Turnus was paralyzed with horror; his hair bristled, and the passage of his voice was choked. But when Juturna heard the beating of those fatal pinions she tore her hair, and beat her breast, knowing that her brother’s hour was come. “Turnus, I can do no more,” she cried. “Would that I might die with thee! But, alas! Jove has made me immortal, and doomed me to eternal sorrow.” Then, veiling her face in her azure mantle, the nymph left the battlefield, and sat rocking herself in anguish by the river-side. Æneas came on, brandishing his massy spear, and crying: “Now at last thou art delivered into my hands, unless thou canst fly up to heaven or dig thee a burrow in the earth.” “Thy words have no terrors for me,” replied Turnus, “but much I fear that Heaven is against me.” And without more words he looked round him, and saw a huge ancient stone, set up long ago as a boundary mark. Stooping he caught up the ponderous mass, which scarce twelve men could lift, as men are in our times; with one hand he heaved it above his head, and poised and flung it, running at full speed. It was his last effort, and he felt as he made it that his powers were failing. The stone fell short, and Turnus stood gazing, struck with a strange impotence, like one in a trance; the whole scene swam before his eyes, woods, hills, and city walls, and the faces of his friends, like visions in a fevered dream. While thus he faltered Æneas poised his lance, took steady aim and flung. Like some vast missile hurled by a siege engine the giant spear rushed to its mark, pierced through the lower edge of the sevenfold shield, and, rending the border of the corslet with a grating sound, transfixed the middle of his thigh. A deep groan went up from the ranks of the Rutulians when they saw their young hero lying, helpless and bleeding, on the sand. With hands outstretched and eyes imploring mercy Turnus uttered this humble prayer: “Thou hast conquered; Lavinia is thine; now pity my father’s gray hairs, and give him back his son, or if thou must have my life at least restore my body to him for burial.” Æneas paused, lowering his sword and rolling his eyes, in doubt whether to strike or spare; and pity began to prevail more and more in his heart when his gaze fastened on the fatal belt, which Turnus had won from the youthful Pallas, and was wearing on his shoulder. Then grief and anger blazed up in his soul, and he cried in a terrible voice: “Wretch, dost thou ask for mercy with that emblem of sorrow on thy breast? Pallas, Pallas claims thee as his victim, and cries aloud for thy guilty blood.” The avenging steel was lifted, and flashed, and fell; and that mighty frame lay shuddering in death, while his soul, indignant, fled moaning to the shades. STORIES FROM ROMAN HISTORY FROM LIVY THE STORY OF ROMULUS AND OF NUMA By Alfred J. Church