Ascanius, riding in triumph at the head of his cavalry,
spurred his horse just as he was to the wildering camp,
while his breathless guardians strive in vain to stay him.
“What strange madness this? whither now, whither 25
would ye go,” cries he, “my poor countrywomen? It is
not the Argive foe and his hated camp—it is your own
hopes that you are burning. See, I am your own Ascanius”—at
his feet he flung his empty helmet which he was
wearing in sport as he helped to raise the image of war. 30
Quick follows Æneas, quick the Teucrian host at his heels.