To reach the fount of blood. Unnumbered wounds
By arrow dealt, or lance, thus fail to slay
This single warrior. But lo! from far
A Cretan archer's shaft, more sure of aim
Than vows could hope for, strikes on Scaeva's brow
To light within his eye: the hero tugs
Intrepid, bursts the nerves, and tears the shaft
Forth with the eyeball, and with dauntless heel
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wall. He staggered down again; his remarkable physical
chap, Mr. Tom is; he took to growin’ i’ the legs, an’
the world, why, it is mere egoism not to like that we in
along the Floss, an’ I’n been up it wi’ the barge
our tents. They were very civil, and offered us a house;
some a-smiling wi’ their heads o’ one side, an’ some
the majesty of his depressed cranium and voluminous neckcloth.
there had come a taciturn, hard concentration of purpose,
big farm, evidently finding in the society of this rougher
away from market, he refused all invitations to stay and
and the land was wooded down to the water’s edge. In
a new power, that would make the most difficult life easy