flowing rein, assuming all that Metiscus had, voice and person and armour. Like a black swallow that flies through the house of some wealthy man and traverses the lofty hail, in quest of scraps of food for her twittering nestlings; now she is heard in the empty cloisters, now about the watertanks; so drives Juturna through the 5 thick of the foe, and flies on rapid wheel from spot to spot, now here, now there she gives a glimpse of her victorious brother, yet never lets him stop and fight, but whirls far away in the distance. Æneas for his part winds through sinuous paths in hope to meet him, tracks 10 his steps, and shouts to him aloud across the weltering ranks. Oft as he spies out the foe and tries by running to match the horses’ winged speed, each time Juturna wheels the car aside. What can he do? he tosses in aimless ebb and flow, thoughts distracting his mind this 15 way and that:—when lo! Messapus, with sudden movement, happening to carry two limber spear-shafts tipped with steel, levels one at him and flings it true to its mark. Æneas stopped and gathered his arms about him, sinking on his knee; yet the fierce spear took the top of the 20 helmet and struck the crest from the cone. Then at last his wrath mounts high; and under the duresse of treachery, as he sees the steeds and chariot whirling away from him, after many an appeal to Jove and the altars of the violated league, he falls on the ranks before him, and fanned 25 to dreadful vengeance by the War-god’s breath, lets loose a carnage cruel and unsparing, and flings the reins on the neck of his passion.