his war steeds. They buckled on the breast-straps and put bits into their mouths and stretched the reins behind to the chariot. Then Automedon sprang up into his place, ready to drive to the field of combat, and Achilles, armed in his sun-bright coat of mail, stepped into the car.

"Xanthos and Balios, Swift and Old-Gold," he cried, "take heed that you bring your charioteer safe back to his tent and to his own folk, and do not leave him on the field as you left Patroclus!"

Then Old-Gold bowed his head to the ground until his long mane fell over his eyes and face, and said: "Truly, great master, we will bear thee safe this day, but yet thy death is not far away. It was through no fault of ours that the Trojans slew good Patroclus, but by the will of the gods. And so, too, shall thy own fate overtake thee."

Achilles was sorely troubled by these words, for never before had he heard aught of speech from the lips of the horse. "Xanthos," he cried, "why do you tell me of my death? I know that I shall never return to my old father and beautiful mother and dear native land; and therefore I will not hold my hand until I have avenged my friend." And having spoken, he rode onward, leading his Myrmidons and the hosts of the Greeks into the battle.

I need not follow the events of this day, a day in which the tide of war was turned and the Trojans forced to flee into the city for their lives. It was with downcast heads that Æthon and Galathe dragged their master's chariot within the gates that afternoon, and their eyes no longer flashed with joy and pride. The terror of Achilles had cowed them utterly, as it had the entire Trojan host, and they knew that they had borne their master into the fight for the last time.

On the high battlements of Troy a sorrowful company was gathered—the king, the queen, and such of the Trojan princes as the fortunes of war had spared—and they wept and wailed and tore their garments for grief at the sad sight which they beheld outside of the walls. For Hector, the flower and hope of Troy, had been slain at the hands of Achilles. Despoiled of his armor, he lay bound to the tail of the victor's chariot, his head trailing in the dust. The pitiless lord of the Myrmidons stood in the car alone, and lashed his steeds to their utmost speed, and Swift and Old-Gold, unused to such cruelty, leaped wildly in their traces and flew over the plain with the swiftness of the wind, while a cloud of dust arose about them as if to hide their master's heartless deed from the eyes of the pitying beholders.

Hector's mother shrieked aloud in her grief, and tore her long hair, and threw her veil far over the wall. The king, his father, moaned piteously, and would have gone out alone from the gates to entreat the mercy of Achilles, had not those around him held him back. And the cries of the people upon the walls were echoed throughout the town, and there was mourning and wild grief in every house. Around the entire circuit of the city, Achilles drove his team, and then, followed by his Myrmidons and with the body of Hector still trailing in the dust, he betook himself to his own encampment beside the sea.

Then Hector's squire, heavy of heart because of that day's work, went out into his master's courtyard and unyoked the steeds Æthon and Galathe, and led them away from the blood-stained chariot which they had drawn so often to victory.

"Never again," said he, "shall you bear your master into the field of strife; never again shall you lift your proud heads in joy. Better would it have been had we all been slain, for there is no longer any hope for Troy."

Then he washed them in clear water, and combed their manes as he had been used to do, and fed them with parsley and white barley. But they never drew war car again.