It would seem that her anguish must melt a heart of stone, but Æneas remained apparently immovable. Before him still shone the vision of the god, and in his ears Jove’s message rang insistently. Controlling every tender impulse, he answered in words that were made harsh by restraint. To Dido their coldness was as cruel as death and far more bitter. She did not know the gentle Æneas in the grip of the force that was driving him, transforming him into a monster of ingratitude. “_This man thrown up a beggar on my shores, I took him in, insanely gave him up A portion of my realm, from very death Redeemed his comrades, saved his scattered ships. ... Go! Make for Italy! Chased by the winds, across the wild waves seek These vaunted kingdoms! But in sooth I hope, If the benignant Gods can aught avail, Vengeance will strike thee midway on the rocks, Calling and calling upon Dido’s name._“[34] She was borne away fainting, and Æneas, racked by pity that he dare not show, made his way down to the harbour to hasten the sailing of the fleet. Day by day his men toiled with a will, for they were sick of inaction and eager to get away, although winter was already upon them. And watching from her tower, Dido saw each day’s work completed with deeper misery, and a growing sense of despair. Very soon now all would be ready; the day was rapidly approaching when Æneas would trust himself to that stormy winter sea, with small chance, as she knew, of ever reaching Latium. At the thought of that final parting and of her lover’s danger, Dido’s anger melted, and every vestige of her pride was swept away. She could not and would not let him go like this. At the risk of worse humiliation still, she would make another effort to keep him in Carthage, at least until the stormy season should be passed. In feverish haste she called Anna and sent a poignant message. “_In pity of my love, Let him concede this boon—the last I crave,— And wait propitious winds to speed his flight._“[34] But Æneas is inexorable, and when Anna returns to the queen with his refusal, it adds the last intolerable touch to her pain and shame. Nightlong she roams the palace, like one distraught; and finding her way to the tomb of Sichæus, she prays to die. Strange omens answer her; and to her maddened brain it seems that the voice of her husband is calling her to come to him. The water of her libation turns black as she pours it upon the altar, and the wine congeals to blood. The high gods have answered her: they approve her purpose.