The king of high Olympus thus made answer:-- “If it is only respite and reprieve You ask for this doomed youth, delay, postponement, If that is all, and you realize I know it, Take Turnus off by flight, snatch him from danger. That much you are permitted. But if, beneath the prayer, Some deeper hope lies hidden, if you are thinking The war might change entirely, then you nourish The silliest kind of dreaming.” Juno, weeping, Replied:--“But what if, in your heart, you granted The gift your speech refuses? What if Turnus Might still live on? No; heavy doom awaits him, Or else I am borne along in grievous error. I wish my fear were false and I deluded, And that the god, who has all power, would use it To change things for the better.” And, having spoken, She veiled herself with cloud, came down from heaven, Driving a storm before her, and sought Laurentum, The Trojan line, the Latin camp, and fashioned Out of a cloud, a hollow man, a figure Thin, weak, and curious to see, a phantom, A false Aeneas, dressed in Trojan armor, A mimic shield and crest, with unreal language, Voice without purpose, the image of a stride, Like the vain forms that flit when death is over, Like dreams that mock the drugged and drowsy senses. With arrogant joy this ghost went out parading Before the warriors’ ranks, brandishing weapons, Taunting and daring Turnus, who came on, Hurled from afar the whirring spear; the phantom Turned and made off, and Turnus, in confusion, Nourished an empty hope: Aeneas, he thought, Had turned away, was gone. “What now, Aeneas? Where do you flee? Do not desert the bride, The marriage chamber!” And he drew the sword Glittering as he challenged, and did not notice The winds sweep off his happiness. Near by, Moored to a shelf of rock, a ship was standing, Ladders let down, and gangplank set; a king Had sailed therein from Clusium. The ghost, The false Aeneas, hurrying, found shelter Deep in the hold, and Turnus followed after, Hot-foot through all delays, leaped onto the deck, And had no sooner reached the bow than Juno Broke off the mooring-lines, and the ship went scudding Over the yielding sea. The real Aeneas Kept calling Turnus to the fight, kept killing Any who crossed his path. But the frail image No longer sought a hiding-place, but swept High to the darker clouds, with Turnus riding The gale far out to seaward. Ignorant still, Ungrateful for reprieve, he looked to shore, Raising his hands to heaven, and praying:--“Father, What have I done, to be so tricked, so sullied? What am I being punished for? Where am I? Who am I, for that matter? Fugitive And coward, will I ever see again The camp, the walls? And all that band of heroes Who followed me and trusted me, I leave them