Now among the press of the barbarians there was a stir, as of one thrusting his way through them to the front. And above the plumes of their helmets and the tossing of their shields the Wanderer saw the golden head, unhelmeted, of a man, taller than the tallest there from the shoulders upwards. Unhelmeted he came and unshielded, with no body armour. His flesh was very fair and white, and on it were figures pricked in blue, figures of men and horses, snakes and sea-beasts. The skin of a white bear was buckled above his shoulder with a golden clasp, fashioned in the semblance of a boar. His eyes were blue, fierce and shining, and in his hand he held for a weapon the trunk of a young pine-tree, in which was hafted a weighty axe-head of rough unpolished stone.
"Give way!" he cried. "Give place, ye dusky dwarfs, and let a man see this champion!"
So the barbarians made a circle about the Wanderer and the giant, and stood silently to watch a great fight.
"Who art thou?" said the mighty man disdainfully, "and whence? Where is thy city, and thy parents who begat thee?"
"Now I will avow that men call me Odysseus, Sacker of Cities, Laertes' son, a Prince of the Ach?ans," said the Wanderer. "And who art thou, I pray thee, and where is thy native place, for city, I wot, thou hast none?"
Then the mighty man, swinging his great stone axe in a rhythmic motion, began to chant a rude lay, and this was the manner of the singing--"Laestrygons men And Cimmerians call us Born of the land Of the sunless winter, Born of the land Of the nightless summer:
Cityless, we, Beneath dark pine boughs, By the sea abiding Sail o'er the swan's bath.
/Wolf/ am I hight, The son of Signy, Son of the were-wolf.
Southwards I sailed, Sailed with the amber, Sailed with the foam-wealth.
Among strange peoples, Winning me wave-flame,[*]
Winning me war-fame, Winning me women.
Soon shall I slay thee, Sacker of Cities!"
[*] Gold.
With that, and with a cry, he rushed on the Wanderer, his great axe swung aloft, to fell him at a blow.
But while the giant had been singing, the Wanderer had shifted his place a little, so that the red blaze of the setting sun was in his face. And as the mighty man came on, the Wanderer lifted up his golden shield and caught the sunlight on it, and flashed it full in the giant's eyes, so that he was dazzled, and could not see to strike.
Then the Wanderer smote at his naked right arm, and struck it on the joint of the elbow; with all his force he smote, and the short sword of Euryalus bit deep, and the arm fell, with the axe in the hand-grip.
But so terrible was the stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the blade was shattered from the ivory handle.
"Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?" cried Odysseus, jeering, for he knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a wanderer from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and devoured his men--the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the Man-eaters.
But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the severed right arm still clinging to it. And he gnawed on the handle of the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips foamed, for a fury came upon him. Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at the Wanderer's head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him. But his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was the holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena's day. He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a fallen statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a forgotten God. With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose, it was a weight of a chariot's burden, and poising it, he hurled it straight at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling his axe, before he smote another blow. But ere ever the stroke fell, the huge stone struck him full and broke in his breast bone, and he staggered long, and fell like a tree, and the black blood came up through his bearded lips, and his life left him.
Then the multitude of the barbarians that stood gazing at the fray drew yet further back in fear, and the Wanderer laughed like a God at that old score paid, and at the last great stroke of the hands of the City-sacker, Odysseus.
