Scarce had the next morrow begun to sprinkle the mountain-tops with light, at the time when the sun’s steeds first come up from the deep and breathe flakes of radiance from their upturned nostrils, when Rutulians and Teucrians were at work, measuring out lists for combat 20 under the ramparts of the mighty town, with hearths in the midst, and altars of turf for their common gods. Others were carrying fire and spring water, begirt with aprons, vervain[283] wreaths on their brows. Forth moves the Ausonian army, bands with lifted javelins issuing 25 from the crowded gates. From yonder quarters pours the Trojan and Tuscan force, with the arms of their several countries, harnessed as if summoned by the War-god’s bloody fray. In the midst of either squadrons the generals flash along, glorious in gold and purple, Mnestheus, 30 Assaracus’ seed, and Asilas the brave, and Messapus, tamer of horses, the progeny of Neptune. At a given signal each army retreats within its confines; spears are fixed in the ground, and bucklers rested at ease. Matrons in yearning eagerness, and unarmed masses, and tottering 35 old men, fill turret and roof, or stand by the lofty portals. But Juno, from the top of the mount now styled Alban—in those days it had no name, nor glory, nor honour—was looking in prospect on the plain, the two armies, Trojan and Laurentine, and the Latian town. At once she addressed Turnus’ sister, a goddess herself, who presides over the pool and the brawling stream—such dignity Jove, the king of heaven, solemnly made hers in return for 5 violated maidenhood: “Sweet Nymph, glory of the rivers, favourite of my heart, you know how I have preferred you to all Latium’s daughters who have climbed the odious bed of our great Master and have gladly given you a seat in the sky; and now, Juturna, learn from me your sorrow, for 10 which I am not to blame. So long as Fortune seemed favourable and Fate allowed Latium to prosper, I spread my shield over Turnus and these your walls: now I see the youth engaged with a destiny mightier than his own, and the day of doom and the power of the enemy are at 15 hand. I cannot look on the combat, nor on the league that ushers it in. If you have the nerve to dare aught for your brother, go on; it is a sister’s part: perhaps the downtrodden have a better lot in store.” Ere she had well ended Juturna’s tears sprang forth, and thrice and again 20 her hand smote on her lovely breast. “No time for tears,” cries Saturn’s daughter: “quick, and if any way there be, snatch your brother from death: or at least revive the war—and mar the treaty while yet on their lips. Remember, I warrant the attempt.” With such advice she left her 25 wavering in purpose and staggering under the cruel blow.