Virgil’s Æneid | Project Gutenberg

So were these contending over matters of doubtful debate:

Æneas was moving his army from camp to field.

See, there runs a messenger from end to end of the palace

amid wild confusion, and fills the town with a mighty 30

terror, how that in marching array the Trojans and the

Tuscan force are sweeping down from Tiber’s stream

over all the plain. In an instant the minds of the people

are confounded, their bosoms shaken to the core, their

passions goaded by no gentle stings. They clutch at arms, 35

clamour for arms: arms are the young men’s cry: the

weeping fathers moan and mutter. And now a mighty

din, blended of discordant voices, soars up to the skies,

even as when haply flocks of birds have settled down in a

lofty grove, or on the fishy stream of Padusa hoarse swans

make a noise along the babbling waters, “Ay, good citizens,”

cries Turnus, seizing on his moment, “assemble

your council and sit praising peace; they are rushing on 5

the realm sword in hand.” Without further speech he

dashed away and issued swiftly from the lofty gate.

“You, Volusus,” he cries, “bid the Volscian squadrons arm,

and lead out the Rutulians. You, Messapus, and you,

Coras[280] and your brother, spread the horse in battle array 10

over the breadth of the plain. Let some guard the inlets

of the city and man the towers; the rest attack with me in

the quarter for which I give the word.” At once there is

a rush to the ramparts from every part of the city: king

Latinus leaves the council and the high debate unfinished, 15

and wildered with the unhappy time, adjourns to another

day, ofttimes blaming himself that he welcomed not with

open arms Æneas the Dardan, and bestowed on the city

a husband for the daughter of Latium. Others dig

trenches before the gates or shoulder stones and stakes. 20

The hoarse trumpet gives its deathful warning for battle.

The walls are hemmed by a motley ring of matrons and

boys: the call of the last struggle rings in each one’s ear.

Moreover the queen among a vast train of Latian mothers

is drawn to the temple, even to Pallas’ tower on the height, 25

with presents in her hand, and at her side the maid Lavinia,

cause of this cruel woe, her beauteous eyes cast down.

The matrons enter the temple and make it steam with

incense, and pour from the august threshold their plaints

of sorrow: “Lady of arms, mistress of the war, Tritonian[o] 30

maiden, stretch forth thy hand and break the spear of the

Phrygian freebooter, lay him prostrate on the ground,

and leave him to grovel under our lofty portals.” Turnus

with emulous fury arms himself for the battle. And now

he has donned his ruddy corslet, and is bristling with 35

brazen scales; his calves have been sheathed in gold, his

temples yet bare, and his sword had been girded to his

side, and he shines as he runs all golden from the steep

of the citadel, bounding high with courage, and in hope

already forestalls the foe: even as when a horse, bursting

his tether, escapes from the stall, free at last and master

of the open champaign,[281] either wends where the herds of

mares pasture, or wont to bathe in the well-known river 5

darts forth and neighs with head tossed on high in wanton

frolic, while his mane plays loosely about neck and shoulders.

His path Camilla crosses, a Volscian army at her

back, and dismounts from her horse at the gate with

queenly gesture; the whole band follow her lead, quit 10

their horses, and alight to earth, while she bespeaks him

thus: “Turnus, if the brave may feel faith in themselves,

I promise boldly to confront the cavalry of Troy and

singly ride to meet the Tyrrhene horse. Let me essay

the first hazard of the combat; do you on foot remain by 15

the walls and be the city’s guard.” Turnus replies, gazing

steadfastly on the dreadful maid: “O maiden, glory

of Italy, what thanks shall I strive to speak or render?

but seeing that soul of yours soars above all, partake the

toil with me. Æneas, as rumour and missioned spies tell 20

me for truth, has cunningly sent on his light-armed cavalry

to scour the plain, while he, surmounting the lonely

steeps of the hill, is marching townward. I meditate a

stratagem of war in that woodland gorge, to beset the

narrow thoroughfare with an armed band. Do you in 25

battle array receive the Tuscan horse. With you will

be keen Messapus, and the Latian cavalry, and Tiburtus’

troop: take your share of a general’s charge.” This said,

he exhorts Messapus and the federate leaders with like

words to the fight, and advances to meet the enemy. 30

A glen there is, narrow and winding, suited for ambush

and stratagems of arms, pent in on both sides by a mountain-wall

black with dense foliage; a scant pathway leads

to it, with straitened gorge and jealous inlet. Above it

on the mountain’s watch-tower height lies a concealed 35

table-land, a post of sheltered privacy, whether one be

minded to face the battle right and left, or, standing on

the slope, to roll down enormous stones. Hither repairs

the warrior along the well-known road: he has occupied

the spot and sat him down in the treacherous forest.

