First and last, Camilla struck men down: who knows how many She brought to earth in death? Clytius’ son, Euneus, faced her first, and her long spear Pierced his unguarded breast. Rivers of blood Poured from his mouth; he chewed red dust, and dying Writhed on his wound. She stabbed the horse of Liris, And the rider fell, and reached for the reins: Pagasus Stretched out a hand to help him, to break his fall, And Camilla slew the pair of them together: Amastrus next, Hippotas’ son: far off, Her spear caught up with four, Tereus, Chromis, Harpalycus, Demophoön. For each dart Sent flying from her hand, a Trojan fell. Far off she saw the huntsman Ornytus, Riding a native pony, in strange armor. He wore a steer’s hide over his wide shoulders, A wolf’s head for a helmet, with the jaws, Wide-open, grinning above his head; he carried A rustic kind of pike, and he was taller, By a full head, than all the others, easy Target for any dart. She cried above him:-- “What did you think, O Tuscan?--You were chasing Beasts in the woods? The day has come when boasting Like yours is answered by a woman’s weapons, But after all, you take to the shades of your fathers No little cause for pride--Camilla killed you!” And then she slew Orsilochus and Butes, Two of the mightiest Trojans, stabbing Butes With spear-point in the back, between the helmet And breastplate, where the flesh shone white, and shield Hung down from the left arm. Orsilochus She fled from first, and, driven in a circle, Became, in turn, pursuer; and, rising higher, Brought down the battle-axe, again, again, Through armor and through bone: his pleas for mercy Availed him nothing; the wound he suffered spattered His face with his warm brains. Next in her way And stunned to halt by abject terror came A son of Aunus, an expert at lying Like all Ligurians. He could not escape her, And knew he could not, but he might outwit her, Or so he hoped. “What’s so courageous, woman Always on horseback? Forget the hope of fleeing, Dismount; meet me on equal terms; try fighting On foot for once. You will learn, I tell you, something, The disillusion of that windy glory.” She took the challenge, burned with angry temper, Turned her horse over to another, savage In equal arms, confronting him undaunted, With naked sword. He leaped into the saddle, Much pleased with his sly stratagem, drove the rowels Deep in the flanks, took off. “O vain Ligurian, Swollen with pride of heart, that slippery cunning Will never get you home to father Aunus!” So cried Camilla, and flashed like fire across The horse’s path, grabbed at the bridle, hauled him To earth and shed his blood. A hawk in heaven Is not more quick to seize a dove when, driving