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of Inachus, and ye Achaeans of kindred blood? Before one citizen’s lowly door—for shame!—do we hang irresolute, so vast a host, iron-girt and of ready valour? Not if beneath Cirrha’s caverned height^[1] he, whoe’er he is—Apollo cowards and rumour account him—were to bellow from the deep seclusion of his crazy grotto, could I wait for the pale virgin to announce the solemn riddlings! Valour and the good sword in my hand are the gods I worship! And now let this priest with his timid trickery come out, or this very day I shall make trial, what wondrous power there is in birds.” The Achaean mob raise joyful outcry, and encourage his madness. At last Oeclides, driven to rush forth among them: “’Tis not the unrestrained clamour of a blasphemous stripling nor the fear of his taunts that draws me from my darkness, mad though his threatenings be; far different are the tumultuous cares that vex me, far other is the destiny that brings my final doom, nor may mortal arms have power upon me. But now my love for you and Phoebus’ strong inspiration compel me to speak forth my oracle; sadly to you will I reveal what is to come, yea all that lies beyond,—to you, I say, for to thee, thou madman, nought may be foreshown, concerning thee only is our lord Apollo silent. Whither, unhappy ones, whither are ye rushing to war, though fate and heaven would bar the way? What Furies’ lash drives you blindly on? Are ye so weary of life? Is Argos grown so hateful? Hath home no sweetness? Heed ye not the omens? Why did ye force me to climb with trembling step to the secret heights of Perseus’ mount, and break into the council of the heavenly ones? I could have remained in ignorance with