Meantime, in the mansions above Latona’s daughter

was addressing Opis the swift, a maiden comrade of her

sacred train, and was uttering these words in tones of 5

sorrow: “Ah, maiden, Camilla is on her way to the ruthless

war; in vain she girds herself with the arms of our

sisterhood, dear to me that she is beyond all beside: for

no new tenderness this that has come on Diana, nor sudden

the spell wherewith it stirs her heart. When Metabus, 10

exiled for the hate which tyranny genders, was parting

from Privernum, his ancient city, as he fled from the heart

of the combat, he bore away his infant child to share his

banishment, and varying Casmilla, her mother’s name,

called her Camilla. The father, carrying her in his bosom, 15

was making for the long mountain slopes of the solitary

woods, while bitter javelins were showering all around him,

and the Volscians with circling soldiery hovering about:

when lo! intercepting his flight was Amasenus, brimming

and foaming over its banks, so vast a deluge of rain had 20

burst from the clouds. Preparing to plunge in, he is

checked by tenderness for his child, and fears for the precious

load. At last, as he pondered over every course,

he hit suddenly on this resolve. There was a huge weapon,

which he chanced to be carrying in his stalwart hand 25

as warriors use, sturdy with knots and seasoned timber:

to it he fastens his daughter, enclosed in the cork-tree’s

forest bark, and binds her neatly round the middle

of the shaft; then, poising it in a giant’s grasp, he thus

exclaims to heaven: ‘Gracious lady, dweller in the woods, 30

Latona’s maiden daughter, I vow to thy service this my

child: thine are the first weapons that she wields as she

flies from the foe through air to thy protection. Receive,

I conjure thee, as thine own her whom I now entrust to the

uncertain gale.’ He said, and, drawing back his arm, 35

hurled the javelin: loud roared the waves, while over the

furious stream fled poor Camilla on the hurtling dart.

But Metabus, pressed closer and closer by the numerous

band, leaps into the river, and in triumph plucks from the

grassy bank his offering to Trivia, the javelin and the maid.

No cities opened to him house or stronghold, for his wild

nature had never brooked submission: among the shepherds’

lonely mountains he passed his days. There in the 5

woods, among beasts’ savage lairs, he reared his daughter

on milk from the breast of an untamed mare, squeezing

the udder into her tender lips. And soon as the child

first stood on her feet, he armed her hands with a pointed

javelin, and hung from her baby shoulder a quiver and a 10

bow. For the golden brooch in her hair, for the long

sweeping mantle, there hang from her head adown her

back a tiger’s spoils. Even then she launched with tiny

hand her childish missiles, swung round her head the sling’s

well-turned thong, and brought down a crane from Strymon 15

or a snow-white swan. Many a mother in Tyrrhene

town has wooed her for her son in vain: with no thought

but for Dian, she cherishes in unsullied purity her love for

the hunter’s and the maiden’s life. Would she had never

been pressed for warfare like this, essaying to strike a blow 20

at the Teucrians: so had she still been my darling and a

sister of my train. But come, since cruel destiny is darkening

round her, glide down, fair nymph, from the sky,

and repair to the Latian frontier, where now in an evil hour

the tearful battle is joining. Take these arms, and draw 25

from the quiver an avenging shaft: therewith let the foe,

whoever he be, Trojan or Italian, that shall profane with

the stroke of death that sacred person, make to me in like

manner the atonement of his blood. Afterwards in the

hollow of a cloud I will bear off the body of my lost favourite 30

undespoiled of its arms, and lay her down in her

own land.” Thus she: and Opis hurtled downward through

the buoyant air, a black whirlwind enswathing her form.

