To the left of the mountains lay
the river Sihor, but none might pass between the mountain and the river.
The Wanderer descended from the hill, and while the soldiers ate, drove
swiftly in his chariot to the further end of the pass and looked forth
again. Here the river curved to the left, leaving a wide plain, and on
the plain he saw the host of the Nine-bow barbarians, the mightiest host
that ever his eyes had looked upon. They were encamped by nations, and
of each nation there was twenty thousand men, and beyond the glittering
camp of the barbarians he saw the curved ships of the Achaeans. They were
drawn up on the beach of the great river, as many a year ago he had seen
them drawn up on the shore that is by Ilios. He looked upon plain and
pass, on mountain and river, and measured the number of the foe. Then
his heart was filled with the lust of battle, and his warlike cunning
awoke. For of all leaders he was the most skilled in the craft of
battle, and he desired that this, his last war, should be the greatest
war of all.
Turning his horses' heads, he galloped back to the host of Pharaoh and
mustered them in battle array. It was but a little number as against
the number of the barbarians--twelve thousand spearmen, nine thousand
archers, two thousand horsemen, and three hundred chariots. The Wanderer
passed up and down their ranks, bidding them be of good courage, for
this day they should sweep the barbarians from the land.
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