“The ringleader of this breakaway trio Grabbed a rear ankle In the trap of his jaws. Then the others, Theridamus and Oristrophus, left and right, Caught a foreleg each, and he fell. These three pinned their master, as the pack Poured onto him like an avalanche. Every hound filled its jaws Till there was hardly a mouth not gagged and crammed With hair and muscle. Then began the tugging and the ripping. Actaeon’s groan was neither human Nor the natural sound of a stag. Now the hills he had played on so happily Toyed with the echoes of his death-noises. His head and antlers reared from the heaving pile. And swayed – like the signalling arm Of somebody drowning in surf. But his friends, who had followed the pack To this unexpected kill, Urged them to finish the work. Meanwhile they shouted For Actaeon – over and over for Actaeon To hurry and witness this last kill of the day – And such a magnificent beast – As if he were absent. He heard his name And wished he were as far off as they thought him. He wished he was among them Not suffering this death but observing The terrible method …
