Virgil’s Æneid | Project Gutenberg

When Turnus sees that the War-god’s enmity has

broken the spirit of Latium, that men are beginning to

claim his promise, and make him the mark of their eyes,

he bursts at once into fury unappeasable, and swells his

pride to the height. As in Punic land, when the hunters 5

have wounded him deep in the breast, the lion at last rouses

himself to fight, tosses with fierce joy his mane from his

neck, snaps fearlessly the brigand’s spear in the wound,

and roars from his gory mouth: even so, Turnus once

kindled, his vehemence grows each moment. Then he 10

addresses the king, and dashes hotly into speech: “Turnus

stops not the way: Æneas and his cowards have no plea

for retracting their challenge or disowning their plighted

word; I meet the combat; bring the sacred things, good

father, and solemnize the truce. Either will I with my own 15

right hand send the Dardan down to Tartarus, the runaway

from Asia—let the Latians sit by and see—and

with my single weapon refute the slander of a nation; or

let the vanquished own their master and Lavinia be the

conqueror’s bride.” 20

With calm dignity of soul the king makes answer:

“Gallant youth, the greater your impetuous valour, the

more watchful must needs be my foresight, the more

anxious my scrutiny of all that may happen. You have

your father Daunus’ kingdom, you have many a town 25

won by your own sword: I that speak have gold and a

heart to give it; in Latium and Laurentum’s land are other

unwedded maidens, of no unworthy lineage. Suffer me

without disguise to give voice to these unwelcome sayings,

and take home what I speak further: I was forbidden by 30

Fate to give my daughter to any of her early suitors;

so sang gods and men alike. Conquered by my love for

you, conquered by the ties of kindred and the sorrow of

my weeping queen, I set all pledges at naught, I snatched

the bride from her plighted husband. I drew the unhallowed 5

sword. From that fatal day you see what troubles,

what wars are let loose upon me; you know the weight of

the sufferings which you are the first to feel. Twice vanquished

in a mighty conflict, we scarce protect by our bulwarks

the hopes of Italy: Tiber’s waters are yet steaming 10

with our blood, and the spacious plains are whitened by

our bones. Whither am I drifting again and again?

what madness turns my brain? If on the death of Turnus

I am ready to welcome these new allies, why should I not

end the strife while he lives and is safe? What will our 15

Rutulian kinsmen say, what the rest of Italy, if—may

Fortune forefend the omen!—I give you up to death,

you, a suitor for my alliance, for my daughter’s hand?

Think of the uncertainties of war; have pity on your aged

sire, now biding forlornly far away in his Ardean home!” 20

These words abate not Turnus’ vehemence a whit: it

starts up fiercer, more virulent for the healing hand.

Soon as he can find utterance, he thus begins: “The care

you take for my sake, best of fathers, lay down for my

sake, I beg, and suffer me to pledge my life for my honour. 25

My hand, too, can scatter darts and fling steel with no

feeble force; my blows, too, fetch blood. He will not have

his goddess-mother within call, to hide her craven son in an

unmanly cloud, and conceal herself by help of treacherous

shadows.” 30

But the queen, appalled by the new hazard of the combat,

was all in tears, clinging to her fiery son-in-law with

the convulsive grasp of death: “Turnus, by these my

tears, by any regard you cherish for Amata—you are

now our only hope, our only solace in our forlorn old age—the 35

honour and power of the king are in your hands;

on you, its one pillar, the whole house leans. I ask but

this—forbear to cross swords with the Teucrians. Whatever

chance waits on you in this unhappy combat, waits

on me, too, my Turnus; along with you I shall leave the

hated light, nor see in Æneas my son-in-law and my

conqueror.”

As Lavinia heard her mother’s voice, her glowing cheeks 5

were bathed in tears; a deep blush kindled a fire, and shot

over her flushing face. As when a man has stained Indian

ivory with blood-red purple, or like a bed of lilies and roses

mixed: such hues were seen on the maiden’s countenance.

He, bewildered with passion, fixes his eyes upon her: the 10

sight makes him burn the more for battle, and thus he

addresses Amata in brief: “Let me not have tears nor

aught so ominous, dear mother, as my escort to the iron

battle; Turnus is not free to postpone the call of death.

Go, Idmon, and bear the Phrygian despot a message that 15

will like him not: Soon as the goddess of to-morrow’s

dawn shall fire the sky with the glow of her chariot, let

him not spur the Teucrians against the Rutulians; let

Teucrian and Rutulian sheath their swords, while we

twain with our own life-blood decide the war. Let 20

Lavinia’s hand be sought and won in yonder field.”

