snatched in vain from the foe! Shall there never be walls named with the name of Troy? Shall I never on earth see the streams that Hector loved—his Xanthus and his Simois? Come, join me in burning up these accursed 25 ships. For in my sleep methought the likeness of Cassandra the seer put blazing torches into my hands. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘and here only, look for Troy: here, and here only, is your home.’ The hour for action is come. Heaven’s wonders brook not man’s delay. See here! four 30 altars to Neptune. The god himself gives us the fire and the will.” So saying, she is the first to snatch the baleful brand—swinging back her hand on high; with strong effort she whirls and flings it. The dames of Ilion gaze with straining 35 mind and wildered brain. Then one of the crowd, the eldest of all, Pyrgo, the royal nurse of Priam’s many sons: “No Beroe have you here, matrons—this is not Doryclus’ wife, of Rhoeteum—mark those signs of heavenly beauty, those glowing eyes—what a presence is there—what features—what a tone in her voice—what majesty in her gait! Beroe I myself parted from but now, and left her sick and sullen to think that she alone should fail 5 at this observance, nor pay Anchises the honour that is his due.” Such were her words, while the matrons, doubtful at first, were looking on the ships with evil eyes, distracted between their fatal yearning for a country now theirs, and the voice of destiny from realms beyond the 10 sea—when the goddess, spreading her two wings, soared up into the sky and severed the clouds as she flew with the giant span of her bow. Then indeed, maddened by the portent, goaded by frenzy, they shriek one and all, and snatch fire from house and hearth—some strip the altars, 15 and fling on the vessels leaf and bough and brand. The fire-god revels in full career along bench and oar, and painted pine-wood stern. The news of the fleet on fire is carried by Eumelus to Anchises’ tomb, and the seats in the circus. They look back, and with their own eyes see 20 sparks and smoke in a black flickering cloud. First of all Ascanius, riding in triumph at the head of his cavalry, spurred his horse just as he was to the wildering camp, while his breathless guardians strive in vain to stay him. “What strange madness this? whither now, whither 25 would ye go,” cries he, “my poor countrywomen? It is not the Argive foe and his hated camp—it is your own hopes that you are burning. See, I am your own Ascanius”—at his feet he flung his empty helmet which he was wearing in sport as he helped to raise the image of war. 30 Quick follows Æneas, quick the Teucrian host at his heels. But the matrons are flying in panic along the coast, now here, now there, stealing to the thickest woods and the