But the Trojan band meanwhile is nearing the walls

with the Etruscan chiefs and the whole array of cavalry, 35

marshalled into companies. Steeds are prancing and

neighing the whole champaign over, and chafing against

the drawn bridle as they face hither and thither: the field,

all iron, bristles far and wide with spears, and the plains

are ablaze with arms reared on high. Likewise Messapus

on the other side and the swift-paced Latians, and Coras

and his brother, and maid Camilla’s force appear in the

plain against them, couching the lance in their backdrawn 5

hands and brandishing the javelin: and the onset of warriors

and the neighing of steeds begin to wax hot. And

now each army had halted within a spear-throw of the

other: with a sudden shout they dash forward, and put

spurs to their fiery steeds: missiles are showered from all 10

sides in a moment, thick as snow-flakes, and heaven is

curtained with the shade. Instantly Tyrrhenus and fierce

Aconteus charge each other spear in hand, and foremost

of all crash together with sound as of thunder, so that the

chest of either steed is burst against his fellow’s; Aconteus, 15

flung off like the levinbolt or a stone hurled from an engine,

tumbles headlong in the distance, and scatters his life in

air. At once the line of battle is broken, and the Latians,

turned to flight, sling their shields behind them and set

their horses’ heads cityward. The Trojans give them 20

chase: Asilas in the van leads their bands. And now

they were nearing the gates, when the Latians in turn set

up a shout, and turn their chargers’ limber necks; the

others fly, and retreat far away at full speed. As when

the sea, advancing with its tide that ebbs and flows, one 25

while sweeps towards the land, deluges the rocks with a

shower of spray, and sprinkles the sandy margin with the

contents of its bosom, one while flees in hasty retreat,

dragging back into the gulf the recaptured stones, and

with ebbing waters leaves the shore. Twice the Tuscans 30

drove the Rutulians in rout to their walls; twice, repulsed,

they look behind as they sling their shields backward.

But when in the shock of a third encounter the entire

armies grapple each other, and man has singled out man,

then in truth upsoar the groans of the dying, and arms and 35

bodies and death-stricken horses blended with human

carnage welter in pools of gore: and a savage combat is

aroused. Orsilochus hurls a spear at Remulus’ horse—for

the rider he feared to encounter—and leaves the steel

lodged under the ear. Maddened by the blow, the beast

rears erect, and, uplifting its breast, flings its legs on high

in the uncontrolled agony of the wound: Remulus unseated

rolls on earth, Catillus dismounts Iollas, and likewise 5

Herminius, giant in courage, and giant too in stature

and girth: his bare head streams with yellow locks, and

his shoulders also are bare: wounds have no terrors for

him, so vast the surface he offers to the weapon. Through

his broad shoulders comes the quivering spear, and bows 10

the impaled hero double with anguish. Black streams

of gore gush on all sides: the combatants spread slaughter

with the steel, and rush on glorious death through a storm

of wounds.

But Camilla, with a quiver at her back, and one breast 15

put forth for the combat, leaps for joy like an Amazon in

the midst of carnage: now she scatters thick volleys of

quivering javelins, now her arm whirls unwearied the

massy two-edged axe: while from her shoulder sounds the

golden bow, the artillery of Dian. Nay, if ever she be 20

beaten back and retreating rearward, she turns her bow

and aims shafts in her flight. Around her are her chosen

comrades, maid Larina, and Tulla, and Tarpeia, wielding

the brazen-helved hatchet, daughters of Italy, whom

glorious Camilla herself chose to be her joy and pride, able 25

to deal alike with peace and war: even as the Amazons

of Thrace when they thunder over the streams of Thermōdon

and battle with her blazoned arms, encompassing

Hippolyte, or when Penthesilea, the War-god’s darling,

is careering to and fro in her chariot, and the woman 30

army, amid a hubbub of shrill cries, are leaping in ecstasy

and shaking their moony shields. Who first, who last,

fierce maiden, is unhorsed by your dart? How many stalwart

bodies lay you low in death? The first was Eunēus,

Clytius’ son, whose unguarded breast as he stood fronting 35

her she pierces with her long pine-wood spear. Down he

goes, disgorging streams of blood, closes his teeth on the

gory soil, and dying writhes upon his wound. Then

Liris, and Pagasus on his body: while that, flung from

his stabbed charger, is gathering up the reins, and this is

coming to the rescue and stretching his unarmed hand to

his falling comrade, they are overthrown in one headlong

ruin. To these she adds Amastrus, son of Hippotas: 5

then, pressing on the rout, pursues with her spear-throw

Tereus, and Harpalycus, and Demophoon, and Chromis:

