Thus, as Ilioneus is speaking, Latinus holds his countenance 15 in set downcast gaze, and sits rooted to his throne, turning his eyes in intense thought. Nor does the broidered purple stir his princely mind; no, nor the sceptre of Priam, so deeply as he ponders on the wedlock, the bridal bed of his daughter, revolving in his breast old 20 Faunus’ oracle. This must be that predicted son-in-law, arrived from a foreign home, destined to reign in joint sovereignty with himself; thence must be born that glorious progeny, whose prowess is to master the world. At length he breaks out in glad tones: “May the gods prosper 25 our intent and ratify their own presage! Yes, Trojan, you shall have your prayer, nor do I reject your presents. Long as Latinus shall reign, you shall not lack the bounty of a fruitful soil, nor miss the wealth of Troy. Let but Æneas himself, if his desire of us is so great, if he covets the tie of 30 hospitality and the style of alliance, come to our presence, nor shrink from eyes that will view him kindly. Peace will be incomplete till I have touched your monarch’s hand. And now do you take back to your king this my message: I have a daughter, whose marriage with a husband 35 of our nation is forbidden by voices from my father’s shrine, by countless prodigies from heaven; sons-in-law are to arrive from foreign climes—such, they say, is Fate’s will for Latium—who by mixing their blood with ours are to exalt our name to the spheres. That he is this chosen one of destiny is my belief, and, if my mind reads the future true, my award.” With these words the old king makes choice of horses from the multitude he possessed. 5 Three hundred there were, sleek-coated, standing in their lofty stalls. At once he bids his servants bring for each of the Teucrians a fleet-foot with housings of embroidered purple; golden poitrels hang down to the chest of each; there is gold on their coverings; yellow 10 gold under their champing teeth. For the absent Æneas he orders a car and two coursers of ethereal seed, snorting fire from their nostrils, sprung of that brood which artful Circe raised up fraudfully to her father the Sun, a spurious race, from the womb of a mortal dam. Thus graced with 15 gifts and kind speeches, the children of Æneas journey homeward on their tall steeds, and carry tidings of peace.