The turn of Butes and Orsilochus came next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain: yet Butes with her javelin-point she clove from rearward, 'twixt the hauberk and the helm, just where the horseman's neck showed white, and where from shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield. From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly, through a wide circle sweeping, craftily taking the inside track, pursuing so her own pursuer; then she raised herself to her full height, and through the warrior's helm drove to his very skull with doubling blows of her strong battle-axe,—while he implored her mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brain spilt o'er his face. Next in her pathway came— but shrank in startled fear—the warrior son of Aunus, haunter of the Apennine, not least of the Ligurians ere his doom cut short a life of lies. He, knowing well no flight could save him from the shock of arms nor turn the royal maid's attack, began with words of cunning and insidious guile: “What glory is it if a girl be bold, on sturdy steed depending? Fly me not! But, venturing with me on this equal ground, gird thee to fight on foot. Soon shalt thou see which one of us by windy boast achieves a false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangs of keenest fury stung, gave o'er her steed in charge of a companion, and opposed her foe at equal vantage, falchion drawn, on foot, and, though her shield no blazon bore, of fear incapable. But the warrior fled, thinking his trick victorious, and rode off full speed, with reins reversed,—his iron heel goading his charger's flight. Camilla cried: “Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heart puffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayed thy father's slippery ways; nor shall thy trick bring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.” Herewith on winged feet that virgin bold flew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein, and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foe in bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk, dark bird of omen, from his mountain crag pursues on pinions strong a soaring dove to distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws, holds tight and rips,—while through celestial air the torn, ensanguined plumage floats along. But now not blindly from Olympian throne the Sire of gods and men observant saw how sped the day. Then to the conflict dire the god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King, goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rode through slaughter wide and legions in retreat, and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry: he called each man by name, and toward the foe drove back the routed lines. “What terrors now, Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage, have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vile unmans your hearts, that now a woman's arm pursues ye and this scattered host confounds? Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wear your futile swords? Not slackly do ye join the ranks of Venus in a midnight war; or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus call your dancing feet, right venturesome ye fly to banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal, what ardor then! Or if your flattering priest begins the revel, and to Iofty groves fat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!” So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning death dashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven, he sought out Venulus, and, grappling him with one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe, and, clasping strongly to his giant breast, exultant bore away. The shouting rose to heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way, as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flew bearing the full-armed man; then, breaking off the point of his own spear, he pried a way through the seam'd armor for the mortal wound; the other, struggling, thrust back from his throat the griping hand, full force to force opposing. As when a golden eagle high in air knits to a victim—snake his clinging feet and deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back, the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scales and stretches high his hissing head; whereat the eagle with hooked beak the more doth rend her writhing foe, and with swift stroke of wing lashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranks of Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey. The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to view their king's example and successful war. Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling line around Camilla's path, his crafty spear seeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maid sped furious to the battle, Arruns there in silence dogged her footsteps and pursued; or where triumphant from her fallen foes she backward drew, the warrior stealthily turned his swift reins that way: from every side he circled her, and scanned his vantage here or vantage there, his skilful javelin stubbornly shaking. But it soon befell that Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele, shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms, and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robe o'erwrought with feathery scales of bronze and gold; while he, in purples of fine foreign stain, bore light Gortynian shafts and Lycian bow; his bow was gold; a golden casque he wore upon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak, all folds of rustling cambric, was enclasped in glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gay were broidered, and the oriental garb swathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied, (Perchance she fain on temple walls would hang the Trojan prize, or in such captured gold her own fair shape array), she gave mad chase, and reckless through the ranks her prey pursued, desiring, woman-like, the splendid spoil. Then from his ambush Arruns seized at last the fatal moment and let speed his shaft, thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers: “Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guard