for every dart she launched from her maiden hand there

fell a Phrygian warrior. In the distance rides Ornytus

accoutred strangely in hunter fashion on an Iapygian 10

steed: a hide stripped from a bullock swathes his broad

shoulders in the combat, his head is sheltered by a wolf’s

huge grinning mouth and jaws with the white teeth projecting,

and a rustic pike arms his hand: he goes whirling

through the ranks, his whole head overtopping them. 15

Him she catches, an easy task when the hosts are entangled

in rout, pierces him through, and thus bespeaks the

fallen in the fierceness of her spirit: “Tuscan, you thought

yourself still chasing beasts in the forest, but the day is

come which shall refute the vaunts of your nation by a 20

woman’s weapons. Yet no slight glory shall you carry

down to your fathers’ shades, that you have fallen by the

dart of Camilla.” Next follow Orsilochus and Butes, two

of the hugest frames of Troy: Butes she speared behind

’twixt corslet and helm, where the sitter’s neck is seen 25

gleaming, and the shield is hanging from the left arm:

Orsilochus, as she pretends to fly and wheels round in a

mighty ring, she baffles by ever circling inwards, and chases

him that chases her: at last, rising to the stroke, she brings

down on the wretch again and again, spite of all his prayers, 30

her massy battle-axe that rives armour and bone: the

brain spouts over the face through the ghastly wound.

Now there stumbles upon her, and pauses in terror at the

sudden apparition, the warrior son of Aunus, dweller on

the Apennine, not the meanest of Liguria’s children while 35

Fate prospered his trickery. He, when he sees no speed

of flight can escape the combat, or avoid the onset of the

dreadful queen, essaying to gain his base end by policy

and stratagem, thus begins: “What great glory is it

after all, if you, a woman, trust your mettled steed? Put

away the chance of flight, and dare to meet me hand to

hand on equal ground, and gird you for battle on foot:

soon shall you see which of us gains honour from this 5

windy boasting.” He said: but she, all on fire, stung with

bitter grief, gives her horse to her comrade, and stands

ready to meet him in arms, fearless though on foot, with

naked sword and maiden shield. But the youth, deeming

that his wiles had sped, darts away without more ado, 10

and turning his bridle, rides off in flight, and wearies his

beast with the strokes of his iron heel. “False Ligurian,

vainly puffed up with overweening fancies, to no end have

you tried your sire’s slippery craft, nor shall your lying

bring you safe to Aunus the liar.” So cries the maiden, 15

and with lightning-like pace crosses at full speed the horse’s

path, and seizing the reins, fronts and encounters him,

and gluts her vengeance with his hated blood: easily as a

hawk, the bird of augury, darting from a lofty rock, comes

up with a dove high in the clouds, holds her in his gripe, 20

and with crooked talons tears out her heart, while gore and

plucked feathers come tumbling from the sky.

But no blind spectator of the scene is sitting throned on

high Olympus, even the father of men and gods. The sire

urges Tarchon the Tuscan to the ruthless fray, and goads 25

him to wrath by no gentle stings. So among heaps of

carnage and yielding bands Tarchon goes riding, and

rouses the cavalry with words of diverse purport, calling

each by his name, and gives the beaten new strength for

battle. “What terror, O ye Tuscan hearts that will not 30

feel, that will still be sluggish, what strange cowardice has

come on you? To what end is this steel, these idle weapons

our right hands bear? But slow ye are not to hear the

call of love, or when the wry-necked fife gives the word for

the Bacchic dance: ay, there is your passion, there your 35

delight, till the favouring seer announce the sacrificial

feast, and the fat victim invite you to the tall trees of the

grove.” So saying, he spurs his steed into the midst,

ready for the death he brings to others, and charges in

fury on Venulus, snatches the foe from his horse, folds his

arms round him, and carries him on his saddle before him

with wild and violent speed. Upsoars a shout to heaven,

and every Latian eye is turned to the scene. Over the 5

plain like lightning flies Tarchon, bearing the warrior

and his arms. Then from the top of the chiefs own spear

he breaks off the point, and feels for an unguarded part

where to plant the deadly blow: the foe, struggling, keeps

off Tarchon’s hand from his throat, and repels force with 10

force. As when the golden eagle soaring on high carries

a serpent he has caught, trussing it in his claws, and adhering

with his taloned gripe; the wounded reptile writhes

its spiral coils, stiffens with erected scales, and hisses from

its mouth, surging and swelling; the eagle, undismayed, 15

plies it despite its struggles with his hooked beak, while

his pinions beat the air: even thus Tarchon carries his

prize in triumph from the bands of Tibur’s folk. Following

their chief’s auspicious lead, the sons of Mæonia charge

the foe. Then Arruns, the man of fate, compasses swift 20

Camilla about, dart in hand, with many a forestalling wile,

and tries what chance may be readiest. Wherever the

fiery maid dashes into the midst of the battle, Arruns

threads his way after her, and scans her steps in silence:

