LXXXVIII. "Ha, Tuscan! thought'st thou 'twas the chase? Thy day Hath come; a woman shall thy vaunts belie. Yet take this glory to the grave, and say 'Twas I, the great Camilla, made thee die." She spake, and smote Orsilochus close by, And Butes, hugest of the Trojan crew. First Butes falls; just where the neck doth lie, 'Twixt casque and corslet, naked to the view, And leftward droops the shield, the fatal barb goes through. LXXXIX. Chased by Orsilochus, afar she wheels Her seeming flight, wide-circling to and fro, Till, doubling in a narrower ring, she steals Inside, and follows on the following foe. Then, rising steep, while vainly in his woe He pleads for pity, and entreats her grace, She swings the battle-axe, and blow on blow On head and riven helmet heaps apace, And the hot brains and blood are spattered o'er his face. XC. Next crossed her path, but stood aghast to see, The son of Aunus, from the mountain-seat Of Apennine. No mean Ligurian he, While Fate was kind, and prospered his deceit. Fearful of death, and hopeless to retreat, He tries if cunning can avail his need, And cries aloud, "Good sooth, a wondrous feat! A woman trusts for glory to her steed. Come down; fight fair afoot, and take the braggart's meed!" XCI. Down leaps the maid in fury, and her steed Hands to a comrade, and with arms matched fair, And dauntless heart, confronts him on the mead, Her shield unblazoned, and her falchion bare. He, vainly glorying in his fancied snare, Reins round in haste, and, spurring, strives to flee. "Fool," cries Camilla, "let thy pride beware. Think not to palm thy father's tricks on me, Nor hope with craft like this thy lying sire to see." XCII. So spake she, and on flying feet afire Outruns his steed, and stands athwart the way, Then grasps the reins, and deals the wretch his hire, Doomed with his life-blood for his craft to pay. So on a dove, amid the clouds astray, Down swoops the sacred falcon through the sky From some tall cliff, and fastens on his prey, And grips, and rends, and sucks the life-blood dry; The feathers, foul with blood, come, fluttering down from high. XCIII. Nor Jove meanwhile with unregarding ken, Throned on Olympus, doth the scene survey. Watchful of all, the Sire of gods and men Stirs up the Tuscan Tarchon to the fray, And plies the war-goad with no gentle sway. He through the squadrons on his steed aflame Rides 'mid the carnage, where the ranks give way; Now chides, now cheers, and calling each by name, Re-forms the broken lines, and reinspires the tame.