to the wind; while some are filling the sky with quivering
shrieks, clad in fawn-skins, and carrying vine-branch
spears. There in the middle is the queen all aglow, lifting 35
high a blazing pine, and singing the bridal song of Turnus
and her daughter, her eye red and glaring; and sudden she
shouts like a savage: “Ho! mothers of Latium all, where’er
ye be, if ye have human hearts and kindness left there for
poor Amata, if ye are stung to think of a mother’s rights,
off with the fillets from your hair, and join the orgie with
me.” Such is the queen, driven among the woods, among