With the first dawn Turnus leads his forces to the attack--the heads of Nisus and Euryalus borne in front upon the points of spears, so savage is the Rutulian at the slaughter made by them amongst his sleeping comrades. The mother of Euryalus has heard the news, and sees the ghastly trophies from the ramparts, Iulus performs his promise, and the frantic woman is, under his personal directions, tenderly removed. He himself becomes the hero of the day. The archer’s craft, his love of which had led to the feud with the Latins, is turned to good service in the defence of the camp. Numanus, a brother-in-law of Turnus, is loudly taunting the Trojans in front of their lines:-- “Twice captured Phrygians! to be pent Once more in leaguered battlement, And plant unblushingly between Yourselves and death a stony screen! Lo, these the men that draw their swords To part our ladies from their lords! What god, what madness brings you here To taste of our Italian cheer? No proud Atridæ leads our vans: No false Ulysses talks and plans: E’en from the birth a hardy brood, We take our infants to the flood, And fortify their tender mould With icy wave and ruthless cold. Early and late our sturdy boys Seek through the woods a hunter’s joys: Their pastime is to tame the steed, To bend the bow and launch the reed. Our youth, to scanty fare inured, Made strong by labour oft endured, Subdue the soil with spade and rake, Or city walls with battle shake. Through life we grasp our trusty spear: It strikes the foe, it goads the steer: Age cannot chill our valour: no, The helmet sits on locks of snow; And still we love to store our prey, And eat the fruits our arms purvey. You flaunt your robes in all men’s eyes, Your saffron and your purple dyes, Recline on downy couch, or weave The dreamy dance from morn to eve: Sleeved tunics guard your tender skins, And ribboned mitres prop your chins. Phrygians!--nay rather Phrygian fair! Hence, to your Dindymus repair! Go where the flute’s congenial throat Shrieks through two doors its slender note, Where pipe and cymbal call the crew; These are the instruments for you: Leave men, like us, in arms to deal, Nor bruise your lily hands with steel.” Iulus, after brief prayer to Jupiter, sends an arrow through the boaster’s temples. But Apollo, taking the shape of the boy’s guardian, Butes, warns him to be content with this first triumph: such weapons, says he of the silver bow, with that jealousy of mortals common to all pagan divinities, are not for boys.