his boys had deserted, for a hunting party from the bungalow

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

Intrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaft

Forth with the eyeball, and with dauntless heel