As Turnus saw the Latins failing, broken, With Mars against them, and all eyes upon him Awaiting the fulfillment of his promise, He burned with wrath, implacable, and lifted His spirit high, as in the fields of Carthage A lion, sorely wounded by the hunters, Fights harder for the hurt, the happier for it. And the mane rises on the neck and shoulders, And the jaws break off the weapon, and the bloody mouth Roars out defiance, even so in Turnus The violent spirit raged. He spoke to the king In angry words:--“Turnus won’t keep them waiting; No reason for these cowards to renounce Their bargain. Start the holy ritual, father, Arrange the terms. I go to meet the Trojan; Let the Latins sit and watch it if they want to, And this right arm will send him down to Hell, The renegade from Asia. I alone Answer the argument that calls us cowards, I, with one single sword. Or we are beaten And he takes Lavinia home.” Latinus answered With quiet in his heart:--“O youth, distinguished Above them all in spirit, the more your courage Rises to fierceness, the more I find it needful To take slow counsel, to balance every hazard. You have the kingdom of your father Daunus, And many a captured town; and I, Latinus, Lack neither gold nor spirit. In our country There are other girls, unwed, and not ignoble. Let me say this--I know it is not easy-- As frankly as I can, and listen to me: It was not right for me to give my daughter To any of her former native suitors, And gods and men so prophesied. I loved you, Turnus, and I gave in: we are related By blood, I know, and when Amata sorrowed, I broke off every bond, cancelled the promise, Took up unholy arms. From that day, Turnus, You see what wars pursue me, and what dangers, What sufferings you, above all men, submit to. We have been beaten twice in a great battle And now we hold, just barely, in our city The hopes of Italy. The streams of Tiber Are warm with blood of ours, and the broad fields White with our bones. In what direction Do I keep turning, back and forth? What madness Changes my purpose? If, with Turnus dead, I stand prepared to join them to me as allies, Why not, while he still lives, break off the conflict? What will they say, all your Rutulian kinsmen, All Italy, if I (may fortune keep The word I say from coming true!) betray you To death, the suitor of my only daughter? Consider war’s uncertainties, and pity Your aged father, far from us and grieving In Ardea, his homeland.” The king’s appeal Moved Turnus not at all; his temper worsened, Was aggravated by the attempt at healing. He managed, with an effort, to say something:-- “Most kindly father, the care you have for me Lay down, for my sake; let me have permission