roof sitting by night screams restlessly through the gloom;
in this disguise the fiend again and again flies flapping in 35
Turnus’ face, and beats with her wings on his shield. A
strange chilly terror unknits his frame, his hair stands
shudderingly erect, and his utterance cleaves to his jaws.
But when Juturna knew from far the rustling of those
Fury pinions, she rends, hapless maid, her dishevelled
tresses, marring, in all a sister’s agony, her face with her
nails, her breast with her clenched hands: “What now,
my Turnus, can your sister avail? what more remains for 5