As the men fought on like a blazing fire raging, 
swift-footed Jeremy Ebert came to Dan Persa 
with his news. He found Persa by his head set,
 sensing in himself what had already happened,
 speaking with a troubled mind to his own great heart:

“Why are purple-helmeted Wildcats once again 
retreating to their locker room, being beaten back
 across the plain in terror? I hope the gods 
have not done something that will break my heart.
”

As Persa in his mind and heart was thinking this, 
noble Ebert approached, shedding warm tears. He told him the agonizing truth:                                      

                                        “Son of warlike Darnell Autry,
 you must hear this dreadful news—something
 I wish weren’t so—the Eagles of Boston College have scored a touchdown.”                             

                              Ebert finished speaking.
 A black cloud of grief swallowed up Persa.
 With both hands he scooped up soot and dust and poured it
 on his head, covering his handsome face with dirt, 
covering his sweet-smelling tunic with black ash.                                

He lay sprawling—his mighty quarterback’s massive body 
collapsed and stretched out in the dust. With his hands,
 he tugged at his own hair, disfiguring himself.

Swift-footed Persa then questioned Pat Fitzgerald:

“How can I rejoin that conflict? 
I have a ruptured Achilles heel. My dear training staff
 has told me not to dress myself for games,
 not until my own eyes see that I’m ready.

Wind-swift Fitzgerald then answered Persa:

“We know well enough your lovely Achilles
 is in bad shape. But you should go now, 
just as you are, to the sideline. Show yourself 
to Boston College. It may happen that the Eagles, 
afraid of you, will pull back from battle, 
giving Kain Coulter and his exhausted warlike teammates a breathing space. For rests in war are rare.”

With these words, swift-footed Fitzgerald went away. 
Then Persa, loved by Henry Bienen, moved into action.
 He strode from the wall, then stood there by the sideline.
 But recalling what Fitzgerald had said to him,
 he didn’t mingle with Eagles. As he stood there,
 he cried out. As thrilling as a trumpet’s note
 when it rings clearly, when rapacious enemies 
besiege a city—that’s how sharp and piercing 
Persa’s voice was then. When the Eagles heard it, 
that brazen shout Persa gave, all their hearts 
were shaken. Three times godlike Persa yelled
across that field. Three times Eagles and their coaches 
were thrown into confusion. At that moment, 
twelve of their best men were tackled by their own waterboys and their own shoes. The Wildcats then, with stronger hearts,
drove down the field and scored a touchdown.