LXXXV. Scarce spake he; through the midmost foes apace Comes Saces, borne upon his foaming steed, A flying shaft had scored him in the face. "Turnus," he cries, "sole champion in our need, Help us, have pity on thy friends who bleed. See there, AEneas threatens in his ire To raze our towers, and with a storm-cloud's speed Thunders in arms, and roofward flies the fire, To thee the Latins turn, thee Latin hopes require. LXXXVI. "Himself, the king, is wavering, whom to call His new allies, and whom his kingdom's heir. Dead is the queen, thy faithfullest of all, Self-plunged from light, in terror and despair. Scarce fierce Atinas and Messapus there, Beside the town-gates standing, hold their own. Dense hosts surround them, and with falchions bare, War's harvest bristles, by the walls upgrown; Thou on the empty sward art charioting alone." LXXXVII. Stunned and bewildered by the changeful scene Stood Turnus, gazing speechless and oppressed. Shame, rage, and sorrow, and revengeful spleen, And frenzied love, and conscious worth confessed Boil from the depths of his tumultuous breast. Now, when the shadows from his mind withdrew, And light, returning, to his thoughts gave rest, Back from his chariot towards the walls he threw His eyes, aflame with wrath, and grasped the town in view. LXXXVIII. From floor to floor, behold, a tower upblazed,-- The tower, with bridge above and wheels below, Himself with beams and mortised planks had raised. "Sister," he cries, "Fate conquers; let us go The way which Heaven and cruel fortune show. I stand to meet AEneas in the fray, And die; if death be bitter, be it so. No more dishonoured shalt thou see me, nay, O sister, let me vent this fury, while I may." LXXXIX. He spake, and quickly vaulting from his car, Through foes, through darts, his sister left to mourn, Rushed headlong forth, and broke the ranks of war. As when a boulder, from a hill-top borne, Which rains have washed, or blustering winds have torn, Or creeping years have loosened, down the steep, From crag to crag, leaps headlong, and in scorn Goes bounding on, and with resistless sweep Lays waste the woods, and whelms the shepherd and his sheep; XC. So Turnus through the broken ranks doth fly On to the town-walls, where the crimson plain Is soaked, and shrill with javelins shrieks the sky, Then shouts, with hand uplifted, to his train, "Rutulians, hold! Ye Latin men refrain! Mine are the risks of Fortune, mine of right, The truce thus torn, to expiate the stain, And let the sword give judgment." At the sight The hostile ranks divide, and clear the lists of fight.