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.