progress forward and midway in the effort fail helplessly;
our tongue has no power, our wonted strength stands not
our frames in stead, nor do words or utterance come at 10
our call: so it is with Turnus: whatever means his valour
tries, the fell fiend bars them of their issue. And now
confused images whirl through his brain: he looks to his
Rutulians and to the city, and falters with dread, and
quails at the threatening spear: how to escape he knows 15
not, nor how to front the foe, nor sees he anywhere his
car or the sister who drives it.