Aeneas, the pursuer, Is none too swift: the arrow has left him hurt; His knees give way, but he keeps on, keeps coming After the panting enemy, as a hound, Running a stag to bay, at the edge of the water Or hedged by crimson plumes, darts in, and barks, And snaps his jaws, closes and grips, is shaken Off from the flanks again, and once more closes, And a great noise goes up the air; the waters Resound, and the whole sky thunders with the clamor. Turnus has time, even in flight, for calling Loud to Rutulians, each by name, demanding, In terrible rage, the sword, the sword, the good one, The one he knows. Let anybody bring it, Aeneas threatens, and death and doom await him, And the town will be a ruin. Wounded, still He presses on. They go in five great circles, Around and back: no game, with silly prizes, Are they playing now; the life and blood of Turnus Go to the winner. A wild olive-tree Stood here, with bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus, Revered by rescued sailors, who used to offer Ex-votos to the native gods, their garments In token of gratitude. For this the Trojans Cared nothing, lopped the branches off to clear The run of the field. Aeneas’ spear had fastened Deep in the trunk where the force of the cast had brought it, Stuck in the grip of the root. Aeneas, stooping, Yanks at the shaft; he cannot equal Turnus In speed of foot but the javelin is wingèd. And Turnus, in a terrible moment of panic, Cries:--“Faunus, pity me, and Earth, most kindly, If ever I was reverent, as Aeneas And those he leads have not been, hold the steel, Do not let go!” He prayed, and he was answered. Aeneas tugged and wrestled, pulled and hauled, But the wood held on. And, while he strained, Juturna Rushed forward, once again Metiscus’ double, With the good sword for her brother. Then Venus, angry Over such wanton interference, enters And the root yields. The warriors, towering high, Each one renewed in spirit, one with sword, One with the spear, both breathing hard, are ready For what Mars has to send.