So he spoke, and rushed back within doors: he calls for

his steeds, and joys to look on them snorting and neighing—the

steeds which Orithyia gave as a present to Pilumnus,

to surpass the snows in whiteness, the winds in speed. 25

Round them stand the bustling charioteers, patting their

chests with hollow palms and combing their maned necks.

Next he throws round his shoulders his hauberk, stiff

with scales of gold and dazzling orichalc,[282] and adjusts to

his wear the sword, the shield, and the cones of the crimson 30

crest—that sword the Fire-god’s own hand had made for

his father Daunus, and tempered it glowing in the Stygian

wave. Lastly, the spear which was standing in the

palace-hall, propped by a mighty column, the spoil of

Auruncan Actor, he seizes forcefully, sturdy as it is, 35

and shakes till it quivers, crying aloud: “Now, my good

spear, that hast never failed my call, now is the time;

once wast thou swayed by giant Actor, now by Turnus:

grant that I may lay low the emasculate Phrygian, strip

and rend his hauberk by strength of hand, and soil in the

dust those ringlets curled with hot iron and moist with

myrrh.” So he rages, fury-driven: sparks flash from the

furnace of his countenance, lightnings dart from his 5

fiery eyes; as when a bull in view of a fight raises fearful

bellowing, and calls up rage into his horns by butting against

a tree’s trunk, challenges the wind with his blows, and

spurns the flying sand in prelude for the fray.

With equal fierceness Æneas, clad in his mother’s 10

armour, sharpens valour’s edge, and lashes his heart with

wrath, joying that proffered truce should end the war.

Then he calms his comrades’ fear and the grief of Iulus,

talking of destiny, and sends envoys with an answer to the

Latian king, to name the conditions of peace. 15

Scarce had the next morrow begun to sprinkle the

mountain-tops with light, at the time when the sun’s

steeds first come up from the deep and breathe flakes of

radiance from their upturned nostrils, when Rutulians

and Teucrians were at work, measuring out lists for combat 20

under the ramparts of the mighty town, with hearths

in the midst, and altars of turf for their common gods.

Others were carrying fire and spring water, begirt with

aprons, vervain[283] wreaths on their brows. Forth moves

the Ausonian army, bands with lifted javelins issuing 25

from the crowded gates. From yonder quarters pours the

Trojan and Tuscan force, with the arms of their several

countries, harnessed as if summoned by the War-god’s

bloody fray. In the midst of either squadrons the generals

flash along, glorious in gold and purple, Mnestheus, 30

Assaracus’ seed, and Asilas the brave, and Messapus,

tamer of horses, the progeny of Neptune. At a given

signal each army retreats within its confines; spears are

fixed in the ground, and bucklers rested at ease. Matrons

in yearning eagerness, and unarmed masses, and tottering 35

old men, fill turret and roof, or stand by the lofty portals.

But Juno, from the top of the mount now styled Alban—in

those days it had no name, nor glory, nor honour—was

looking in prospect on the plain, the two armies,

Trojan and Laurentine, and the Latian town. At once

she addressed Turnus’ sister, a goddess herself, who presides

over the pool and the brawling stream—such dignity

Jove, the king of heaven, solemnly made hers in return for 5

violated maidenhood: “Sweet Nymph, glory of the rivers,

favourite of my heart, you know how I have preferred you

to all Latium’s daughters who have climbed the odious bed

of our great Master and have gladly given you a seat in the

sky; and now, Juturna, learn from me your sorrow, for 10

which I am not to blame. So long as Fortune seemed

favourable and Fate allowed Latium to prosper, I spread

my shield over Turnus and these your walls: now I see

the youth engaged with a destiny mightier than his own,

and the day of doom and the power of the enemy are at 15

hand. I cannot look on the combat, nor on the league

that ushers it in. If you have the nerve to dare aught for

your brother, go on; it is a sister’s part: perhaps the downtrodden

have a better lot in store.” Ere she had well

ended Juturna’s tears sprang forth, and thrice and again 20

her hand smote on her lovely breast. “No time for tears,”

cries Saturn’s daughter: “quick, and if any way there be,

snatch your brother from death: or at least revive the war—and

mar the treaty while yet on their lips. Remember,

I warrant the attempt.” With such advice she left her 25

wavering in purpose and staggering under the cruel blow.

