The turn of Butes and Orsilochuscame next, who were the Trojans, hugest twain:yet Butes with her javelin-point she clovefrom rearward, 'twixt the hauberk and the helm,just where the horseman's neck showed white, and wherefrom shoulder leftward slung the light-weight shield.From swift Orsilochus she feigned to fly,through a wide circle sweeping, craftilytaking the inside track, pursuing soher own pursuer; then she raised herselfto her full height, and through the warrior's helmdrove to his very skull with doubling blowsof her strong battle-axe,—while he imploredher mercy with loud prayers: his cloven brainspilt o'er his face. Next in her pathway came—but shrank in startled fear—the warrior sonof Aunus, haunter of the Apennine,not least of the Ligurians ere his doomcut short a life of lies. He, knowing wellno flight could save him from the shock of armsnor turn the royal maid's attack, beganwith 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 seewhich one of us by windy boast achievesa false renown.” He spoke; but she, to pangsof keenest fury stung, gave o'er her steedin charge of a companion, and opposedher 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 offfull speed, with reins reversed,—his iron heelgoading his charger's flight. Camilla cried:“Ligurian cheat! In vain thy boastful heartpuffs thee so large; in vain thou hast essayedthy father's slippery ways; nor shall thy trickbring thee to guileful Aunus safely home.”Herewith on winged feet that virgin boldflew past the war-horse, seized the streaming rein,and, fronting him, took vengeance on her foein bloody strokes: with not less ease a hawk,dark bird of omen, from his mountain cragpursues on pinions strong a soaring doveto distant cloud, and, clutching with hooked claws,holds tight and rips,—while through celestial airthe torn, ensanguined plumage floats along.

But now not blindly from Olympian thronethe Sire of gods and men observant sawhow sped the day. Then to the conflict direthe god thrust Tarchon forth, the Tyrrhene King,goading the warrior's rage. So Tarchon rodethrough slaughter wide and legions in retreat,and roused the ranks with many a wrathful cry:he called each man by name, and toward the foedrove back the routed lines. “What terrors now,Tuscan cowards, dead to noble rage,have seized ye? or what laggard sloth and vileunmans your hearts, that now a woman's armpursues ye and this scattered host confounds?Why dressed in steel, or to what purpose wearyour futile swords? Not slackly do ye jointhe ranks of Venus in a midnight war;or when fantastic pipes of Bacchus callyour dancing feet, right venturesome ye flyto banquets and the flowing wine—what zeal,what ardor then! Or if your flattering priestbegins the revel, and to Iofty grovesfat flesh of victims bids ye haste away!”So saying, his steed he spurred, and scorning deathdashed into the mid-fray, where, frenzy-driven,he sought out Venulus, and, grappling himwith one hand, from the saddle snatched his foe,and, clasping strongly to his giant breast,exultant bore away. The shouting roseto heaven, and all the Latins gazed his way,as o'er the plain the fiery Tarchon flewbearing the full-armed man; then, breaking offthe point of his own spear, he pried a waythrough the seam'd armor for the mortal wound;the other, struggling, thrust back from his throatthe griping hand, full force to force opposing.As when a golden eagle high in airknits to a victim—snake his clinging feetand deeply-thrusting claws; but, coiling back,the wounded serpent roughens his stiff scalesand stretches high his hissing head; whereatthe eagle with hooked beak the more doth rendher writhing foe, and with swift stroke of winglashes the air: so Tarchon, from the ranksof Tibur's sons, triumphant snatched his prey.The Tuscans rallied now, well pleased to viewtheir king's example and successful war.Then Arruns, marked for doom, made circling linearound Camilla's path, his crafty spearseeking its lucky chance. Where'er the maidsped furious to the battle, Arruns therein silence dogged her footsteps and pursued;or where triumphant from her fallen foesshe backward drew, the warrior stealthilyturned his swift reins that way: from every sidehe circled her, and scanned his vantage hereor vantage there, his skilful javelinstubbornly shaking. But it soon befellthat Chloreus, once a priest of Cybele,shone forth in far-resplendent Phrygian arms,and urged a foaming steed, which wore a robeo'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 woreupon his priestly brow; the saffron cloak,all folds of rustling cambric, was enclaspedin glittering gold; his skirts and tunics gaywere broidered, and the oriental garbswathed his whole leg. Him when the maiden spied,(Perchance she fain on temple walls would hangthe Trojan prize, or in such captured goldher 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 lastthe fatal moment and let speed his shaft,thus uttering his vow to heavenly powers:“Chief of the gods, Apollo, who dost guardSoracte's hallowed steep, whom we reverefirst of thy worshippers, for thee is fedthe heap of burning pine; for thee we passthrough