But Turnus sayeth thereunto: "Sister, I knew thee long ago, when first by art and craft Thou brok'st the troth-plight, and therewith amidst the battle went; And now thou hidest God in vain. But whose will thee hath sent From high Olympus' house to bear such troubles, and so great? Was it to see thy brother's end and most unhappy fate? For what do I? What heal is left in aught that may befall? Mine eyes beheld Murranus die, on me I heard him call: No dearer man in all the world is left me for a friend: Woe's me I that mighty man of men a mighty death must end. 640 Ufens is dead, unhappy too lest he our shame behold; E'en as I speak the Teucrians ward his arms and body cold. And now--the one shame wanting yet--shall I stand deedless by Their houses' wrack, nor let my sword cast back that Drances' lie? Shall I give back, and shall this land see craven Turnus fled? Is death, then, such a misery? O rulers of the dead, Be kind! since now the high God's heart is turned away from me; A hallowed soul I go adown, guiltless of infamy, Not all unworthy of the great, my sires of long ago." Scarce had he said when, here behold, from midmost of the foe, 650 Comes Saces on his foaming steed, an arrow in his face, Who, crying prayers on Turnus' name, onrusheth to the place: "Turnus, in thee our last hope lies! pity thy wretched folk! Æneas thundereth battle there, and threateneth with his stroke The overthrow of tower and town, and wrack of Italy. The flames are flying toward the roofs; all mouths of Latins cry On thee; all eyes are turned to thee: yea, the king wavereth there, Whom shall he call his son-in-law, to whom for friendship fare. The Queen to wit, thy faithfullest, is dead by her own hand, And, fearful of the things to come, hath left the daylight land. 660 Messapus and Atinas keen alone upbear our might Before the gates: round each of them are gathered hosts of fight Thick-thronging, and a harvest-tide that bristles with the sword; While here thou wendest car about the man-deserted sward." Bewildered then with images of diverse things he stood In silent stare; and in his heart upswelled a mighty flood Of mingled shame and maddening grief: the Furies goaded sore With bitter love and valour tried and known from time of yore. But when the cloud was shaken off and light relit his soul, His burning eyeballs toward the town, fierce-hearted, did he roll, 670 And from the wheels of war looked back unto the mighty town; And lo, behold, a wave of flame into a tongue-shape grown Licked round a tower, and 'twixt its floors rolled upward unto heaven: A tower that he himself had reared with timbers closely driven, And set beneath it rolling-gear, and dight the bridges high.