And meantime, High in the halls of heaven, Latona’s daughter Was talking to a nymph of hers, a maiden Of her devoted company, named Opis. Diana’s words were sorrowful:--“Camilla Is going forth to cruel war, O maiden, Our soldier, all in vain, and dearer to me Than all the other girls; she has loved me long; It is no impulsive whim that moves her spirit. Perhaps you know the story--how her father, Metabus, ruler of an ancient city, Became a tyrant, and his people drove him In hatred from Privernum, and he fled Through war and battles, taking as companion To share his exile the little infant daughter, Camilla, she was called, after her mother Whose name was not so different, Casmilla. So he was going on, toward ridge and woodland, Long roads to loneliness, holding his daughter Before him on his breast, and weapons flying From every side against them, and the Volscians Spreading the net of soldiers wide to catch them. But Metabus went on, and came to a river Out of its banks, the swollen Amasenus Foaming in flood from cloudburst. Could he swim it? He thought so, but he checked himself; he feared For the dear load he carried. He did some thinking, And suddenly, or not quite all of a sudden, He saw the only way. There was the spear His stout hand bore: it was strong and heavy, knotted Of seasoned oak, and he bound his daughter to it, Gently, with bark of cork-wood all around her, And carefully, to keep the missile’s balance, And let his right hand weigh its heft a little, And then made prayer:--‘O gracious woodland-dweller, Diana, virgin daughter of Latona, I consecrate my daughter to your service. These are your darts she holds, the very first ones She ever carried; she comes to you, a suppliant Who flees her foe through pathways of the air. Accept her, O dear goddess, I implore you, Make her your own. Her father, I commit her, Now, to the dubious winds.’ The arm drew back, The whirring spear shot forward, and the waters Roared loud below, and over the rush of the river Camilla, on the whistling spear, went flying, And Metabus, as the great host came closer, Dove into the flood, and safe across, a victor And happy, pulled the spear and girl together Out of the grassy turf, his votive offering Made to Latona’s daughter. No city ever Received him to its walls or homes; he would not, In his wild mood, give in to any city. He lived with shepherds on the lonely mountains, And there, where wild beasts lurked, in thorn and thicket He raised his child; his hands would squeeze the udders Of wild mares for their milk. When she could stand And toddle a little, he armed her with a javelin, A tiny pointed lance, and over her shoulder Hung quiver and bow. There were no golden brooches