kes much entreaty; warm
brain from the wound splashes his face. One met her thus and hung
startled by the sudden sight, the warrior son of Aunus haunter of the
Apennine, not the meanest in Liguria while fate allowed him to deceive.
And he, when he discerns that no fleetness of foot may now save him from
battle or turn the princess from pursuit, essays to wind a subtle device
of treachery, and thus begins: 'How hast thou glory, if a woman trust in
her horse's strength? Debar retreat; trust thyself to level ground at
close quarters with me, and prepare to fight on foot. Soon wilt thou
know how windy boasting brings one to harm.' He spoke; but she, furious
and stung with fiery indignation, hands her horse to an attendant, and
takes her stand in equal arms on foot and undismayed, with naked sword
and shield unemblazoned. But he, thinking his craft had won the day,
himself flies off on the instant, and turning his rein, darts off in
flight, pricking his beast to speed with iron-armed heel. 'False
Ligurian, in vain elated in thy pride! for naught hast thou attempted
thy slippery native arts, nor will thy craft bring thee home unhurt to
treacherous Aunus.' So speaks the maiden, and with running feet swift as
fire crosses his horse, and catching the bridle, meets him in front and
takes her vengeance in her enemy's blood: as lightly as the falcon, bird
of bale, swoops down from aloft on a pigeon high in a cloud, and pounces
on and holds her, and disembowels her with taloned feet, while blood and
torn feathers flutter down the sky.

But the creator of men and gods sits high on Olympus' [726-759]summit
watching this, not with eyes unseeing: he kindles Tyrrhenian Tarchon to
the fierce battle, and sharply goads him on to wrath. So Tarchon gallops
amid the slaughter where his squadrons retreat, and urges his troops in
changing tones, calling man on man by name, and rallies the fliers to
fight. 'What terror, what utter cowardice hath fallen on your spirits, O
never to be stung to shame, O slack alway? a woman drives you in
disorder and routs our ranks! Why wear we steel? for what are these idle
weapons in our hands? Yet not slack in Venus' service and wars by night,
or, when the curving flute proclaims Bacchus' revels, to look forward to
the feast and the cups on the loaded board (this your passion, this your
desire!) till the soothsayer pronounce the offering favourable, and the
fatted victim invite you to the deep groves.' So speakin