Soracte's hallowed steep, whom we revere first of thy worshippers, for thee is fed the heap of burning pine; for thee we pass through the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure, and deep in glowing embers plant our feet. O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spear our foul disgrace put by. I do not ask for plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name, when yonder virgin falls; let honor's crown be mine for other deeds. But if my stroke that curse and plague destroy, may I unpraised safe to the cities of my sires return.” Apollo heard and granted half the prayer, but half upon the passing breeze he threw: granting his votary he should confound Camilla by swift death; but 't was denied the mountain-fatherland once more to see, or safe return,—that prayer th' impetuous winds swept stormfully away. Soon as the spear whizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air, the Volscians all turned eager thought and eyes toward their Queen. She only did not heed that windy roar, nor weapon dropped from heaven, till in her bare, protruded breast the spear drank, deeply driven, of her virgin blood. Her terror-struck companians swiftly throng around her, and uplift their sinking Queen. But Arruns, panic-stricken more than all, makes off, half terror and half joy, nor dares hazard his lance again, nor dares oppose a virgin's arms. As creeps back to the hills in pathless covert ere his foes pursue, from shepherd slain or mighty bull laid low, some wolf, who, now of his bold trespass ware, curls close against his paunch a quivering tail and to the forest tries: so Arruns speeds from sight of men in terror, glad to fly, and hides him in the crowd. But his keen spear dying Camilla from her bosom drew, though the fixed barb of deeply-wounding steel clung to the rib. She sank to earth undone, her cold eyes closed in death, and from her cheeks the roses fled. With failing breath she called on Acca—who of all her maiden peers was chiefly dear and shared her heart's whole pain— and thus she spoke: “O Acca, sister mine, I have been strong till now. The cruel wound consumes me, and my world is growing dark. Haste thee to Turnus! Tell my dying words! 'T is he must bear the battle and hold back the Trojan from our city wall. Farewell!” So saying, her fingers from the bridle-rein unclasped, and helpless to the earth she fell; then, colder grown, she loosed her more and more out of the body's coil; she gave to death her neck, her drooping head, and ceased to heed her war-array. So fled her spirit forth with wrath and moaning to the world below. Then clamor infinite uprose and smote the golden stars, as round Camilla slain the battle newly raged. To swifter charge the gathered Trojans ran, with Tuscan lords and King Evander's troops of Arcady. Fair Opis, keeping guard for Trivia in patient sentry on a lofty hill, beheld unterrified the conflict's rage. Yet when, amid the frenzied shouts of soldiery, she saw from far Camilla pay the doom of piteous death, with deep-drawn voice of sight she thus complained: “O virgin, woe is me! Too much, too much, this agony of thine, to expiate that thou didst lift thy spear for wounding Troy . It was no shield in war, nor any vantage to have kept thy vow to chaste Diana in the thorny wild. Our maiden arrows at thy shoulder slung availed thee not! Yet will our Queen divine not leave unhonored this thy dying day, nor shall thy people let thy death remain a thing forgot, nor thy bright name appear a glory unavenged. Whoe'er he be that marred thy body with the mortal wound shall die as he deserves.” Beneath that hill an earth-built mound uprose, the tomb of King Dercennus, a Laurentine old, by sombre ilex shaded: thither hied the fair nymph at full speed, and from the mound looked round for Arruns. When his shape she saw in glittering armor vainly insolent, “Whither so fast?” she cried. “This way, thy path! This fatal way approach, and here receive thy reward for Camilla! Thou shalt fall, vile though thou art, by Dian's shaft divine.” She said; and one swift-coursing arrow took from golden quiver, like a maid of Thrace , and stretched it on her bow with hostile aim, withdrawing far, till both the tips of horn together bent, and, both hands poising well, the left outreached to touch the barb of steel, the right to her soft breast the bowstring drew: the hissing of the shaft, the sounding air, Arruns one moment heard, as to his flesh the iron point clung fast. But his last groan his comrades heeded not, and let him lie, scorned and forgotten, on the dusty field, while Opis soared to bright Olympian air. Camilla's light-armed troop, its virgin chief now fallen, were the first to fly; in flight the panic-stricken Rutule host is seen and Acer bold; his captains in dismay with shattered legions from the peril fly, and goad their horses to the city wall. Not one sustains the Trojan charge, or stands in arms against the swift approach of death. Their bows unstrung from drooping shoulder fall, and clatter of hoof-beats shakes the crumbling ground. On to the city in a blinding cloud the dust uprolls. From watch-towers Iooking forth, the women smite their breasts and raise to heaven shrill shouts of fear. Those fliers who first passed the open gates were followed by the foe, routed and overwhelmed. They could not fly a miserable death, but were struck down in their own ancient city, or expired before the peaceful shrines of hearth and home. Then some one barred the gates. They dared not now give their own people entrance, and were deaf to all entreaty. Woeful deaths ensued, both of the armed defenders of the gate, and of the foe in arms. The desperate band, barred from the city in the face and eyes of their own weeping parents, either dropped with headlong and inevitable plunge into the moat below; or, frantic, blind, battered with beams against the stubborn door and columns strong. Above in conflict wild even the women (who for faithful love of home and country schooled them to be brave Camilla's way) rained weapons from the walls, and used oak-staves and truncheons shaped in flame, as if, well-armed in steel, each bosom bold would fain in such defence be first to die.