like a beast that, hemmed in by the hunters’ close-set ring,
vents her rage on the darts and flings herself deliberately
on death, and springs from high on the line of spears, even
thus the doomed youth rushes on the midst of the foe,
making for where he sees the darts are thickest. But
Lycus, far swifter of foot, winds among ranks of foes and 5
showers of steel and gains the wall, and strives to clutch
the fabric’s summit and reach the hands of his friends.
Whom Turnus, following him at once with foot and javelin,
taunts in victorious tone: “Dreamed you, poor fool, that