the mid-blaze in sacred zeal secure,and deep in glowing embers plant our feet.O Sire Omnipotent, may this my spearour foul disgrace put by. I do not askfor plunder, spoils, or trophies in my name,when yonder virgin falls; let honor's crownbe mine for other deeds. But if my strokethat curse and plague destroy, may I unpraisedsafe 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 confoundCamilla by swift death; but 't was deniedthe mountain-fatherland once more to see,or safe return,—that prayer th' impetuous windsswept stormfully away. Soon as the spearwhizzed from his hand, straight-speeding on the air,the Volscians all turned eager thought and eyestoward their Queen. She only did not heedthat windy roar, nor weapon dropped from heaven,till in her bare, protruded breast the speardrank, deeply driven, of her virgin blood.Her terror-struck companians swiftly throngaround her, and uplift their sinking Queen.But Arruns, panic-stricken more than all,makes off, half terror and half joy, nor dareshazard his lance again, nor dares opposea virgin's arms. As creeps back to the hillsin 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 tailand to the forest tries: so Arruns speedsfrom sight of men in terror, glad to fly,and hides him in the crowd. But his keen speardying Camilla from her bosom drew,though the fixed barb of deeply-wounding steelclung to the rib. She sank to earth undone,her cold eyes closed in death, and from her cheeksthe roses fled. With failing breath she calledon Acca—who of all her maiden peerswas 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 woundconsumes me, and my world is growing dark.Haste thee to Turnus! Tell my dying words!'T is he must bear the battle and hold backthe Trojan from our city wall. Farewell!”So saying, her fingers from the bridle-reinunclasped, and helpless to the earth she fell;then, colder grown, she loosed her more and moreout of the body's coil; she gave to deathher neck, her drooping head, and ceased to heedher war-array. So fled her spirit forthwith wrath and moaning to the world below.Then clamor infinite uprose and smotethe golden stars, as round Camilla slainthe battle newly raged. To swifter chargethe gathered Trojans ran, with Tuscan lordsand King Evander's troops of Arcady.

Fair Opis, keeping guard for Triviain patient sentry on a lofty hill, beheldunterrified the conflict's rage. Yet when,amid the frenzied shouts of soldiery,she saw from far Camilla pay the doomof piteous death, with deep-drawn voice of sightshe thus complained: “O virgin, woe is me!Too much, too much, this agony of thine,to expiate that thou didst lift thy spearfor wounding Troy. It was no shield in war,nor any vantage to have kept thy vowto chaste Diana in the thorny wild.Our maiden arrows at thy shoulder slungavailed thee not! Yet will our Queen divinenot leave unhonored this thy dying day,nor shall thy people let thy death remaina thing forgot, nor thy bright name appeara glory unavenged. Whoe'er he bethat marred thy body with the mortal woundshall die as he deserves.” Beneath that hillan earth-built mound uprose, the tombof King Dercennus, a Laurentine old,by sombre ilex shaded: thither hiedthe fair nymph at full speed, and from the moundlooked round for Arruns. When his shape she sawin glittering armor vainly insolent,“Whither so fast?” she cried. “This way, thy path!This fatal way approach, and here receivethy reward for Camilla! Thou shalt fall,vile though thou art, by Dian's shaft divine.”She said; and one swift-coursing arrow tookfrom golden quiver, like a maid of Thrace,and stretched it on her bow with hostile aim,withdrawing far, till both the tips of horntogether 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 fleshthe iron point clung fast. But his last groanhis 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 chiefnow fallen, were the first to fly; in flightthe panic-stricken Rutule host is seenand Acer bold; his captains in dismaywith shattered legions from the peril fly,and goad their horses to the city wall.Not one sustains the Trojan charge, or standsin 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 cloudthe dust uprolls. From watch-towers Iooking forth,the women smite their breasts and raise to heavenshrill shouts of fear. Those fliers who first passedthe open gates were followed by the foe,routed and overwhelmed. They could not flya miserable death, but were struck downin their own ancient city, or expiredbefore the peaceful shrines of hearth and home.Then some one barred the gates. They dared not nowgive their own people entrance, and were deafto 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 eyesof their own weeping parents, either droppedwith headlong and inevitable plungeinto the moat below; or, frantic, blind,battered with beams against the stubborn doorand columns strong. Above in conflict wildeven the women (who for faithful loveof home and country schooled them to be braveCamilla's way) rained weapons from the walls,and used oak-staves and truncheons shaped in flame,as if, well-armed in steel, each bosom boldwould fain in such defence be first to die.