Both, very much frightened, then took to their heels and rushed into
the city, while Menelaus, after shaking Paris's shield, in defiance, at
the walls, retired to the Grecian camp. Then came the preparations for
battle. The Trojans leaned over their paper battlements, with their
fingers to their noses, twiddling them in scorn, while the Greeks shook
their fists back at them. The battle now commenced on the
"ringing-plains of Troy," and was eminently absurd. Paris, in hat and
pantaloons, (_a la mode de Paris_,) soon showed the white feather, and
incontinently fled. Everybody hit nowhere, fiercely striking the ground
or the shields, and always carefully avoiding, as on the stage, to hit
in the right place. At last, however, Patroclus was killed, whereupon
the battle was suspended, and a grand _tableau_ of surprise and horror
took place, from which at last they recovered, and the Greeks prepared
to carry him off on their shoulders. Then terrible to behold was the
grief of Achilles. Homer himself would have wept to see him. He flung
himself on the body, and shrieked, and tore his hair, and violently
shook the corpse, which, under such demonstrations, now and then kicked
up. Finally, he rises and challenges Hector to single combat, and out
comes the valiant Trojan, and a duel ensues with wooden axes.
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