Meantime the monarchs appear, the stately form of the

Latian king riding in a four-horse car, his brows gleaming

with a circle of twelve gilded rays, the cognizance of the Sun

his grandsire: Turnus is drawn by a snow-white pair, two 30

spears with broad iron points quivering in his hands. Then

comes father Æneas, the parent stock of the Roman tree,

blazing with his starry shield and celestial armour, and at

his side Ascanius, the second hope of mighty Rome, both

issuing from their camp: while a priest in stainless robe 35

has brought the young of a bristly boar and an unclipped

sheep of two years old, and placed the victims by the

blazing altar. They, turning their eyes to the rising sun,

offer the salted barley, score with the steel the brows of the

cattle, and make libations from their chargers. Then

thus prays good Æneas, his sword drawn in his hand:

“Let the Sun above and the Earth beneath witness my invocation, 5

this very Earth for which I have had the heart

to endure so much, and the almighty Sire, and thou, his

goddess-bride, Saturn’s daughter, now—may I hope it?—now

at last made gracious: thou, too, glorious Mars,

whose princely nod controls every battle: Springs also

and Rivers I invoke, all the majesty of the sky, all the 10

deities of the purple deep: if chance award the victory

to Turnus the Ausonian, reason claims that the vanquished

shall retire to Evander’s town: Iulus shall quit the land,

nor shall Æneas’ children in after-days draw the sword again,

or threaten this realm with war. But should conquest 15

vouchsafe to us the smiles of the battle-field, as I rather

deem, and pray that Heaven will rather grant, I will not bid

the Italians be subject to Troy, nor ask I the crown for

myself: no, let the two great nations, one unconquered as

the other, join on equal terms in an everlasting federation. 20

The gods and their ritual shall be my gift: let my good

father-in-law still wield the sword and the lawful rights of

empire: the Teucrians shall raise me a city, and Lavinia

shall give it her name.” Thus first Æneas: the Latian

king follows, with eyes lifted to heaven, and right hand 25

stretched to the stars: “I swear as you swore, Æneas,

by Land and Ocean and Lights above, Latona’s twofold

offspring, and two-faced Janus, the potency of the gods

below and the shrine of relentless Pluto: and let the

Father too give ear, who ratifies covenants with thunder. 30

My hand is on the altars; I adjure the fires and powers

that part us: so far as rests with Italy, no length of time

shall break this bond of friendship, let things issue as they

may: no violence shall make me swerve in will, not though

deluge and chaos come again, ruining the earth into the 35

water and crushing down heaven into Tartarus: even

as this sceptre”—for a sceptre chanced to be in his hand—“shall

never more burgeon with light foliage into branch

or shade, now that once cut down in the woods it is orphaned

of that which gave it life, and has resigned to the

axe its leaves and its sprays—once a tree, now the workman’s

hand has cased it with seemly brass, and given it to

be wielded by Latium’s elders.” With words like these 5

were they ratifying the treaty, all the nobles looking on.

Then, as the rite ordains, they cut the throats of the

hallowed’ victims into the fire, flay the yet breathing flesh,

and pile the altars with laden chargers.

