“When I think of sailing,” said Agamemnon, “I remember Aulis. Our setting out from that harbour cost the life of my child, offered to appease the gods. You did not object to excessive sacrifices then. It was all for you, my brother. My quarrel with Achilles I atoned for long ago, since I was in the wrong. But since at other times I may have been wrong when I thought I was right, I must now satisfy even the unsuspected angers of Zeus and Athena before this host of mine can face wind and wave and what lies between us and our homes.”

“What you really fear,” said Menelaus, “is your wife.”

“Your wife is with you,” said Agamemnon, “and your daughter is safe in Sparta, no doubt looking after your affairs. We’ve all been looking after them. Now I must care for my people. What I really fear is the vengeance of Athena on every one of them, on you and me, on the meanest that row in the ships, for the theft of her image and the outrage to her priestess.”

“Odysseus stole the image,” said Menelaus, “but only because the city couldn’t be taken while the image was 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 rather crude. Paris was her brother. The fault of Ajax was haste. She might have been his 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 been captured by her? 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 Menelaus, “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 Menelaus, “and calling, I hope, for no ceremonial repentance.”

Helen was sitting in the tent, motionless by the flickering lamp. The scented flame and smoke of the tripod went up before her face, and made him think of goddesses and altar-fires. Why was she there? Had she been there all day? Out at the sacrifices he had imagined her humbled among the other captives, feeling at last the edge of retribution. She might have stood up when he came in.