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A sound of moaning outside in the darkness, which has been heard during the last few lines, now grows into articulate words. VOICE. Woe, woe! The burden of the wrath of fate! GUARDS. Ha, listen! Wait. Crouch on the ground; it may be yet Our man is drawing to the net. VOICE. P. 42, 1. 728, Voice of the wounded man outside.]- The puzzled and discouraged talk of the Guards round the fire, the groaning in the darkness without, the quick alarm among the men who had been careless before, and the slow realisation of disaster that follows-all these seem to me to be wonderfully indicated, though the severe poetic convention excludes any approach to what we, by modern prose standards, would call effective realism. Woe, woe! The burden of the hills of Thrace! LEADER. An ally? None of Hellene race.