The man-horse's doubleness is served first as table manners. Pholus the centaur "set roast meat before Hercules, while he himself ate his meat raw" [The Library (Bibliotheca), BOOK II, ch. V]. Wine breaks the peace: Pholus "feared to open the jar which belonged to the centaurs in common"; Hercules opened it anyway, and, scenting it, "the centaurs arrived at the cave of Pholus, armed with rocks and firs" [ibid.]. The rout ends in two deaths, each a parable of the hybrid. Chiron, hit by a stray arrow, "wished to die, but he could not, for he was immortal", until Prometheus took the immortality in his stead "and so Chiron died" [ibid.]. Pholus, pulling an arrow from a corpse, "wondered that so litttle a thing could kill such big fellows" — the triple t is the scan's — and dropped it on his foot [ibid.]. Thompson's shelf for the centaur is thick with unwired scholarship (Baur's monograph, Dumézil); the one wired page already gives the essence: a body split between courteous host and herd, undone by the wine, weapons, and curiosity it could only half domesticate.