A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

"Aimed on the left side his well-handled spear Grasped where the ash
was knottiest hewn, and smote, And with no missile wound, the
monstrous boar Right in the hairiest hollow of his hide Under the last
rib, sheer through bulk and bone, Deep in; and deeply smitten, and to
death, The heavy horror with his hanging shafts, Leapt, and fell
furiously, and from raging lips Foamed out the latest wrath of all his
life."
Great was the shout that rose from those who still lived when that grim
hunt thus came to an end. And when, with his keen blade, Meleager
struck off the head, even as the quivering throat drew its last agonised
breath, louder still shouted the men of Greece. But not for himself did
Meleager despoil the body of his foe. He laid the ugly thing at the feet
of Atalanta.
"This is thy spoil, not mine," he said. "The wounding shaft was sped by
thee. To thee belongs the praise."
And Atalanta blushed rosily, and laughed low and gladly, not only
because Diana had heard her prayer and helped her slay the beast, but
for happiness that Meleager was so noble in his giving.
At that the brows of the heroes grew dark, and angrily one cried:
"Lo, now, Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us, Saying all we
were despoiled by this one girl."
Like a spark that kindles the dry grass, their kindling anger spread, and
they rushed against Atalanta, seized the trophy she had been given, and
smote her as though she were but a shameless wanton and not the noble
daughter of a king.
And because the heart of Meleager was given very wholly to the fair
huntress, and because those whom he deemed his friends had not only
dishonoured her, but had done him a very grievous wrong, a great rage
seized him. Right and left he smote, and they who had been most bitter
in their jealousy of Atalanta, the two brothers of his own mother, were
laid low in death.