He rises from his seat, however, and throws down in the arena, by way of challenge, a pair of ancient gloves of a most murderous pattern. Seven folds of tough bull-hide have knobs of lead and iron sewn inside them. They are the gloves in which the hero Eryx fought his fatal battle with Hercules, whom he had rashly challenged, and they still bear the blood-stains of Eryx’s previous victories. Dares, stout champion as he is, starts back in dismay when he sees them, and Æneas himself takes them up and handles them with wonder. Entellus, however, will not insist on using these; and two pair of less formidable manufacture and of equal weight are produced, with which the two heroes engage. Virgil’s description of this ancient prize-fight is highly spirited. It may remind some readers, who are old enough to remember such things, of the bulletins of similar encounters between a “light-weight” and a “heavy-weight,” furnished in past days by sporting writers to our own newspapers--with the happy omission of the slang of the ring:-- “Raised on his toes each champion stands, And fearless lifts in air his hands. Their heads thrown back avoid the stroke; Their mighty arms the fight provoke. That on elastic youth relies, This on vast limbs and giant size; But the huge knees with age are slack, And fitful gasps the deep chest rack. Full many a blow the heroes rain Each on the other, still in vain: Their hollow sides return the sound, Their battered chests the shock rebound: ’Mid ears and temples come and go The wandering gauntlets to and fro: The jarred teeth chatter ’neath the blow. Firm stands Entellus in his place, A column rooted on its base; His watchful eye and shrinking frame Alone avoid the gauntlet’s aim. Like leaguer who invests a town, Or sits before a hill-fort down, The younger champion tasks his art To find the bulwark’s weakest part; This way and that unwearied scans, And vainly tries a thousand plans. Entellus, rising to the blow, Puts forth his hand: the wary foe Midway in air the mischief spied, And, deftly shifting, slipped aside. Entellus’ force on air is spent: Heavily down with prone descent He falls, as from its roots uprent A pine falls hollow, on the side Of Erymanth or lofty Ide.” Acestes rushes in, like an attentive second, to raise his friend; and Entellus, roused to fury by his fall, renews the fight savagely:-- “Ablaze with fury he pursues The Trojan o’er the green, And now his right hand deals the bruise, And now his left as keen. No pause, no respite: fierce and fast As hailstones rattle down the blast On sloping roofs, with blow on blow, He buffets Dares to and fro.”