flung, A wolf's grey hide around his shoulders hung, A ferret's downy fur his helmet lined, And in his hand a pointed javelin shined. Then (never to return) he sought the shore, And trod the path his feet must tread no more. Scarce had he p****'d the steeds and Trojan throng, (Still bending forward as he coursed along,) When, on the hollow way, the approaching tread Ulysses mark'd, and thus to Diomed; "O friend! I hear some step of hostile feet, Moving this way, or hastening to the fleet; Some spy, perhaps, to lurk beside the main; Or nightly pillager that strips the slain. Yet let him p****, and win a little space; Then rush behind him, and prevent his pace. But if too swift of foot he flies before, Confine his course along the fleet and shore, Betwixt the camp and him our spears employ, And intercept his hoped return to Troy." With that they stepp'd aside, and stoop'd their head, (As Dolon p****'d,) behind a heap of dead: Along the path