Soon Turnus, reckless of the risk, leaped forth,upreached his whole height to his lifted sword,and struck: the Trojans and the Latins palecried mightily, and all eyes turned one wayexpectant. But the weak, perfidious swordbroke off, and as the blow descended, failedits furious master, whose sole succor nowwas flight; and swifter than the wind he flew.But, lo! a hilt of form and fashion strangelay in his helpless hand. For in his haste,when to the battle-field his team he drove,his father's sword forgotten (such the tale),he snatched Metiscus' weapon. This enduredto strike at Trojan backs, as he pursued,but when on Vulcan's armory divineits earthly metal smote, the brittle bladebroke off like ice, and o'er the yellow sandsin flashing fragments scattered. Turnus nowtakes mad flight o'er the distant plain, and windsin wavering gyration round and round;for Troy's close ring confines him, and one waya wide swamp lies, one way a frowning wall.

But lo! Aeneas—though the arrow's woundstill slackens him and oft his knees refusetheir wonted step—pursues infuriatehis quailing foe, and dogs him stride for stride.As when a stag-hound drives the baffled roeto torrent's edge (or where the flaunting snareof crimson feathers fearfully confines)and with incessant barking swift pursues;while through the snared copse or embankment highthe frightened creature by a thousand waysdoubles and turns; but that keen Umbrian houndwith wide jaws, undesisting, grasps his prey,or, thinking that he grasps it, snaps his teethcracking together, and deludes his rage,devouring empty air: then peal on pealthe cry of hunters bursts; the lake and shorereecho, and confusion fills the sky:—such was the flight of Turnus, who reviledthe Rutules as he fled, and loudly suedof each by name to fetch his own lost sword.Aeneas vowed destruction and swift deathto all who dared come near, and terrifiedtheir trembling souls with menace that his powerwould raze their city to the ground. Straightway,though wounded, he gave chase, and five times roundin circles ran; then winding left and rightcoursed the swift circles o'er. For, lo! the prizeis no light laurel or a youthful game:for Turnus' doom and death their race is run.

But haply in that place a sacred tree,a bitter-leaved wild-olive, once had grown,to Faunus dear, and venerated oftby mariners safe-rescued from the waves,who nailed their gifts thereon, or hung in airtheir votive garments to Laurentum's god.But, heeding not, the Teucrians had shornthe stem away, to clear the field for war.'T was here Aeneas' lance stuck fast; its speedhad driven it firmly inward, and it claveto the hard, clinging root. Anchises' sonbent o'er it, and would wrench his weapon free,and follow with a far-flung javelinthe swift out-speeding foe. But Turnus then,bewildered and in terror, cried aloud:“O Faunus, pity me and heed my prayer!Hold fast his weapon, O benignant Earth!If ere these hands have rendered offering due,where yon polluting Teucrians fight and slay.”He spoke; invoking succor of the god,with no Iost prayer. For tugging valiantlyand laboring long against the stubborn stem,Aeneas with his whole strength could but failto Ioose the clasping tree. While fiercely thushe strove and strained, Juturna once again,wearing the charioteer Metiscus' shape,ran to her brother's aid, restoring himhis own true sword. But Venus, wroth to seewhat license to the dauntless nymph was given,herself came near, and plucked from that deep rootthe javelin forth. So both with lofty mienstrode forth new-armed, new-hearted: one made boldby his good sword, the other, spear in hand,uptowered in wrath, and with confronting browsthey set them to the war-god's breathless game.

