So Turnus gave excited orders: quickly, The rush to the walls was on, all over the city. Latinus left the council, sorely troubled In that sad hour, put off the plan he hoped for, Blaming himself in that he had not welcomed, More eagerly, his Trojan son Aeneas For the welfare of the city. And his men Were digging trenches, trundling stones, or setting Stakes in the ground, and pitfalls; and the trumpet Sounded for bloody war; and boys and mothers Filled in the gaps along the walls. Amata, The queen, with a great throng of matrons, rode To Pallas’ temple on the heights; beside her The girl Lavinia, cause of all that evil, Went with head bowed and downcast eyes. The women Climbed on, and made the temple steam with incense, And from the threshold chanted sorrowful prayers:-- “O mighty power in war, Tritonian virgin, Break off his spear, lay low the Trojan robber, Stretch him in death before our lofty portals!” And Turnus, all impatience, hot for action, Buckles his armor, the ruddy breastplate gleaming Bright with bronze scales, the greaves on fire with gold, The sword snapped to the baldric. Still bareheaded, A golden blaze, he runs down from the fortress, Exulting in his spirit: he has the foe By the throat already, in imagination. You see that fire when a stallion breaks his tether, Runs from the stable, free at last, a monarch Of all the plain, and makes for the green pastures Where mares are grazing, or splashes into the river Out of sheer joy, and tosses his mane, and nickers, And the light plays across his neck and shoulders.