And now flying Fame, the harbinger of that cruel agony, is filling with her tidings the ears of Evander, his palace and his city—Fame that but few hours back was proclaiming Pallas the conqueror of Latium. Forth stream the Arcadians to the gates, with funeral torches in ancient fashion, 15 snatched up hurriedly; the road gleams with the long line of fire, which parts the breath of fields on either hand. To meet them comes the train of Phrygians, and joins the wailing company. Soon as the matrons saw them pass under the shadow of the houses, they set the mourning city 20 ablaze with their shrieks. But Evander—no force can hold him back; he rushes into the midst: there as they lay down the bier he has flung himself upon Pallas, and is clinging to him with tears and groans, till choking grief at last lets speech find her way: “No, my Pallas! this was 25 not your promise to your sire, to trust yourself with caution in the War-god’s savage hands. I knew what a spell there lay in the young dawn of a soldier’s glory, the enrapturing pride of the first day of battle. Alas for the ill-starred first-fruits of youth, the cruel foretaste of the 30 coming war! alas for those my vows and prayers, that found no audience with any of the gods! alas too for thee, my blessed spouse, happy as thou art in the death that spared thee not for this heavy sorrow! while I, living on, have triumphed over my destiny, that I might survive in 35 solitary fatherhood. Had I but followed the friendly standards of Troy, and fallen whelmed by Rutulian javelins! had I rendered my own life up, so that this funeral train should have borne _me_ home, and not my Pallas! Nor yet would I blame you, men of Troy, nor the treaty we made, nor the hands we plighted in friendship; it is but the portion ordained long ago as fitting for my gray hairs. If it was written that my son should die ere his 5 time, it shall be well that he fell after slaying his Volscian thousands, while leading a Teucrian army to the gates of Latium. Nay, my Pallas, I would wish for you no worthier funeral than that accorded to you by Æneas the good and his noble Phrygians, by the Tyrrhene leaders, 10 and the whole Tyrrhene host. Each bears you a mighty trophy whom your right hand sends down to death. And you, too, proud Turnus, would be standing at this moment, a giant trunk hung round with armour, had your age been but as his, the vigour of your years the same. But why 15 should misery like mine hold back the Teucrians from the battle? Go, and remember to bear my message to your king. If I still drag the wheels of my hated life now my Pallas is slain, it is because of your right hand, which owes the debt of Turnus’ life to son and sire, yourself being witness. 20 This is the one remaining niche for your valour and