And be forthwith sent out a bitter cry,
Such as till now I never heard from him;
For ever did he hold such loud lament
Sure sign of one with coward heart and base;
And holding back from shrill and wailing cries,
Would groan with deep, low muttering, like a bull;
But now, thus fallen on an evil chance,
Tasting nor food nor drink, among the herds
Slain with his sword, he sits in silent calm,
And looks like one on some dire mischief bent."—(P.)
This burst of anguish followed by a sullen despair is, as Tecmessa fears, more dangerous than his first frantic state of madness. What help can they, his old and true friends, bring to their king in this extremity?
But the Chorus have not time to answer her; for groan after groan comes from the closed tent, and Ajax is heard piteously calling on his child Eurysaces, and on Teucer his foster-brother, then far away, to come to him. Then Tecmessa can refrain no longer, but throws open the door of the tent, and discovers Ajax seated in gloomy silence, with his head buried in his hands, while all about him lie the carcasses of the slaughtered sheep and oxen. Disturbed by the light entering the tent, he lifts up his head and sees his faithful sailors; but they can bring him no comfort. His baffled vengeance, the insulting joy of his foes,—more than all, of that wheedling knave Ulysses, whom he pictures to himself as "laughing long and loudly for very joy of heart,"—all these thoughts rankle in his breast, and render life itself unbearable. How, he asks, can he endure the light of day? how can he look on the face of men any longer? Let his own true friends, the
