of the wood, and Gradivus,[144] our father, patron of the land
of Thrace, that they might duly turn the appearance to
good, and make the heavy omen light. But when I come 15
to tear up a third spear-shaft with a still greater effort,
straining with my knees against the sand which pressed on
them—ought I to tell the tale or hold my peace?—a lamentable
groan is heard from the bottom of the mound, and
the utterance of a human voice reaches my ear: ‘Why, 20
Æneas, mangle a wretch like me? Spare me at length in
my grave—spare those pious hands the stain of guilt.