No rumor, but a runner from the battle Comes to Aeneas, of his men endangered, At the edge of death: they are giving way, the Trojans, There is not much time. Aeneas draws the sword; Aeneas, burning, cuts a pathway through The nearest lines; it is Turnus he is seeking, Turnus the arrogant, slaughter fresh upon him. Aeneas, all imagination, sees Pallas, Evander, and the friendly tables To which he came, a stranger; hears the pledge Given and taken. For another pledge He seizes four young men, the sons of Sulmo, And four whom Ufens fathered; he takes them, living, For later sacrifice, to dye with blood The funeral pyre of Pallas. From afar, He aimed his spear at Magus, but that warrior Ducked under it cleverly, and the shaft flew over, And Magus was a suppliant at his knees:-- “I beg you, by the shades of great Anchises, By all the hope you have of young Iulus, Spare me, a father and a son, for son And father. I have property and treasure, A lofty house, talents of gold and silver Buried in safety, crude and minted metal. One life like mine is nothing to the Trojans: What difference will it make?” “Save for your sons,” Aeneas answered, “all that gold and silver. Turnus broke off all bargain-talk, the killer, When Pallas fell. The shades of great Anchises Know this, my growing son, Iulus, knows it.” His left hand grasped the helmet; Magus felt His head drawn back, he felt throat muscles tighten, And, as he pleaded still, he felt the sword Deep driven to the hilt. A son of Haemon Was standing not far off, the holy fillets Around his temples, gleaming in the robes He wore as priest of Phoebus and Diana, Bright in his glittering arms. He fled Aeneas Across the field, in vain escape, and stumbled, And the Trojan hero, standing over his body, Struck down, and killed, and gave him a cloak of darkness, And Serestus took his armor, spoil for Mars.