So from the gates he rushed, a mighty warrior Wielding a mighty spear, and all the column Came pouring forth; Mnestheus, Antheus, others, Leave the forsaken camp. The dust is blinding Over the plain, the tramp of armies marching Makes the earth tremble, and from the opposite hillside Turnus and the Ausonians saw them coming And a cold chill ran through their bones; Juturna, Quicker than all the Latins, heard the sound, Knew it, and fled in terror. And Aeneas Rushed his dark column over open country As a cloud-burst sweeps to land across the ocean And farmers know it, far away, and shudder Fearful and sure of ruin to woods and cornfield, And the winds fly on before the storm and herald The roaring sound to the shore; so, like a cloud-burst, Aeneas brings his armies on; they gather, Each company, at his side. Thymbraeus’ sword Strikes down Osiris; Mnestheus slays Arcetius; Achates Epulo, and Gyas Ufens. Tolumnius, that augur whose spear had broken The armistice, lies low. A shout arises: The Rutulians turn back in rout; the dust-clouds Follow them over the field in flight. Aeneas Disdains to kill retreating men, refuses Attack on such as face him; it is Turnus He watches for, hunts through the gloom of battle, It is Turnus, Turnus only, whom he summons. And this Juturna knows, and in her panic She flings Metiscus, charioteer of Turnus, Out of the car, far from the reins and axle, And takes his place, plying the supple reins, Calls with Metiscus’ voice, assumes his armor. As a dark swallow through a rich man’s mansion Flies winging through great halls, hunting for crumbs For the young birds at home, and now chirps under The empty courts, now over the quiet pool, Even so, Juturna, by the horses carried, Darts here and there, quarters the field, and proudly Makes a great show of Turnus, her cheering brother, Yet never lets him close in fight or grapple, Forever wheeling and turning. But Aeneas Is dogged in pursuit and loud in challenge. Whenever he sees that car, and runs to meet it, Juturna shifts the course. What can he do? Nothing, it seems, but boil in rage; one anger Makes conflict in his heart against another. Messapus comes against him; his left hand Holds two tough lances, tipped with steel: advancing, He levels one, well-aimed; Aeneas crouches On one knee under the shield, but the spear, flying, Picks off the crested plume from the top of the helmet. Aeneas’ anger swells; this treachery rankles. Messapus’ chariot and steeds, withdrawing, Are far away. He has made appeal to Jove And the broken treaty’s altars all too often, And now he fights in earnest; Mars beside him, He rouses terrible carnage, giving anger Free rein: he makes no choice of opposition.