So were these contending over matters of doubtful debate: Æneas was moving his army from camp to field. See, there runs a messenger from end to end of the palace amid wild confusion, and fills the town with a mighty 30 terror, how that in marching array the Trojans and the Tuscan force are sweeping down from Tiber’s stream over all the plain. In an instant the minds of the people are confounded, their bosoms shaken to the core, their passions goaded by no gentle stings. They clutch at arms, 35 clamour for arms: arms are the young men’s cry: the weeping fathers moan and mutter. And now a mighty din, blended of discordant voices, soars up to the skies, even as when haply flocks of birds have settled down in a lofty grove, or on the fishy stream of Padusa hoarse swans make a noise along the babbling waters, “Ay, good citizens,” cries Turnus, seizing on his moment, “assemble your council and sit praising peace; they are rushing on 5 the realm sword in hand.” Without further speech he dashed away and issued swiftly from the lofty gate. “You, Volusus,” he cries, “bid the Volscian squadrons arm, and lead out the Rutulians. You, Messapus, and you, Coras[280] and your brother, spread the horse in battle array 10 over the breadth of the plain. Let some guard the inlets of the city and man the towers; the rest attack with me in the quarter for which I give the word.” At once there is a rush to the ramparts from every part of the city: king Latinus leaves the council and the high debate unfinished, 15 and wildered with the unhappy time, adjourns to another day, ofttimes blaming himself that he welcomed not with open arms Æneas the Dardan, and bestowed on the city a husband for the daughter of Latium. Others dig trenches before the gates or shoulder stones and stakes. 20 The hoarse trumpet gives its deathful warning for battle. The walls are hemmed by a motley ring of matrons and boys: the call of the last struggle rings in each one’s ear. Moreover the queen among a vast train of Latian mothers is drawn to the temple, even to Pallas’ tower on the height, 25 with presents in her hand, and at her side the maid Lavinia, cause of this cruel woe, her beauteous eyes cast down. The matrons enter the temple and make it steam with incense, and pour from the august threshold their plaints of sorrow: “Lady of arms, mistress of the war, Tritonian[o] 30 maiden, stretch forth thy hand and break the spear of the Phrygian freebooter, lay him prostrate on the ground, and leave him to grovel under our lofty portals.” Turnus with emulous fury arms himself for the battle. And now he has donned his ruddy corslet, and is bristling with 35 brazen scales; his calves have been sheathed in gold, his temples yet bare, and his sword had been girded to his