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"Multa super Priamo rogitans, super Hectore multa." Her passion feeds through sleepless nights on the recollection of his look, on the memory of his lightest words. Even the old love of Sychæus seems to revive in and blend with this new affection. Her very queenliness delights to idealize her lover, to recognize in the hero before whom she falls "one of the race of the gods."
A small stream diverted from the river, turned the wheel of a moss-grown grist-mill, which was nestled under large willows at the foot of the rocks, and conveyed the idea of the presence of man, without detracting from the wild beauty of the scenery. Now, alas, how is all changed! Heu! quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore! The grist-mill has disappeared!
The errand-boy was coming up the passage as they emerged the same errand-boy they had seen half an hour ago in the manager's room; but, as their classical friends would say "Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!" His two arms were strung with the handles of frothing tin cans from the elbow to the wrist. He carried two tin cans in his mouth.
Who is this who saunters across the playground, talking in loud, self-confident tones with two or three fellows round him, his hands in his pockets, his air haughty and nonchalant, and his cap a little on one side? He is still pleasant looking, his face still shows the capabilities for good and great things, but we are obliged to say of him: "Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!"
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