Hector spoke to his own heavy heart. If he went in, Polydamas would be first to reproach him for rejecting the counsel to lead the Trojans back on that dreadful night when Achilles rose again. Better to face Achilles and see to whom Zeus gave glory.
He thought of laying down shield and spear, offering Helen and the treasure Paris brought from Argos, and swearing to divide the city's wealth. Then he knew Achilles would kill him unarmed like a woman. There could be no soft talk now.
While he stood pondering, Achilles came on like Ares himself, brandishing the terrible spear of Pelian ash, bronze gleaming around him like flame or the rising sun. Hector's courage broke. He fled, and the son of Peleus pursued.
They ran the wagon-road under the wall, past the lookout and the wind-beaten wild fig, to the two fair springs that feed the Scamander — one hot with steam, one cold as ice in summer — where the Trojan women used to wash bright clothes in peacetime.
Past those they raced, one fleeing, one chasing. A good man fled before a better. They ran as prize horses fly for a tripod or a woman at funeral games, and it was for Hector's life they ran.