This is a chapter of The Trojan War, by C. Witt & F. Younghusband.
From this time Philoctetes fought among the Greeks, and many of the enemy were laid low by his arrows. He was the best archer in the Greek army; and as Paris was the best among the Trojans, they soon found themselves facing one another in the battle.
Paris had just shot a Greek hero, when Philoctetes spied him, and crying out, “It is thou who hast brought all this misery upon the Greeks, and now shalt thou atone for it,” he shot an arrow at him, but only wounded him slightly in the hand.
Paris was about to draw an arrow from his quiver to return the shot, but Philoctetes was quicker than he, and his second arrow wounded Paris in the lower part of the body. Paris fell to the ground in anguish, and in the arms of his comrades he was carried back into the city.
There were many physicians in Troy who sought with all manner of herbs to heal the wound, but the arrows of Heracles were like no others, and the wounds which they caused could be healed by no physician. There was only one hope for Paris, and it was this: near Mount Ida, there lived a woman, who, if she would, could cure him; her name was Oenone and she was the former wife of Paris, whom he had thrust away when he had brought Helen from Greece. Before that time, he had loved her with all his heart, and Oenone cared for him in return with a love far deeper and stronger than his. Sorrowfully, she had returned to her parents when the new wife was brought home to the house of Paris, and there she had remained full of grief and bitterness all these long ten years.
In his distress, Paris remembered how tenderly Oenone had loved him in the past, and he hoped that she would be willing to forgive the wrong he had done her and to help him in his time of need. Wearily and painfully he made his way to her home, and falling at her feet, he implored her to have pity on him.
But she looked at him in anger and said, “If it lay in my power, I would requite thee for the bitter pain thou hast caused me to suffer by tearing thee in pieces, and it would refresh me to drink thy blood.” And with that, she turned away from him.
Paris would have returned to Troy, but he could not get so far. Before he had left Mount Ida, he was overcome by his pain and he sank down and died in the very same valley where he had once been tending his father’s sheep when the three goddesses came to him to decide between them. The shepherds of the neighborhood, who still remembered him with affection, came and placed the body of the dead man upon a bier, and then raised for it a funeral pile, to which they set fire.
Oenone saw the flames from afar and, when she asked what it was, she was told that it was the body of Paris they were burning. Then in a moment, as soon as she heard that he was dead, all her old love for him came back, and she could think of nothing but the happy days she had once spent with him. Whilst everyone else in the house was asleep, she arose from her couch and went through the forest towards the flaming pile. At any other time, she would have been afraid of being alone at night in the forest, because of the wild beasts and the loneliness of the road, but now she thought of nothing but of hastening as quickly as possible to the place where the shepherds had rendered the last honors to their old comrade.
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When she had reached it, she broke out into loud lamentation and, wrapping her veil around her, she leaped into the flames and was burned with Paris. Afterward, when the flames had spent themselves, the shepherds extinguished the ashes with wine, and, when they had gathered out the bones of Paris and Oenone, they buried them together in the same urn. A mound of earth was raised over the grave, and the spot was marked by two pillars formed of rocks piled one upon the other.