And charging with sheer tusk he drove, and smote
Hyleus; and sharp death caught his sudden soul,
And violent sleep shed night upon his eyes."—Swinburne.
More than ever terrible was the monster now that it was wounded. One after the other the hunters fell before its mad rage, and were sent to the shades by a bloody and merciless death.
Before its furious charge even the heart of a hero might have been stricken. Yet Meleager, like a mighty oak of the forest that will not sway even a little before the rush of a storm, stood full in its way and met its onslaught.
"Aimed on the left side his well-handled spear
"Grasped where the ash was knottiest hewn, and smote.
"And with no missile wound, the monstrous boar
"Right in the hairiest hollow of his hide
"Under the last rib, sheer through bulk and bone.
"Deep in; and deeply smitten, and to death.
"The heavy horror with his hanging shafts.
"Leapt, and fell furiously, and from raging lips
"Foamed out the latest wrath of all his life."
Great was the shout that rose from those who still lived when that grim hunt thus came to an end. And when, with his keen blade, Meleager struck off the head, even as the quivering throat drew its last agonised breath, louder still shouted the men of Greece. But not for himself did Meleager despoil the body of his foe. He laid the ugly thing at the feet of Atalanta.
"This is thy spoil, not mine," he said. "The wounding shaft was sped by thee. To thee belongs the praise."
And Atalanta blushed rosily, and laughed low and
