Meanwhile, sent forward from the Latin city, Horsemen were coming, while the legion rested Behind them on the plain, three hundred horsemen With word for Turnus, under their captain Volcens, All armed with shields and riding at the ready. They are near the camp, the wall, and in the distance See two men turning left along a pathway, And a helmet glittering among the shadows, Euryalus’ prize and foolishness. They notice At once, of course, and challenge. From the column Volcens cried out:--“Halt! Who goes there? Who are you? What are you doing in arms? Upon what mission?” No answer: flight to wood and trust in darkness. But the horsemen, fanning out, block every cross-road, Circle and screen each outlet. Wide with brambles And dark with holm-oak spreads the wood; the briars Fill it on every side, but the path glimmers In the rare intervals between the shadows. Euryalus is hindered by the branches, The darkness, and the spoil he carries; terror Makes him mistake the path. Nisus is clear, Reaching the site that later men called Alba, Where king Latinus had his lofty stables. He halts, looks back to find his friend: in vain. “Euryalus, Euryalus, where are you? Where have I lost you? How am I to follow Back through the tangled wood, the treacherous thickets? Euryalus, Euryalus!” He turns, Tries to retrace his step, is lost in the woods, And hears the horses, hears the shouts and signals As the pursuit comes closer, and he hears A cry, he sees Euryalus, dragged along Out of the treason of the night and darkness, Bewildered by the uproar, fighting vainly In the hands of Volcens’ squadron. There is nothing Nisus can do, or is there? With what arms, What force, redeem his friend? Or is it better To hurl himself to death, dash in, regardless, To glorious wounds? His spear is poised, his arm Drawn back; he looks to the moon on high, and prays:-- “Dear goddess, daughter of Latona, aid me, Pride of the stars and glory of the groves, If ever my father Hyrtacus brought honors In my name to the altar, if ever I Have brought gifts home from my own hunting, aid me! Let me confound that troop, direct my weapon!” The straining body flung the spear; it whistled Across the shadow of night, and Sulmo took it In his turned back; the point snaps off; it lodges With part of the splintered wood deep in the lungs. Sulmo goes down, his mouth spurts blood, his body Sobs, straining, in the gasp and chill and shudder Of a cold death. They look in all directions, See nothing. And another spear is flying, Fiercer this time. This pierces Tagus’ temples, Clings, warm, in the split brain. And Volcens rages, And cannot find the spearman, and his anger Has no sure place to go, but for his vengeance Turns on Euryalus, sword drawn, and rushing