As she spoke, Her handmaids saw her, fallen on the sword, The foam of blood on the blade, and blood on the hands. A scream rings through the house; Rumor goes reeling, Rioting, through the shaken town; the palace Is loud with lamentation, women sobbing, Wailing and howling, and the vaults of heaven Echo the outcry, as if Tyre or Carthage Had fallen to invaders, and the fury Of fire came rolling over homes and temples. Anna, half lifeless, heard in panic terror, Came rushing through them all, beating her bosom, Clawing her face:--“Was it for this, my sister? To trick me so? The funeral pyre, the altars, Prepared this for me? I have, indeed, a grievance, Being forsaken; you would not let your sister Companion you in death? You might have called me To the same fate; we might have both been taken, One sword, one hour. I was the one who built it, This pyre, with my own hands; it was my voice That called our fathers’ gods, for what?--to fail you When you were lying here. You have killed me, sister, Not only yourself, you have killed us all, the people, The town. Let me wash the wounds with water, Let my lips catch what fluttering breath still lingers.” She climbed the lofty steps, and held her sister, A dying woman, close; she used her robe To try to stop the bleeding. And Dido tried In vain to raise her heavy eyes, fell back, And her wound made a gurgling hissing sound. Three times she tried to lift herself; three times Fell back; her rolling eyes went searching heaven And the light hurt when she found it, and she moaned. At last all-powerful Juno, taking pity, Sent Iris from Olympus, in compassion For the long racking agony, to free her From the limbs’ writhing and the struggle of spirit. She had not earned this death, she had only sought it Before her time, driven by sudden madness, Therefore, the queen of Hades had not taken The golden lock, consigning her to Orcus. So Iris, dewy on saffron wings, descending, Trailing a thousand colors through the brightness Comes down the sky, poises above her, saying, “This lock I take as bidden, and from the body Release the soul,” and cuts the lock; and cold Takes over, and the winds receive the spirit. BOOK V THE FUNERAL GAMES FOR ANCHISES Meanwhile Aeneas and the fleet were holding The sure course over the sea, cutting the waters That darkened under the wind. His gaze went back To the walls of Carthage, glowing in the flame Of Dido’s funeral pyre. What cause had kindled So high a blaze, they did not know, but anguish When love is wounded deep, and the way of a woman With frenzy in her heart, they knew too well, And dwelt on with foreboding.