at Marcellus’ side a youth of goodly presence and in
gleaming armour, but with little joy on his brow and
downcast eyes: “Who, my father, is he that thus attends
the warrior’s march? his son, or one of the glorious line
of his posterity? What a hum runs through the attendant 15
train! how lofty his own mien! but the shadow of gloomy
night hovers saddening round his head.” Father Anchises
began, tears gushing forth the while: “Alas, my son!
ask not of the heavy grief that those of your blood must
bear. Of him the fates shall give but a glimpse to earth, 20