But the Rutulians have long been thinking the combat 10

unequal: their bosoms are swayed by rival emotions,

all the more, the nearer they observe the ill-matched

champions. Turnus aids the feeling by the quietness of

his step and the downcast reverential look which he turns

on the altar, his wan cheeks, and the pallor of his youthful 15

frame. Soon as his sister Juturna heard such whispers

spreading, and saw the hearts of the multitude wavering

to and fro, she plunges among the ranks, taking the form

of Camers, great in ancestral dignity, great in the name of

his father’s worth, and himself a valiant warrior—plunges 20

among the ranks, knowing well what she would have, and

scatters her sayings abroad in words like these: “Blush

ye not, Rutulians, with souls such as yours, to make one a

sacrifice for all? are we not equal to our foes in strength or

in numbers? See, here is their whole army, Trojan 25

and Arcadian, aye, and that fated band of Eturia, which

seeks Turnus’ life. Though but half of us should engage,

each would scarce have an enemy to fight with. He, no

doubt, will rise on the wings of fame to the gods for whose

altars he gives himself to die, and will live in the mouths 30

of men: we, stripped of our country, shall be the slaves of

haughty masters, we, I say, now seated passively on the

ground.” By such words the flame is fanned more and

more in those young warrior hearts, and murmurs run

from rank to rank: not Rutulian alone, but Laurentian and 35

Latian are changed men. They who a short while since

were hoping for their own repose and their state’s prosperity,

now burn for arms, would have the treaty undone,

and pity Turnus’ cruel fate. And now Juturna gives them

one thing more, even a sign from heaven, no spell so potent

to work on Italian minds and make them dupes of the

marvel. Flying through the ruddy sky, Jove’s golden

bird was chasing the river fowl, a winged noisy multitude, 5

when suddenly swooping on the water he carries off in

his tyrant claws a stately swan. The Italians are all

attention, when lo! the whole mass of birds face about with

a scream, marvellous to see, their wings darkening the air,

and in dense cloud press on their enemy, till overborne by 10

sheer weight he gives way, drops the booty from his talons

into the river, flying aloft, and vanishes in the distant sky.

Oh, then the Rutulians welcome the omen with a shout and

spread their hands on high; and first of all cries the augur

Tolumnius. “Here, here is the thing I have prayed for so 15

often. I embrace it, I own the hand of Heaven. Follow

me—yes, me—and seize your weapons, my poor countrymen,

whom the felon stranger is scaring with battle, as if

ye were feeble birds, and ravaging your coasts. He too

will turn to flight and sail far away on the deep. Close 20

your ranks with one accord, and rally round the prince

of whom the battle robs you.” He spoke, and running forward

hurls his dart full at the enemy: the hurtling cornel

sounds, and cuts the air on no doubtful errand. A deafening

shout follows on the act, the ranks are confused, 25

and men’s hearts stirred with mad bewilderment. On flew

the spear, just where nine goodly brethren chanced to

stand facing it, all born of one true Tuscan mother to

Gylippus the Arcadian. One of these just at the waist

where the quilted belt chafes against the belly and the 30

buckle presses the sides—a youth of goodly form and

clad in refulgent armour—it strikes through the ribs

and lays him grovelling on the yellow sand. But his

brothers, a gallant company and stung by grief, draw their

swords or seize their javelins, and charge in headlong fury. 35

To meet them rush the Laurentian columns: while from

their side surge forth in a flood Trojans and Agyllans and

Arcadians with inlaid harness. All are possessed by one

passion, to try the issue with the steel. The altars are

stripped bare: through the whole sky drives a flickering

storm of weapons and an iron sleet comes thick: bowls

and hearths are carried away. King Latinus flies, bearing

away his gods in discomfiture, the truce unratified. 5

Others rein the chariot or vault on horseback, with swords

ready drawn.

Messapus, all on fire to annul the treaty, spurs his horse

full on the Tuscan Aulestes, a king and wearing kingly

cognizance: he draws quickly back, and gets entangled 10

in piteous sort with the altars that meet him behind,

falling on them head and shoulders. Up flashes Messapus

spear in hand, and towering on horseback brings down on

him the massy beam in the midst of his prayers, and delivers

himself thus: “He is sped: here is a better victim for the 15

mighty gods.” The Italians cluster round, and strip the

yet warm body. As Ebusus comes up and aims a blow,

Corynæus meets him with a brand half-burnt from the

altar and dashes the fire in his face: his long beard burst

into a blaze and made a smell of burning hair: the enemy 20

presses on, grasps in his left hand the locks of the wildered

man and with the impact of his knee pins him to earth;

then buries the stark falchion in his side. Podalirius

gives chase to Alsus the shepherd as he rushed in the first

rank through a shower of darts, and hangs over him with 25

naked sword: he, swinging back his axe, splits full in front

the foe’s forehead and chin, and splashes his arms right

and left with the blood. The heavy rest of iron slumber

settles down on the dying eyes, and their beams are curtained

in everlasting night. 30

But good Æneas, his head bare, was stretching forth

his unarmed hand and shouting to his men: “Whither are

you driving? what is this sudden outburst of strife? Oh,

curb your passions! the truce is stricken, and all the terms

arranged: none but I has a right to engage: give way to 35

me and have done with alarm: my sword shall ratify the

treaty: this sacrifice has put Turnus in my power.”

While he is crying thus and uttering words like these, lo!

full at the chief flies a hurtling arrow, none knew by

what hand launched, by what wind wafted, who graced

the Rutulians so highly, chance or deity: the glory of the

proud achievement was lost, nor was any known to boast

of having wounded Æneas. 5

Soon as Turnus sees Æneas retiring from the battle,

and the Trojan leaders in confusion, he glows with swift

access of hope, calls for horses and armour, bounds like a

conqueror into the chariot, and takes the reins in hand.