wherever she returns in triumph, escaping safely from the 25

foe, that way the youth turns his swift and stealthy rein;

now makes proof of this approach, now of that, and traverses

the whole circle, and shakes with relentless malice

his inevitable lance. It chanced that one Chloreus, sacred

to Cybele and once her priest, was shining conspicuous 30

from afar in Phrygian armour, urging on a foaming charger,

whose covering was a skin adorned with golden clasp and

brazen scales set plume-wise. He, in the blaze of foreign

purple, was launching Gortynian shafts from a Lycian bow;

golden was the bow that rang from his shoulder, golden the 35

helm on his sacred head; his saffron scarf with its rustling

gauzy folds was gathered up by a golden brooch, and his

tunic and his hose decked with barbaric broidery. He it

was that the maiden, eager, it may be, to fasten on the

temple-gate the arms of Troy, or to flaunt herself in the

golden spoil, singled out from all the battle, and was following

with a hunter’s blind devotion, raging recklessly

through the ranks, enkindled with a woman’s love for prey 5

and plunder; when at length, seizing his opportunity,

Arruns awakes his dart from its ambush, and thus prays

aloud to heaven: “Greatest of gods, Apollo, guardian of

divine Soracte, whom we are the first to worship, for whom

the pine-tree glow is fed by heaps of wood, while ourselves, 10

thy votaries, strong in our piety, walk through the flame

over living embers, grant, all-powerful sire, that my arms

may wipe this scandal away. I seek no plunder or spoil,

no trophy for the conquest of a maid; the rest of my deeds

shall secure my fame; let but this terrible fiend fall vanquished 15

by wound of mine, I will return to the cities of my

fathers an unhonoured man.” Phœbus heard, and vouchsafed

in his heart that half the vow should speed, while

half he scattered among the flying breezes: to strike and

slay Camilla with sudden death-wound, so much he grants 20

the suppliant: to return and meet the eyes of his noble

fatherland, this he allows not; the gusts of air turned the

accents into wind. So when the spear, launched from the

hand, was heard along the sky, each keen Volscian mind

flew to one centre, every Volscian eye was bent on the 25

queen. She alone had no thought for wind or sound or

weapon sweeping down from heaven, till the spear had

made its passage and lodged beneath her protruded breast,

and deeply driven, drank her maiden blood. Her comrades

run together in alarm, and support their falling mistress. 30

Arruns, more terrified than all, flies away, half joy,

half fear, nor puts further confidence in his lance, nor dares

to meet the darts of the maiden. Even as the caitiff

wolf, ere the weapons of vengeance can follow him, has

fled at once to the pathless privacy of the mountain steep, 35

on slaying a shepherd or mighty bullock, conscious of his

daring deed, and drawing back his quivering tail with

lithe action has clapped it to his belly and made for the

woods, in like manner Arruns all wildered has stolen away

from sight, and contented to escape has plunged into the

thick of the battle. With dying hand the maiden pulls

at the spear; but the steely point stands lodged among the

bones at the ribs in the deep wound it made. Drained of 5

blood, she sinks to earth; sink, too, her death-chilled eyes;

her once bright bloom has left her face. Then at her last

gasp she accosts Acca, one of her maiden train, who beyond

the rest was Camilla’s friend and shared her thoughts,

and speaks on this wise; “Thus far, sister Acca, has 10

strength been given me: now the cruel wound overcomes

me; and all around me grows dim and dark. Haste and

carry Turnus my dying charge, to take my place in the

battle and keep off the Trojans from the town. And now

farewell.” As she spoke she dropped the bridle, swimming 15

down to earth with no willing act. Then as the death-chill

grows she gradually discumbers herself of the entire weight

of the body, droops her unstrung neck and her head on

which fate has seized, quitting too her armour, and her

soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to the shades. Then 20

indeed, rising unmeasured, the uproar strikes the golden

stars: Camilla overthrown, the fight waxes fiercer: on

they rush thickening, at once the whole force of the Teucrians,

and the Tyrrhene leaders, and Evander’s Arcad

cavalry. 25

But Trivia’s sentinel Opis has long been seated high on

the mountain top, an undismayed spectator of the combat.

