[Among the war-loving Argives, treasure is the standard by which a man's worth is measured, for it is won by dint of spear: honor and value are thus synonymous, as is the glinting of gold inextricable from the precious metal itself. His brow then folds in bemusement for Lancer's indifference.]

Come now - what man would not wish to claim a trophy that boasts his victory in the bloody jaws of battle? These scoundrels have not any splendid armor which we may pry from their bodies, yet there remains an abundance of prizes more to claim for our own. To leave these here would be no better than leaving ripened figs to rot upon the branch, thus wasting their sweet juices. Although we two alone cannot carry all that there is to reap from these huts, surely there is some prize suitable for each of us.

[So speaking, he motions with his spear to indicate that Lancer ought to follow him inside to gaze over the cache of pilfered goods. What remains haphazardly stowed in sacks seems to be mostly jewelry - necklaces, brooches, and watches on fine gold chains - alongside metal odds and ends for which there might be a market. Assorted firearms lie across pegs hammered into the crooked walls, but such weapons are of little interest to Achilles.]