Many a heroic frame he slaughters as he whirls along, many 10

he tumbles and leaves to live or die, crushes whole ranks

by the onset of his car, or plucks forth spears and hurls

them at the fliers. Just as storming along by Hebrus’ icy

flood gore-stained Mars smites on his shield, and stirring

battle lets loose his fiery steeds: they fly over the plains 15

faster than winds southern or western: Thrace groans to

her extremity under the beat of their hoofs: around him

circle the frowns of black-visaged Terror, and the powers

of Wrath and Treachery, liege followers of the god: with

like eagerness through the thickest of the battle Turnus 20

whirls his straining horses, trampling in piteous sort on the

slaughtered foe: the flying hoof spirts gory dew, and blood

and sand are kneaded in a mass. Sthenelus he has slain

already, and Thamyris and Pholus, these hand to hand,

that from a distance: a distant death, too, has found the 25

Imbrasidæ, Glaucus and Lades, trained in Lycia by

Imbrasus their sire, and by him harnessed alike, warriors

who could stand and fight or outride the winds. In another

part of the field Eumedes is riding through the fray, the

gallant son of ancient Dolon, with the name of his grandsire, 30

the heart and hand of his sire, who of old, offering

to spy out the Danaan camp, dared to ask Achilles’

chariot as his guerdon; far other guerdon was it with

which Diomed requited his daring, and his hopes are set on

Achilles’ steeds no longer. Marking him at distance along 35

the plain, Turnus first sends after him a flying spear

through the intervening space, then stops the car and dismounts,

comes on the wretch gasping and laid low, and

setting his foot on his neck, wrests the sword from his hand,

bathes it flashing deep in his throat, and thus accompanies

the blow: “Lie there, Trojan, and measure the Hesperian

soil you came to invade: such are their guerdons who

draw their swords on me; so build they up their city.” 5

Then with a spear throw he sends Asbutes to join the dead.

Chloreus and Sybaris and Dares and Thersilochus, Thymœtes

too, thrown off by a restiff horse. As when the

blast of Thracian Boreas roars on the deep Ægean and

drives the billows to the shore, wherever the winds push 10

on, the clouds scurry over the sky, so when Turnus cleaves

his path, the ranks give way, the armies turn in rout; the

motion bears him along, and the gale which blows on the

car tosses his flickering crest. Phegeus, indignant at his

overweening onset, meets the car and grasping the bridle 15

wrenches aside the foaming jaws of the impetuous steeds.

While he is dragged along clinging to the yoke, the broad

spear-head reaches his unguarded breast, cleaves the two-plated

corslet, and tastes the surface of the flesh. Yet he,

his shield before him, kept fronting and threatening the 20

foe, and protecting himself with his drawn sword, when

the wheel careering onward strikes and flings him on the

ground, and Turnus with a sweep of his blade between

the bottom of the helmet and the breastplate’s topmost

rim has lopped the head and left the trunk to welter. 25

While Turnus thus is dealing havoc over the field,

Mnestheus, true Achates, and Ascanius have helped Æneas

to the camp, all bleeding, and staying his halting steps

by the help of a spear. There he frets and struggles to

pull out the broken shaft, and calls for help the readiest 30

way, bidding them enlarge the wound with a broad sword,

cut the weapon’s lodgment to the bottom, and send him

to combat again. And now at his side was Iapis, son of

Iasus, dearest of mankind to Phœbus, he to whom the

god in his passionate fondness would fain have given his 35

own function, his own hand’s cunning, the augur’s insight,

the lyre, the weapons of archery; but he, wishing

to lengthen out the span of his bed-rid sire, chose rather

to know the virtue of simples and the laws of the healing

art, and to practise in silence an unambitious craft.

There stood Æneas, fretting impatiently, propped on his

massy spear, with a warrior concourse about him, and

Iulus all in tears, yet himself unmoved by their sorrow. 5

The aged leech, his garments swathed round him in

Pæon’s fashion, is plying busily the healing hand and

Phœbus’ sovereign remedies all to no end, all to no end

pulling at the dart and griping the steel with the pincer.

