there. For that and for some other measures in which he proved helpful, he should perhaps offer many sacrifices. As to what happened to Cassandra, I look upon it as justice, though a bit crude. Paris was her brother. The fault of Ajax was haste. He might have had her in the partition of prizes, to take home and treat as he chose, beyond the criticism of the gods and secure from the wrath of mankind, for he has no wife waiting for him.”
“My wife,” said Agamemnon, “has caused no scandal in the family as yet. In some respects she differs from her sister. How many men have captured Helen, or she has captured them? Theseus, before your time, and you of course, and Paris, and Deiphobus—and wasn’t there something between Achilles and her? Did Hector admire her, or was it only she that thought of him? Our special philosophies, brother, are evolved that we may live peaceably with our own past. You are in no position, I can see, to condemn the work of Ajax. Cherish your philosophy; you will need it.”
“As I was saying,” said Menelaos, “I sail for home to-morrow. I’m sorry we part in this mood of dispute. If staying here would do you any good, out of gratitude I’d stay. But the will of the gods is common sense, I think—or essentially so; and if your whim for prolonged sacrifices had really to do with religion, I should argue that the gods who enabled us to burn up Troy, never intended us to live here.”
“You go to your fate,” said Agamemnon. “I shall not see you again.”
“Another mistake on your part, I prefer to think,” said Menelaos, “and calling, I hope, for no ceremonial repentance.”
