is I, Turnus, who am fain to plead—dash me this vessel, and lodge it on the sandbank’s ruthless shoal, where none 15 that know my shame, Rutuli or rumour, may find me out!” So speaking, he sways in spirit to this side and to that: should he for disgrace so foul impale his frenzied breast on the sword’s point, and drive the stark blade through his ribs, or fling himself into the midst of the 20 waves, and make by swimming for the winding shore, and place himself again among the Teucrian swords? Thrice he essayed either way: thrice mighty Juno kept him back, and of her great pity withheld the youth from action. On he flies, ploughing the deep with wave and 25 tide to speed him, and is borne safely to the ancient town of Daunus his sire. Prompted meanwhile by Jove, Mezentius, all on fire, takes up the war, and charges the triumphant Teucrians. The Tyrrhene host flocks to the spot, bending all their 30 fury, all their showering darts on one, one only man. Even as a rock which juts into the mighty deep, exposed to the rage of the wind and braving the sea, bears all the violence and menace of heaven and ocean, itself unshaken, he stands unmoved; now he lays low Hebrus, Dolichaon’s 35 child, and with him Latagus and craven Palmus: Latagus he strikes on the face and front with a stone, a hill’s enormous fragment, Palmus he suffers to roll ham-strung in his cowardice; their harness he gives to Lausus to wear on his shoulders, their crests to adorn his head. Euanthes, too, the Phrygian, and Mimas, Paris’ playmate, borne by Theano to Amycus his sire, the self-same night when Cisseus’ royal daughter, teeming with a firebrand, 5 gave birth to Paris; he sleeps beneath his father’s walls, while Mimas has his rest on Laurentum’s unknown shore. Like as the mighty boar driven by fangs of hounds from mountain heights, the boar whom pine-crowned Vesulus or Laurentum’s pool shelters these many years, pastured 10 on the reedy jungle, soon as he finds himself among the nets, stands at bay, snorting with fury and bristling his back; none has the courage to flame forth and come near him; at safe distance they press him with their darts and their cries; even so of them who hate Mezentius with 15 a righteous hate, none has the heart to face him with drawn steel; with missiles and deafening shouts they assail him from afar; while he, undaunted, is pausing now here, now there, gnashing his teeth, and shakes off the javelins from his buckler’s hide. There was one 20 Acron from Corythus’ ancient borders, a Grecian wight, who had fled forth leaving his nuptials yet to celebrate; him, when Mezentius saw at distance scattering the intervening ranks, in pride of crimson plumage and the purple