Orsilochus and Butes next, two huge-wrought Trojans, gain 690 Death at her hands: Butes aback she smit through with the spear Betwixt the mail-coat and the helm, wherethrough the neck doth peer As there he sits, and on his left hangs down the target round; But from Orsilochus she flees, wide circling o'er the ground, Then, slipping inward of the ring, chaseth the chaser there, And, rising high, her mighty axe driveth through bones and gear. With blow on blow, mid all his prayers and crying out for grace, Until his hot and bloody brain is flooding all his face. A man haps on her now, and stands afeard such sight to see; Of Aunus of the Apennines the warring son was he, 700 Great of Ligurians, while the Fates his guile would yet allow: But he, since fleeing out of fight, would nought avail him now, Nor knew he how in any wise to turn the Queen away, With rede of guile and cunning words began to play the play: "What deed of fame, for woman's heart to trust a horse's might? Wilt thou not set thy speed aside, and 'gainst me dare the fight On equal ground, and gird thyself for foot-fight face to face? See then to whom the windy fame shall bring the victory's grace!" He spake; but she, in bitter rage, and stung to her heart's root, Unto her fellow gave her steed and faced him there afoot, 710 Most unafeard, with naked glaive and target bare and white. Thereat the youth deemed guile had won, and turned at once to flight; Nought tarrying but to turn the reins, he fleeth on his road, And ever with his iron heel the four-foot thing doth goad. "Empty Ligurian, all in vain thine high heart dost thou raise, And all in vain thou triest today thy father's crafty ways. Nor shall thy lying bring thee safe to lying Aunus' head." So spake the maid, and all afire on flying feet she sped, Outwent the horse and crossed his road, and catching at the rein, There made her foeman pay for all with bloody steel-wrought bane, 720 As easily the holy hawk from craggy place on high In winged chase follows on the dove aloft along the sky, And taketh her in hookèd hold with bitter feet to tear, While blood and riven feathers fall from out the upper air. Nathless the Sower of manfolk and all the Godly Kind, Upon Olympus set aloft, to this was nothing blind, And Tarchon of the Tyrrhene folk he stirreth up to war, And stingeth all the heart of him with anger bitter-sore; Who, borne on horse 'twixt death of men and faltering war-array, Goads on his bands unto the fight, and many a word doth say, 730 And calleth each man by his name, and bids the beaten stand: