To him Latinus with unruffled mindthus made reply: “O youth surpassing brave!The more thy sanguinary valor burnsbeyond its wont, the more with toilsome careI ponder with just fear what chance may fall,weighing it well. Thy father Daunus' throne,and many a city by thy sword subdued,are still thy own. Latinus also boastsmuch golden treasure and a liberal hand.Other unwedded maids of noble stemin Latium and Laurentine land are found.Permit me, then, to tell thee without guilethings hard to utter; let them deeply fillthy listening soul. My sacred duty 'twasto plight my daughter's hand to nonesoe'erof all her earlier wooers—so declaredthe gods and oracles; but overcomeby love of thee, by thy dear, kindred blood,and by the sad eyes of my mournful Queen,I shattered every bond; I snatched awaythe plighted maiden from her destined lord,and took up impious arms. What evil caseupon that deed ensued, what hapless wars,thou knowest, since thyself dost chiefly bearthe cruel burden. In wide-ranging fighttwice-conquered, our own city scarce upholdsthe hope of Italy. Yon Tiber's wavestill runs warm with my people's blood; the plainsfar round us glisten with their bleaching bones.Why tell it o'er and o'er? What maddening dreamperverts my mind? If after Turnus slainI must for friendship of the Trojan sue,were it not better to suspend the fraywhile Turnus lives? For what will be the wordof thy Rutulian kindred—yea, of allItalia, if to death I give thee o'er—(Which Heaven avert!) because thou fain wouldst winmy daughter and be sworn my friend and son?Bethink thee what a dubious work is war;have pity on thy father's reverend years,who even now thy absence daily mournsin Ardea, his native land and thine.”But to this pleading Turnus' frenzied soulyields not at all, but rather blazes forthmore wildly, and his fever fiercer burnsbeneath the healer's hand. In answer he,soon as his passion gathered voice, began:“This keen solicitude for love of me,I pray, good sire, for love of me put by!And let me traffic in the just exchangeof death for glory. This right hand, O King,can scatter shafts not few, nor do I wielduntempered steel. Whene'er I make a woundblood follows. For my foeman when we meetwill find no goddess-mother near, with handto hide him in her woman's skirt of cloud,herself in dim, deluding shade concealed.”

But now the Queen, whose whole heart shrank in fearfrom these new terms of duel, wept aloud,and like one dying clasped her fiery son:“O Turnus, by these tears-if in thy heartthou honorest Amata still—O thouwho art of our distressful, dark old agethe only hope and peace, the kingly nameand glory of Latinus rests in thee;thou art the mighty prop whereon is stayedour falling house. One favor I implore:give o'er this fight with Trojans. In such strifethy destined doom is destined to be mineby the same fatal stroke. For in that hourthis hated life shall cease, nor will I lookwith slave's eyes on Aeneas as my son.”Lavinia heard her mother's voice, and tearso'erflowed her scarlet cheek, where blushes spreadlike flame along her warm, young face and brow:as when the Indian ivory must wearensanguined crimson stain, or lilies palemingled with roses seem to blush, such huesher virgin features bore; and love's desiredisturbed his breast, as, gazing on the maid,his martial passion fiercer flamed; whereonin brief speech he addressed the Queen: “No tears!No evil omen, mother, I implore!Make me no sad farewells, as I departto the grim war-god's game! Can Turnus' handdelay death's necessary coming? Go,Idmon, my herald, to the Phrygian King,and tell him this—a word not framed to please:soon as Aurora from her crimson carflushes to-morrow's sky, let him no moreagainst the Rutule lead the Teucrian line;let Teucrian swords and Rutule take repose,while with our own spilt blood we twain will makean end of war; on yonder mortal fieldlet each man woo Lavinia for his bride.”