“The fire . . .” he whispered, as they all came forward to make their farewells, “is not as painful as the poison . . . In fact . . . it is a blessed relief . . .” “Oh, my friend . . .” “Oh, my uncle . . .” “Oh, my father . . .” “Oh, my husband . . .” With a shudder and a sigh the soul fled from Heracles. The great hero was finally at peace, freed from his life of almost unendurable torment and toil. Hyllus turned on his mother with a snarl. “You killed him. How could you do it? How?” Deianira ran wailing back into the house and stabbed herself to death.