Now a new sorrow Came to the weary Latins, shook the city To its foundations, utterly. The queen Had seen the Trojans coming and the walls Under attack and fire along the gables And no Rutulian column, nowhere Turnus Coming to help. He had been killed, her hero, She knew at last. Her mind was gone; she cried Over and over:--“I am the guilty one, I am the cause, the source of all these evils!” And other wilder words. And then she tore Her crimson robes, and slung a noose and fastened The knot of an ugly death to the high rafter. The women learned it first, and then Lavinia: The wide hall rings with grief and lamentation; Nails scratch at lovely faces, beautiful hair Is torn from the head. And Rumor spreads the story All up and down the town, and poor Latinus, Rending his garments, comes and stares,--wife gone, And city falling, an old man’s hoary hair Greyer with bloody dust. And meanwhile Turnus Out on the plain pursues the stragglers, slower And slower now, and less and less exultant In his triumphant car. From the city comes A wind that bears a cry confused with terror, Half heard, but known,--confusion, darkness, sorrow, An uproar in the town. He checks the horses, Pauses and listens. And his sister prompts him:-- “This way, this way! The Trojans run, we follow Where victory shows the path. Let others guard The houses with their valor. The Italians Fall in the fight before Aeneas. Let us Send death to the Trojans, in our turn. You will not Come off the worse, in numbers or in honor.” Turnus replies:--“O sister, I have known, A long while since, that you were no Metiscus, Since first you broke the treaty and joined the battle. No use pretending you are not a goddess. But who, from high Olympus, sent you down To bear such labors? Was it to see your brother In pitiful cruel death? What am I doing, What chance will fortune grant me? I have seen A man I loved more than the rest, Murranus, A big man, slain by a big wound, go down. Ufens is fallen, lucky or unlucky, In that he never saw our shame; the Trojans Have won his body and arms. Our homes are burning, The one thing lacking up to now,--and shall I Endure this, not refute the words of Drances With this right hand? Shall I turn my back upon them? Is it so grim to die? Be kind, O shadows, Since the high gods have turned their favor from me. A decent spirit, undisgraced, no coward, I shall descend to you, never unworthy Of all my ancient line.”