And Evander Was wakened by the kindly light of morning And bird-song under the eaves, and the old man rose, Donned simple tunic and sandals, and hung on His simple sword, and over his shoulders twisted The panther hide, out of the way of the hilt. Two hounds were all his bodyguard; he came, So, to Aeneas’ cabin; he remembered His words and promised service, found his guest An early riser also; hand met hand, And soon companions joined them, young prince Pallas, Loyal Achates. They stroll a while, then settle Themselves for conversation, and Evander Is first to speak:--“Great captain of the Trojans, I cannot, while you live, consider Troy A beaten town, I cannot see her people As anything but victors. I am sorry Our power to help is meager. On one side A river hems us in, and on the other Rutulian armies thunder at our walls. Still, I can find you, or I think so, allies, Great people, an encampment rich in kingdoms, An unexpected aid. The fates have brought you To the right place. Not far away, Agylla, A city built of ancient stone, lies waiting, A town the Lydians founded; you know the race, Renowned in war. It was a prosperous city For many years, until Mezentius ruled it, A cruel, arrogant man, sadist and savage. God pay him back in kind! I cannot tell you All his foul deeds: this will suffice;--he fastened Live men to dead men, strapped their hands together, Tied face to face, and killed them, slowly, slowly, In the waste and stain and clasp of that long death. They suffered long, his subjects, but at last They rose in arms against him, his mad household, Hurled fire to his roof-top, slaughtered his companions. He fled that ruin to Rutulian fields, Where Turnus’ weapons shielded him. Now all Etruria, risen in arms, demands, With threat of war, the king for punishment, And you shall be the leader of those thousands Who throng the shore with ships, whose cry is _Forward!_ But an old prophet holds them back, those warriors, The pride and glory of an ancient people, Whom a just grievance and a righteous anger Inflames against Mezentius. _It is not fated_, He says, _for any native-born Italian To tame a race so proud. Choose foreign leaders!_ And so the Etruscan battle-lines have settled Unwarlike on the plain, through heaven’s warning. Tarchon himself has sent me envoys, bearing The crown and sceptre, urging me to his camp, Bidding me take the throne. But cold old age, And years too thin for battle, these begrudge me The high command. I would send my son, but Pallas Comes from a Sabine mother; he is partly A native-born Italian. You, Aeneas, Possess the proper strength, the proper lineage, The summons of the gods. Take up the burden!