Now in the next battle Paris was shooting down the Greeks with his arrows, when Philoctetes saw him, and cried:  “Dog, you are proud of your archery and of the arrow that slew the great Achilles.  But, behold, I am a better bowman than you, by far, and the bow in my hands was borne by the strong man Heracles!” So he cried and drew the bowstring to his breast and the poisoned arrowhead to the bow, and the bowstring rang, and the arrow flew, and did but graze the hand of Paris.  Then the bitter pain of the poison came upon him, and the Trojans carried him into their city, where the physicians tended him all night.  But he never slept, and lay tossing in agony till dawn, when he said:  “There is but one hope.  Take me to OEnone, the nymph of Mount Ida!”

Then his friends laid Paris on a litter, and bore him up the steep path to Mount Ida.  Often had he climbed it swiftly, when he was young, and went to see the nymph who loved him; but for many a day he had not trod the path where he was now carried in great pain and fear, for the poison turned his blood to fire.  Little hope he had, for he knew how cruelly he had deserted OEnone, and he saw that all the birds which were disturbed in the wood flew away to the left hand, an omen of evil.

At last the bearers reached the cave where the nymph OEnone lived, and they smelled the sweet fragrance of the cedar fire that burned on the floor of the cave, and they heard the nymph singing a melancholy song.  Then Paris called to her in the voice which she had once loved to hear, and she grew very pale, and rose up, saying to herself, “The day has come for which I have prayed.  He is sore hurt, and has come to bid me heal his wound.”  So she came and stood in the doorway of the dark cave, white against the darkness, and the bearers laid Paris on the litter at the feet of OEnone, and he stretched forth his hands to touch her knees, as was the manner of suppliants.  But she drew back and gathered her robe about her, that he might not touch it with his hands.

Then he said:  “Lady, despise me not, and hate me not, for my pain is more than I can bear.  Truly it was by no will of mine that I left you lonely here, for the Fates that no man may escape led me to Helen.  Would that I had died in your arms before I saw her face!  But now I beseech you in the name of the Gods, and for the memory of our love, that you will have pity on me and heal my hurt, and not refuse your grace and let me die here at your feet.”

Then OEnone answered scornfully:  “Why have you come here to me?  Surely for years you have not come this way, where the path was once worn with your feet.  But long ago you left me lonely and lamenting, for the love of Helen of the fair hands.  Surely she is much more beautiful than the love of your youth, and far more able to help you, for men say that she can never know old age and death.  Go home to Helen and let her take away your pain.”