Scarcely had he spoken when a Rutulian horseman, wounded in the face by an arrow, came galloping towards him, shouting: “Turnus, what doest thou here? Thou art our last hope and refuge; the city is beset, Amata has died by her own hand; but few of thy friends remain to keep up a desperate defence. Come quickly, for dire is the need.” As if to give point to his words, at this very moment the flames were seen leaping from a huge wooden tower built on a projection of the walls. For a while Turnus stood as if stupefied, overcome by the conflicting passions which surged within him. Then, collecting himself with a strong effort, he said: “’Tis enough; my fate calls me, and I obey. Let me strike one good blow first, and then let death take his due.” Thereupon he sprang from the chariot, and, running at full speed, broke his way through the fighting lines, like a great boulder sapped in its foundations by the winter rains and toppled from a mountain’s crest. “Make way,” he cried; “drop your weapons, ye Rutulians and Latins. This is my quarrel, not yours, and I am come to pay the price.” Both sides fell back, and left an open space for the final encounter between the two great champions. “At last!” murmured Æneas as he came towering on, and took his stand, “like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,” face to face with his giant foe. First they flung their spears, and, these not taking effect, they drew their swords, and engaged hand to hand. Loud clashed the steel, and a stream of lightning seemed to play about their heads, so fast and furious were the strokes. Like two bulls fighting for the sovereignty of the herd, while the kine stand lowing near, so strove the Italian and the Trojan for the mastery, foot to foot and shield to shield. At length Turnus lifted high his sword, and, coming down with the whole weight of his body, discharged a tremendous blow at the crest of Æneas. The weapon belonged to Metiscus, his charioteer, and he had snatched it up in mistake for his own good blade, which had been tempered by the hand of Vulcan himself. And now the faithless sword proved its mortal temper, and was shivered to the hilt like glass. With a bitter curse the Rutulian turned his back, and fled, and Æneas followed close, though still somewhat disabled by his recent wound. Hither and thither they sped, pursuer and pursued, as a keen hound chases the flying deer, brought to bay by a high rocky mountain-side; the stag wheels and doubles, and the hound’s jaws close with a snap, as his quarry eludes him again. Turnus shouted to his comrades, imploring them to bring his sword, but Æneas warned them off with threatening gestures; and so the race went on, which was run for no common stake, but for the very life blood of Turnus.