And Pallas flung the spear, full force, and drew The flashing blade; the shaft sped on, it struck Where mail and shoulder met; piercing the shield It grazed the side of Turnus. And he poised His long oak shaft with the sharp iron, hurled it, And a taunt went with the toss:--“Which pierces deeper, Your spear or mine?” So, through the plates of iron, The plates of bronze, the overlapping leather, Through the shield’s center drives the quivering point, Through stubborn mail, through the great breast. In vain Pallas pulls out the dart, warm from the wound. His blood, his life, come with it, and he falls Doubled upon his wound; the armor clangs Over his body; he strikes the hostile earth, Dying, with bloody mouth. Above him Turnus, Rejoicing, cries:--“Arcadians, take notice, And let Evander know, I am sending back Pallas as he deserved. Whatever honor A tomb affords, whatever comfort lies In burial, that much I grant, and freely: A costly welcome, Evander’s to Aeneas!” His left foot on the body, he ripped loose The belt’s great weight, with the story of a murder Carved in its metal, the young men foully murdered On the bridal night, the chamber drenched in blood, As Clonus, son of Eurytus, engraved it. And Turnus gloried in the spoil, exulting-- O ignorant mortal mind, which never knows Of fate or doom ahead, or how, in fortune, To keep in decent bounds! A time is coming When Turnus would pay dearly, could he purchase Pallas unharmed again, would view with loathing Those spoils, that day. But now, with tears and weeping, Comrades lift Pallas to the shield and take him, Great sorrow and great glory, to his father. One day of war, one day of death, but victims, And many, for Rutulians to remember.