who had fled forth leaving his nuptials yet to celebrate;
him, when Mezentius saw at distance scattering the intervening
ranks, in pride of crimson plumage and the purple
of his plighted bride, even as oft a famished lion ranging 25
through high-built stalls—for frantic hunger is his
prompter—if he chance to mark a flying goat or towering-antlered
deer, grins with huge delight, sets up his
mane, and hangs over the rent flesh, while loathly blood
laves his insatiate jaws—so joyfully springs Mezentius 30
on the foe’s clustering mass. Down goes ill-starred Acron,