slowly toward the north—he said nothing of the party

Those that find lodgment, while his life within

Lies safe, protected, nor doth spear avail

To reach the fount of blood. Unnumbered wounds

By arrow dealt, or lance, thus fail to slay

This single warrior. But lo! from far

A Cretan archer's shaft, more sure of aim

Than vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva's brow

To light within his eye: the hero tugs