wrought of solid silver, many bowls and gorgeous coverlets. Euryalus lays hand on Rhamnes’ trappings and his belt with golden studs, sent by wealthy Cædicus of old as a 20 present to Remulus of Tiber, when he fain would make him his friend from a distance; he, dying, leaves them to his grandson, after whose death the Rutulians won them in battle; these he strips off, and fits them to his valiant breast, all for nought. Then he puts on Messapus’ shapely 25 helm, with its graceful crest. They leave the camp, and pass into safety. Meanwhile a troop of horse, sent on from the town of Latium, while the rest of the force abides drawn up on the field, was on its way with a message to king Turnus, three 30 hundred, shield-bearers all, with Volscens, their chief. They were just nearing the camp, and passing under the wall, when at distance they spy the two bending to the left, and the helmet, seen in the glimmering twilight, betrayed the heedless Euryalus, as the moonbeam flashed 35 full upon it. The sight fell not on idle eyes. Volscens shouts from his band: “Halt, gallants; tell your errand, who you are thus armed, and whither you are going.” They venture no reply, but hasten the faster to the woods, and make the night their friend. The horsemen bar each well-known passage right and left and set a guard on every outlet. The wood was shagged with thickets and dark ilex boughs; impenetrable briars filled it on every side; 5 through the concealed tracks just gleamed a narrow path. Euryalus is hampered by the darkness of the branches, and the encumbrance of his booty, and fear makes him miss the right line of road. Nisus shoots away: and now in his forgetfulness he had escaped the foe, and gained the 10 region afterwards called Alban from Alba’s name; in that day king Latinus had there his stately stalls; when he halted, and looked back in vain for the friend he could not see. “My poor Euryalus! where have I left you? what way shall I trace you, unthreading all the tangled path of 15 that treacherous wood?” As he speaks, he scans and retraces each step, and wanders through the stillness of the brakes. He hears the horses, hears the noise and the tokens of pursuit. Pass a few moments, and a shout strikes on his ear, and he sees Euryalus, who is in the hands 20 of the whole crew, the victim of the ground and the night, bewildered by the sudden onslaught, hurried along, and making a thousand fruitless efforts. What should he do? with what force, what arms, can he attempt a rescue? should he dash through the thick of their swords with 25 death before his eyes, and hurry to a glorious end in a shower of wounds? Soon, with his arm drawn back, he poises his spear-shaft, looking up to the moon in the sky, and thus