Tuscans charge, and hail their chief's essay.

XCVII. Now, due to fate, aloof with lifted lance,
The crafty Aruns round Camilla wheels,
And tries where fortune lends the readiest chance.
Oft as she charges, where the war-shout peals,
He slips unseen, and follows on her heels.
When back she runs, triumphant from the foe,
He shifts the rein, and from the conflict steals.
Now here, now there, he doubles to and fro,
And shakes his felon spear, but hesitates to throw.

XCVIII. Lo, Chloreus, priest of Cybele, aglow
In Phrygian armour, gorgeous to behold,
Urges his foaming charger at the foe,
All decked in feathered chain-work, linked with gold.
Cretan his shafts, his bow of Lycian mould.
Dark blue and foreign purple clothed his breast,
Golden his casque and bow; his mantle's fold
Of yellow saffron knots of gold compressed,
And buskins bound his knees, and broidered was his vest.

XCIX. Him the fierce huntress, whether fain the shrine
To deck with trophies, or with envious eyes
Wishful herself in Trojan arms to shine,
Marks in the strife; at him alone she flies,
Proud, like a woman, of her fancied prize.
Blindly she runs, uncautious of the snare,
When, darting from the ambush, where he lies,
The moment snatched, false Aruns shakes his spear,
And thus, with measured aim, invokes the Gods with prayer.

C. "O Phoebus, guardian of Soracte's steep,
Whom first we honour, to whose sacred name,
Thy votaries, we, the blazing pine-wood heap,
And, firm in faith, pass through the smouldering flame,
Grant that our arms may wipe away this shame.
Trophies, nor spoils, nor plunder from the prey
Be mine; I look to other deeds for fame.
If wound of mine this hateful pest shall slay,
Home will I gladly go, and fameless quit the fray."

CI. Apollo heard, and granted half his prayer,
And half he scattered to the winds. To slay
With sudden stroke Camilla unaware
He gave, but gave not his returning day;
The breezes puffed the bootless wish away.
Shrill sang the lance; each Volscian eye and heart
Turned to the queen. The weapon on its way,--
The rush of air she heeds not, till the dart
Strikes home, and, staying, draws the life-blood from her heart.

CII. Up run her friends, the fainting queen to aid,
More scared than all, in fear and joy amain,
False Aruns flies, nor dares to face the m