Meanwhile th' Olympian sovereign supremeto Juno speaks, as from an amber cloudthe strife she views: “My Queen, what end shall be?What yet remains? Thou seest Aeneas' namenumbered with tutelary gods of power;and well thou know'st what station in the skyhis starward destiny intends. What schemevexes thy bosom still? What stubborn hope,fostered in cloud and cold? O, was it wellto desecrate a god with mortal wound;or well (what were a nymph unhelped by thee?)to give back Turnus his lost sword, and lendstrength unavailing to the fallen brave?Give o'er, and to our supplication yield;let not such grief thy voiceless heart devour;nor from thy sweet lips let thy mournful careso oft assail my mind. For now is comethe last decisive day. Thy power availedto vex the Trojans upon land and sea,to wake abominable war, bring shameupon a royal house, and mix the songsof marriage and the grave: but further actI thee refuse.” Such was the word of Jove.Thus Saturn's daughter answered, drooping lowher brows divine: “Because, great Jove, I knewthy pleasure, I from yonder earth retiredand Turnus' cause, tho, with unwilling mind.Else shouldst thou not behold me at this hourUpon my solitary throne of airenduring fair and foul; I should be foundflame-girded on the battle's deadly verge,tempting the Teucrians to a hated war.Yea, 't was my motion thrust Juturna forthto help her hapless brother. I approved—to save his life—that she should be too bold;but bade no whirl of spear nor bending bow:I swear it by th' inexorable fountwhence flow the Stygian rivers, the sole seatwhere gods of light bow down in awful prayer.I yield me now; heart-sick I quit the war.But ask one boon, which in the book of fateis not denied; for Latium's good I sue,and high prerogatives of men that bethy kith and kin: when happy wedlock vows(aye, be it so!) shall join them by strong lawsof chartered peace, let not the Latins Iosetheir ancient, native name. Bid them not passfor Trojans, nor be hailed as Teucer's sons;no alien speech, no alien garb impose.Let it be Latium ever; let the lordsof Alba unto distant ages reign;let the strong, master blood of Rome receivethe manhood and the might of Italy.Troy perished: let its name and glory die!”The Author of mankind and all that is,smiling benignant, answered thus her plea:“Jove's sister true, and Saturn's second child,what seas of anger vex thy heart divine!But come, relinquish thy rash, fruitless rage:I give thee this desire, and yield to theefree submission. The Ausonian tribesshall keep the speech and customs of their sires;the name remains as now; the Teucrian race,abiding in the land, shall but infusethe mixture of its blood. I will bestowa league of worship, and to Latins giveone language only. From the mingled breeda people shall come forth whom thou shalt seesurpass all mortal men and even outviethe faithfulness of gods; for none that liveshall render to thy name an equal praise.”So Juno bowed consent, and let her willbe changed, as with much comfort in her breastshe left Olympus and her haunt of cloud.

After these things Jove gave his kingly mindto further action, that he might forthwithcut off Juturna from her brother's cause.Two plagues there be, called Furies, which were spawnedat one birth from the womb of wrathful Nightwith dread Megaera, phantom out of hell;and of their mother's gift, each Fury wearsgrim-coiling serpents and tempestuous wings.These at Jove's throne attend, and watch the doorsof that stern King—to whet the edge of fearfor wretched mortals, when the King of godshurls pestilence and death, or terrifiesoffending nations with the scourge of war.'T was one of these which Jove sent speeding downfrom his ethereal seat, and bade her crossthe pathway of Juturna for a sign.Her wings she spread, and earthward seemed to rideupon a whirling storm. As when some shaft,with Parthian poison tipped or Cretan gall,a barb of death, shoots cloudward from the bow,and hissing through the dark hastes forth unseen:so earthward flew that daughter of the night.Soon as she spied the Teucrians in arrayand Turnus' lines, she shrivelled to the shapeof that small bird which on lone tombs and towerssits perching through the midnight, and prolongsin shadow and deep gloom her troubling cry.In such disguise the Fury, screaming shrill,flitted in Turnus' face, and with her wingssmote on his hollow shield. A strange affrightpalsied his every limb; each several hairlifted with horror, and his gasping voicedied on his lips. But when Juturna knewfrom far the shrieking fiend's infernal wing,she loosed her tresses, and their beauty tore,to tell a sister's woe; with clenching handsshe marred her cheeks and beat her naked breast. “What remedy or help, my Turnus, nowis in a sister's power? What way remainsfor stubborn me? Or with what further guilethy life prolong? What can my strength opposeto this foul thing? I quit the strife at last.Withdraw thy terror from my fearful eyes,thou bird accurst! The tumult of thy wingsI know full well, and thy death-boding call.The harsh decrees of that large-minded JoveI plainly see. Is this the price he paysfor my lost maidenhood? Why flatter mewith immortality, and snatch awaymy property of death? What boon it wereto end this grief this hour, and hie awayto be my brother's helpmeet in his grave!I, an immortal? O, what dear delightis mine, sweet brother, living without thee?O, where will earth yawn deep enough and wideto hide a goddess with the ghosts below?”She spoke; and veiled in glistening mantle grayher mournful brow; then in her stream divinethe nymph sank sighing to its utmost cave.