And when far off, deep among the din of raging

warriors, she spied Camilla shent by ruthless death, she

groaned, and fetched these words from the bottom of her 30

breast: “Poor maiden! too, too cruel the penalty you

have paid for provoking the Teucrians to battle. Nought

has it bestead you at your need to have served Dian in the

forest, and carried on your shoulder the shafts of our sisterhood.

Yet not unhonoured has your queen left you even 35

here in death’s extremity; nor shall this your end be without

its glory in the world, nor yourself bear the ignominy

of the unrevenged; for he, whoever he be, whose wound

has profaned your person, shall atone it by the death he

has earned.” Under the lofty mountain’s shade there

stood a vast mound of earth, the tomb of Dercennus, an

old Laurentine king, shrouded with dark ilex: here the

beauteous goddess first alights with a rapid bound, and 5

spies out Arruns from the barrow’s height. Soon as she

saw him gleaming in his armour, and swelling with vanity,

“Why stray from the path?” cries she; “turn your feet

hitherward! come hither to your death, and receive

Camilla’s guerdon! Alack! and are you too to be slain 10

by the shafts of Dian?” She said, and with the skill of

Thracian maiden drew a swift arrow from her gilded quiver,

bent the bow with deadly aim, and drew it far apart, till

the arching ends met together, and with her two hands

she touched, the barb of steel with her left, her breast with 15

her right and the bowstring. Forthwith the hurtling of

the shaft and the rush of the breeze reached Arruns’ ear

at the moment the steel lodged in his body. Him gasping

and groaning his last his comrades leave unthinking in the

unmarked dust of the plain: Opis spreads her wings, and 20

is borne to skyey Olympus.

First flies, its mistress lost, Camilla’s light-armed company;

fly the Rutules in rout, flies keen Atinas; leaders

in disarray and troops in devastation make for shelter,

turn round, and gallop to the walls. None can sustain 25

in combat the Teucrians’ deadly onset or resist the stream;

they throw their unstrung bows on their unnerved

shoulders, and the hoof of four-foot steeds shakes the

crumbling plain. On rolls to the ramparts a cloud of dust,

thick and murky; and the matrons from their sentry-posts, 30

smiting on their breasts, raise a shriek as women

wont to the stars of heaven. Who first pour at speed

through the open gates are whelmed by a multitude of

foemen that blends its crowd with theirs; they scape not

the agony of death, but on the very threshold, with their 35

native walls around them, in the sanctuary of home, they

breathe away their lives. Some close the gates: they dare

not give ingress to their friends nor take them within the

walls, implore as they may: and a piteous carnage ensues,

these guarding the approach sword in hand, those rushing

on the sword’s point. Some, borne on by the deluge,

stream headlong into the moat; some in blind agony,

spurring their horses, charge as with battering-rams the 5

portals and their stubborn barriers. Nay, the very matrons

on the walls in the intensity of the struggle, prompted

by true patriot spirit at sight of Camilla, fling darts from

their quivering hands, and make hard oak-stakes and

seared truncheons do the work of steel, hot and headlong, 10

and fain would be the first to die for their city.

Meantime the cruel news floods Turnus’ ears in his forest-ambush,

as Acca tells the warrior her tale of mighty terror:

the Volscian ranks destroyed, Camilla slain, the enemy

coming on like a torrent, sweeping all before their victorious 15

onslaught, the alarm already wafted to the walls.

He, all on fire (for even such is Jove’s stern requirement),

quits his post on the hills, leaves the impregnable forest.

Scarce had he passed from their sight and occupied the

plain, when father Æneas, entering the unguarded pass, 20

scales the hill-top, and issues through the shadowy wood.

So the two rivals march cityward at full speed, each with

all his army, nor long is the intervening distance; at the

same moment Æneas looked far over the plains all smoking

with dust, and saw the host of Laurentum, and Turnus was 25

aware of fell Æneas in battle array, and heard the onward

tramp of feet and the neighing of steeds. Instantly they

were for closing in fight and throwing for the stake of combat;

but the time was come for reddening Phœbus to bathe

his wearied team in the Hiberian flood, and bring back 30

night on the steps of retreating day. So they encamp

before the city, and make their ramparts strong.