SWIFT AND OLD-GOLD 185 



ping waves, were the fifty black ships which had 

 borne them across the sea. Opening into the 

 same courtyard as their master's hut was the 

 stable wherein Swift and Old-Gold stood lazily 

 champing the clover and parsley which the 

 grooms had cut and brought to them from the 

 meadows along the shore. Three times nine 

 years had passed since they were given to old 

 Peleus at his wedding feast, and yet they were 

 as wondrously fair and strong and swift as they 

 had ever been. Many times since crossing the 

 sea, they had borne their young master into the 

 din and fury of battle, and many times had their 

 fearlessness and his prowess turned the tide of 

 war. But now the days were passed in idleness. 

 Their harness with their master's armor hung 

 useless within the hut. The war chariot, polished 

 and clean, stood well covered up beside the door, 

 and Achilles's mighty ashen spear, leaned, half- 

 forgotten, against the wall. The Myrmidons 

 lolled lazily upon the grass in the shadow of their 

 tents, some sleeping, some playing checkers or 

 games of chance, and some telling wonderful tales 

 of warfare and adventure. But beneath the walls 

 of Troy, only a short distance away, the rest of 

 the Greeks were fighting a losing battle with the 



