sire, now biding forlornly far away in his Ardean home!” 20
These words abate not Turnus’ vehemence a whit: it
starts up fiercer, more virulent for the healing hand.
Soon as he can find utterance, he thus begins: “The care
you take for my sake, best of fathers, lay down for my
sake, I beg, and suffer me to pledge my life for my honour. 25
My hand, too, can scatter darts and fling steel with no
feeble force; my blows, too, fetch blood. He will not have
his goddess-mother within call, to hide her craven son in an
unmanly cloud, and conceal herself by help of treacherous