snatched up the steel of Metiscus, his charioteer: so long as the Teucrians fled straggling before him, the weapon 10 did good service; soon as it came to the divine Vulcanian armour, the mortal blade, like brittle ice, flew asunder at the stroke: the fragments sparkle on the yellow sand. So now in his distraction Turnus flies here and there over the plain, weaving vague circles in this place and in 15 that: for the Trojans have closed in circle about him, and here is a spreading marsh, there lofty ramparts to bar the way. Nor is Æneas wanting, though at times the arrow wound slackens his knees and robs them of their power 20 to run: no, he follows on, and presses upon the flier foot for foot: as when a hound has got a stag pent in by a river, or hedged about by the terror of crimson plumage, and chases him running and barking: the stag, frighted by the snare and the steep bank, doubles a thousand times: 25 the keen Umbrian clings open-mouthed to his skirts, all but seizes him, and as though in act to seize, snaps his teeth, and is baffled to find nothing in their gripe. Then, if ever, uprises a shout, echoing along bank and marsh, and heaven rings again with the noise. Turnus, even as 30 he flies, calls fiercely on the Rutulians, addressing by name, and clamors for his well-known sword. Æneas, for his part, threatens death and instant destruction, should any come near, and terrifies his trembling foes, swearing that he will raze their city to the ground, and 35 presses on in spite of his wound. Five times they circle round, five times they retrace the circle: for no trivial prize is at stake, no guerdon of a game: the contest is for Turnus’ life, for his very heart’s blood. It chanced that there had stood there a wild olive with its bitter leaves, sacred to Faunus, a tree in old days reverenced by seamen, where when saved from ocean they used to fasten their offerings to the Laurentian god and hang up their 5 votive garments: but the unrespecting Trojans had lately lopped the hallowed trunk, that the lists might be clear for combat. There was lodged Æneas’ spear: thither its force had carried it, and was now holding it fast in the unyielding root. The Dardan chief bent over it, fain to 10 wrench forth the steel that his weapon may catch whom his foot cannot overtake. Then cried Turnus in the moment of frenzied agony: “Have mercy, I conjure thee, good Faunus, and thou, most gracious earth, hold fast the steel if I have ever reverenced your sanctities, which 15 Æneas’ crew for their part have caused battle to desecrate.” He said, nor were his vows unanswered by heavenly aid. Hard as he struggled, long as he lingered over the stubborn stock, by no force could Æneas make the wood unclose its fangs.