He had hardly spoken When a warrior, on foaming steed, came riding Through all the enemy. His name was Saces, And his face was badly wounded by an arrow. He called the name of Turnus, and implored him:-- “We have no other hope; pity your people! Aeneas is a lightning-bolt; he threatens Italy’s topmost towers; he will bring them down In ruins; even now the brands are flying Along the roof-tops. They look to you, the Latins, They look for you; and king Latinus mumbles In doubt--who are his sons, who are his allies? The queen, who trusted you the most, has perished By her own hand, has fled the light in terror. Alone before the gates the brave Atinas And Messapus hold the line. Around them, squadrons Crowd close on either side, and the steel harvest Bristles with pointed swords. And here is Turnus Wheeling his car across a plain deserted.” Bewildered by disaster’s shifting image, Turnus is silent, staring; shame and sadness Boil up in that great heart, and grief and love Driven by frenzy. He shakes off the shadows; The light comes back to his mind. His eyes turn, blazing, From the wheels of the car to the walls of that great city Where the flame billowed upward, the roaring blast Catching a tower, one he himself had fashioned With jointed beams and rollers and high gangways. “Fate is the winner now; keep out of my way, My sister: now I follow god and fortune. I am ready for Aeneas, ready to bear Whatever is bitter in death. No longer, sister, Shall I be shamed, and you behold me. Let me, Before the final madness, be a madman!” He bounded from the chariot, came rushing Through spears, through enemies; his grieving sister He left behind, forgotten. As a boulder Torn from a mountain-top rolls headlong downward, Impelled by wind, or washed by storm, or loosened By time’s erosion, and comes down the hillside A mass possessed of evil, leaping and bounding, And rolling with it men and trees and cattle, So, through the broken columns, Turnus rushes On to the city, where the blood goes deepest Into the muddy ground, and the air whistles With flying spears. He makes a sudden gesture, Crying aloud:--“No more, no more, Rutulians! Hold back your weapons, Latins! Whatever fortune There may be here is mine. I am the one, Not you, to make the treaty good, to settle The issue with the sword. That will be better.” They all made way and gave him room.