No Fortune guides the course of skill, no patron Phœbus 10

lends his aid; and meanwhile the fierce alarms of the field

grow louder and louder, and the mischief is nearer at

hand. They see dust-clouds propping the sky, the horsemen

gallop in, darts fall thick in the midst of the camp,

and heavenward mounts the cruel din of warriors battling 15

or falling in the stern affray:—when, lo! Venus, struck

to the heart by her son’s undeserved suffering, with a

mother’s care plucks dittany[284] from Cretan Ida, a plant

with downy leaves and a purple flower: wild goats know

that simple well, if the flying arrow should lodge in their 20

flesh. Veiled by a dim cloud, the goddess brings it down;

with it she impregnates the spring water gleaming in the

caldron, imparting unseen powers, and sprinkles ambrosia’s[285]

healthful juice and fragrant panacea. The old

man rinsed the wound with the water so transformed, all 25

unwitting, and in a moment all pain was fled from the

frame, and the blood was stanched in the wound. The

arrow obeys the hand, and falls unforced, and strength is

restored as before. “Quick! give the warrior his arms!

why so tardy?” cries Iapis, himself the first to stir up 30

the martial spirit. “No human aid has done this, no

power of leech-craft; it is not my hand, Æneas, that

restores you; a mightier power than man’s is at work,

sending you back to mightier deeds.” The chief, greedy

for the fight, has cased his legs in gold, chafing at delay 35

and brandishing his spear. Soon as the shield is fitted

to his side, the cuirass to his back, he clasps Ascanius to

his mailed breast, and kissing his lips through the helmet

addresses him thus: “Learn valour from me, my son,

and genuine hardihood, success from others. To-day it is

my hand that shall shield you in war and lead you through

the walks of honour; be it your care, when your age has

ripened into manhood, to bear the past in mind, seek 5

patterns among those of your own blood, and be stirred

to action by Æneas your sire and Hector your uncle.”

So having said, he passed towering through the gate,

a huge spear quivering in his hand: Antheus and Mnestheus

close their ranks and rush forth, and the whole 10

multitude streams from the empty camp. The field is

clouded by blinding dust, and earth throbs and shudders

with the tramp of feet. Turnus saw them coming towards

him from their battlements, the Ausonians saw, and a

cold shudder ran through their vitals: first before all the 15

Latians Juturna heard and knew the sound and shrank

back in terror. As a storm-cloud bursting through the

sky sweeps down to earth along the main: hapless husbandmen

know it ere it comes, and shudder at heart;

yes, it will bring havoc to their trees, devastation to their 20

crops, will lay all low far and wide; the winds fly before

it and waft the sound to the shore: with as strong a rush

the Rhœteian chief sweeps his army full on the foe; they

close in firm masses and form severally at his side. Thymbræus’

sword cuts down mighty Osiris, Mnestheus slays 25

Archetius, Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens; falls too the

augur Tolumnius, the first to fling his javelin at the

enemy. The din mounts to the sky, and the Rutulians

routed in turn fly through the plains in a whirlwind of

dust. The hero himself neither stoops to slaughter the 30

flying nor encounter such as would fain meet him foot to

foot, weapon in hand: Turnus alone he tracks winding

through the thick darkness, him alone he challenges to

combat. The terror struck Juturna’s manly mind: she

plucks from his seat Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, as he 35

drives the horses, and leaves him fallen at distance behind

the car: herself takes his place and handles the

flowing rein, assuming all that Metiscus had, voice and

person and armour. Like a black swallow that flies

through the house of some wealthy man and traverses

the lofty hail, in quest of scraps of food for her twittering

nestlings; now she is heard in the empty cloisters, now

about the watertanks; so drives Juturna through the 5

thick of the foe, and flies on rapid wheel from spot to

spot, now here, now there she gives a glimpse of her victorious

brother, yet never lets him stop and fight, but

whirls far away in the distance. Æneas for his part

winds through sinuous paths in hope to meet him, tracks 10

his steps, and shouts to him aloud across the weltering

ranks. Oft as he spies out the foe and tries by running

to match the horses’ winged speed, each time Juturna

wheels the car aside. What can he do? he tosses in aimless

ebb and flow, thoughts distracting his mind this 15

way and that:—when lo! Messapus, with sudden movement,

happening to carry two limber spear-shafts tipped

with steel, levels one at him and flings it true to its mark.

Æneas stopped and gathered his arms about him, sinking

on his knee; yet the fierce spear took the top of the 20

helmet and struck the crest from the cone. Then at last

his wrath mounts high; and under the duresse of treachery,

as he sees the steeds and chariot whirling away from him,

after many an appeal to Jove and the altars of the violated

league, he falls on the ranks before him, and fanned 25

to dreadful vengeance by the War-god’s breath, lets loose

a carnage cruel and unsparing, and flings the reins on the

neck of his passion.