Messapus, most eager To break the truce, rides down a king, Aulestes, Wearing the emblem of a Tuscan monarch. Staggering backward from that charge, and reeling, He falls upon the altars, there behind him, Comes down on head and shoulders. And like fire Messapus flashes toward him, spear in hand, And, from the horse, strikes heavily down; the spear Is like a plunging beam. For all his pleading Aulestes hears no more than this:--“He has it! Here is a better victim for the altars!” His limbs are warm as the Italians rob them. Ebysus aims a blow at Corynaeus Who snatches up a firebrand from the altar And thrusts it in his face, and his beard blazes With a smell of fire. And Corynaeus follows, Clutches the hair with the left hand, and grounds him With knee-thrust; the relentless steel goes home. And Podalirius, sword in hand, looms over The shepherd Alsus, rushing through the weapons In the front line, but Alsus, arm drawn back, Swings the axe forward, cleaving chin and forehead, Drenching the armor with blood. An iron slumber Seals Podalirius’ eyes; they close forever In everlasting night. But good Aeneas, Head bare, holds out his hand, unarmed, calls loudly In hope to check his men:--“Where are you rushing? What sudden brawl is rising? Control your anger! The treaty is made, and all the terms agreed on, The fight my right alone. Let me take over; Lay down your fear: this hand will prove the treaty, Making it sure. These rites owe Turnus to me.” And even as he cried, an arrow flew Winging against him; no one knew the hand That turned it loose with whirlwind force; if man Or god, nobody knew; and no man boasted Of having been the one to wound Aeneas.