of men, accursed hunger for gold? When fear had fled my soul, I lay the divine portents before the chosen chiefs of the people, my father first, and ask what is their judgement. All are of one mind, to quit the guilty land, to leave a place where hospitality is profaned, and to give our fleet the winds. So for Polydorus we solemnize fresh funeral rites, and earth is heaped high upon the mound; altars are set up the dead, made mournful with somber rivers and black cypress; and about them stand Ilian women, with hair streaming as custom ordains.

We offer foaming bowls of warm milk and cups of victims’ blood, lay the spirit at rest in the tomb, and with loud voice give the last call.

“Then, as soon as we can trust the main, and the winds give us seas at peace, and the