This spoken, he shrouds his own brows with his mother’s myrtle. So does Helymus, so does veteran Acestes, so young Ascanius—so the whole multitude of warriors. He was already on his way from the council to the tomb with many thousands round him, the centre of a great 20 company. Here in due libation he pours on the ground two bowls of the wine-god’s pure juice, two of new milk, two of sacrificial blood; he flings bright flowers, and makes this utterance:—“Hail to thee, blessed sire, once more! hail to you, ashes of one rescued in vain, spirit and shade 25 of my father! It was not in Fate that thou shouldst journey with me to the Italian frontier and the fields of Destiny, or see the Ausonian Tiber, whatever that name may import.” He had said this, when from the depth of the grave a smooth shining serpent trailed along seven 30 spires, seven volumes of giant length, coiling peacefully round the tomb and gliding between the altars: dark green flecks were on its back; its scales were all ablaze with spots of golden lustre, even as the bow in the clouds showers a thousand various colours in the face of the sun. 35 Æneas stood wonder-struck: the creature, winding its long column among the dishes and the polished goblets, tasted of the viands, and then, innocent of harm, reëntered the tomb at its base, leaving the altars where its mouth had been. Quickened by this, the hero resumes the work of homage to his sire, not knowing whether to think this the genius of the spot or his father’s menial spirit: duly he slays two young sheep, two swine, two black-skinned 5 bullocks; again and again he pours goblets of wine, again and again he calls on the soul of great Anchises and the shade loosed from Acheron’s[185] prison. His comrades, too, each according to his means, give glad offerings—they pile the altars, they slay the bullocks; others in their function 10 set on the cauldrons, and, stretched along the grass, hold the spits over the embers and roast the flesh.