he bore—that foe, I ween, had uttered a haughty boast, 20 and deemed that his hand would second his tongue, and was swelling in spirit to the stars, with an assured hope of gray hairs and length of days—when Tarquitus, in the pride of gleaming armour, borne by the nymph Dryope to woodland Faunus, crossed his fiery path. Drawing 25 back his spear, he hampers the corselet and the buckler’s weighty mass; then he sweeps to the ground the head, as the lips were vainly praying and essaying to say a thousand things, and dashing before him the reeking trunk, utters thus the fierceness of his heart: “Lie there, doughty 30 warrior! never shall your tender mother give you burial, or pile your father’s tomb above your limbs; no, you will be left to savage birds, or the river will carry you whelmed by its eddies, and hungry fish will lick your wounds.” Next he hunts down Antæus and Lucas, of 35 Turnus’ first rank, and gallant Numa, and yellow Camers, son of noble Volscens, who was wealthiest in land of Ausonia’s children, and reigned over voiceless Amyclæ. Even as Ægæon, who, fable tells, had a hundred arms and a hundred hands, and flashed fire through fifty mouths from the depths of fifty bosoms, what time against Jove’s lightning he thundered on fifty strong shields, and drew forth fifty sharp swords, so Æneas slakes his victorious 5 fury the whole field over, when once his blade had grown warm with blood. See! he is advancing against Niphæus’ four harnessed steeds, and setting his breast against theirs. At once they, soon as they saw his lofty stride and his fierce gestures, turn round affrighted, and, 10 rushing backward, unseat their master and hurry the car to the beach. Meanwhile Lucagus forces his way into the midst, drawn by two white horses, with Liger his brother; but the brother guides the steeds with the rein, while Lucagus sweeps fiercely round his naked sword. 15 Æneas brooked not the fury of their fiery onset, but rushed against them, and stood fronting them in his giant bulk with threatening spear. To him cried Liger: “These are not Diomede’s steeds you see, nor this Achilles’ chariot, nor are these the Phrygian plains; your warfare and 20 your life shall end here on Italian ground.” So fly abroad the random words of frantic Liger. The chief of Troy seeks not to meet him with words, but hurls his javelin at the foe. Even as Lucagus, bending forward over the stroke, pricked on his horses with the steel, and advancing 25 his left foot prepares himself for fight, the spear pierces the last margin of the radiant shield and enters the groin at the left: down he falls from the car and wallows in death on the plain; while good Æneas bespeaks him with words of gall: “So, Lucagus, it is no 30