scattered wide whirling stones and trees uprooted from its
banks, soon as Pallas saw his Arcadians, unused to wage
war on foot, flying before the chase of Latium, in that the
cragginess of the soil had driven them to discard their 5
steeds, he tries the one remedy in sore distress, and now
with prayers, now with bitter speeches, inflames their
valour: “Whither fly ye, mates? By your gallant deeds
I conjure you—by your chief Evander’s name and victories
won at his bidding—by my own promise, now 10
shooting up in rivalry with my father’s glory—trust not