CVI. "Cruel, too cruel, is thy forfeit paid, Poor maiden, who the Trojan arms would'st dare; Nor aught availed thee, in the woodland glade To serve Diana, and her arms to wear. Yet not unhonoured in thy death, nor bare Of fame she leaves thee; nor in after day Shall vengeance fail thy prowess to declare. Whoso hath dared thy sacred form to slay, His blood shall rue the deed, and fit atonement pay." CVII. Beneath the hill a barrow chanced to stand, Heaped there of old, and holm-oaks frowned beside Dercennus' tomb, who ruled Laurentum's land. Here, lightning swift, the lovely Nymph espied, In shining arms, and puffed with empty pride, False Aruns. "Caitiff! dost thou think to flee? Why keep aloof? Turn hitherward!" she cried, "Come here, and die! Camilla claims her fee. Must Cynthia waste her shafts on worthless knaves like thee?" CVIII. Plucking the arrow from her case, she drew The bow, full-stretched, till both the horns unite. Both arms raised level, ere the missile flew, Her left hand touched the iron point, the right, Pressed to her nipple, strained the bow-string tight. He hears the arrow whistle as it flies, And feels the wound. Sweeping on amain, [word missing] Forsakes him. Groaning, with a gasp, he dies. Upsoars the gladdening Nymph, and seeks the Olympian skies. CIX. First flies Camilla's troop, their mistress slain, Then, routed, the Rutulian ranks give way, And fierce Atinas gallops from the plain, And scattered chiefs and squadrons in dismay Spur towards the town for shelter from the fray. None dares that murderous onset of the foe To stem with javelins, nor their charge to stay. Slack from their fainting shoulders hangs the bow, The clattering horse-hoofs shake the crumbling ground below. CX. Dark rolls the dust-cloud, to the town-walls driven, And mothers on the watch-towers, pale with fear, Smite on their breasts, and shriek aloud to heaven. These, bursting in, their foemen in the rear Crush in the crowd, and slaughter with the spear, Slain in the gateway--miserably slain!-- Their walls in sight, their happy homes so near. Those bar the gates, while comrades on the plain Stretch their imploring hands, and call to them in vain. CXI. Then piteous waxed the carnage by the gate, Some storming, some defending. These without, In sight of parents, weeping at their fate, Roll down the moat, swept headlong by the rout, Or charge the battered doorposts with a shout. The very matrons, at their country's call, Their javelins hurl. Charr'd stakes and oak-staves stout Serve them for swords. Forth rush they, one and all, Fir'd by Camilla's deeds, to save the town or fall.