Then Arruns, as the fates would have it, started Stalking the fleet Camilla with the javelin, Ahead of her in cunning. He took no chances, Seeking the easiest way. When that wild maiden Dashed fiercely into the battle, there he followed Stealthily in her footsteps, or turned the reins When she came back victorious. This way, that way, Wary in each approach, he circled after, The sure spear quivering as he poised and held it. It happened Chloreus, Cybele’s priest, was shining Far off in Phrygian armor, spurring a horse Covered with leather, scales of brass and gold And the rider was a fire of foreign color, Launching his Cretan darts: the bow was golden, The helmet golden, and the cloak of saffron, So stiff it had a metal sound, was fastened With knots of yellow gold; some foreign needle Had worked embroidery into hose and tunic. Camilla picked him out from all the battle, Either to take that spoil home to the temple, Or flaunt the gold herself; she was a huntress In blind pursuit, dazzled by spoil, a woman Reckless for finery. In hiding, Arruns Caught up his spear and prayed:--“Most high Apollo, Soracte’s warden, whose adorers feed The pine-wood fire, and trustful tread the embers, Let me wipe out this shame. I seek no plunder, No spoil, no trophy, of Camilla beaten; I may perhaps find other ways to glory. All I ask here is that this scourge may vanish Under a wound I give; for this I am willing To make return, however inglorious, home.” Half of his prayer was heard: Apollo granted The downfall of Camilla; the returning Safe home was not to be,--the south winds carried That much to empty air. So the spear, whirring, Spun from his hand; the sound turned all the Volscians With anxious eyes and minds to watch their ruler. She heard no stir in the air, no sound, no weapon Along the sky, till the spear went to its lodging In the bare breast and drank the maiden blood. Her frightened comrades hurry, catch her falling, And Arruns, frightened more than any other, Half joy, half fear, makes off: no further daring Is his, to trust the lance or face encounter. As a wolf that kills a bullock or a shepherd Before the darts can reach him, down the mountains Goes plunging through the brush, the sign of guilt His tail clapped under the belly, bent on flight, So Arruns sneaks to cover through the armies. Dying, she pulls at the dart, but the point is fast, Deep in the wound between the ribs; her eyes Roll, cold in death; her color pales; her breath Comes hard. She calls to Acca, her companion, Most loved, most loyal:--“I have managed, Acca, This far, but now--the bitter wound--I am done for, There are shadows all around. Hurry to Turnus. Take him this last direction, to relieve me Here in the fight, defend the town, keep off--