But so terrible was the
stroke that bronze might not abide it, and the blade was shattered from
the ivory handle.
"Didst thou feel aught, thou Man-eater?" cried Odysseus, jeering, for he
knew from the song of the giant that he was face to face with a wanderer
from an evil race, that of old had smitten his ships and devoured his
men--the Laestrygons of the land of the Midnight Sun, the Man-eaters.
But the giant caught up his club of pine-tree in his left hand, the
severed right arm still clinging to it. And he gnawed on the handle
of the stone axe with his teeth, and bit the very stone, and his lips
foamed, for a fury came upon him. Roaring aloud, suddenly he smote at
the Wanderer's head, and beat down his shield, and crushed his golden
helm so that he fell on one knee, and all was darkness around him. But
his hands lit on a great stone, for the place where they fought was the
holy place of an ancient temple, old and ruined before King Mena's day.
He grasped the stone with both hands; it was the basalt head of a fallen
statue of a God or a man, of a king long nameless, or of a forgotten
God. With a mighty strain the Wanderer lifted it as he rose, it was a
weight of a chariot's burden, and poising it, he hurled it straight
at the breast of the Laestrygon, who had drawn back, whirling his axe,
before he smote another blow.
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