within him. Pierced is the shield by the edge, the light
armour he carried so threateningly, and the tunic embroidered
by his mother with delicate golden thread, and 20
his bosom is deluged with blood; and anon the life flits
through the air regretfully to the shades and the body is
left tenantless. But when the son of Anchises saw the
look and countenance of the dying—the countenance
with its strange and varying hues of pallor—heavily he 25
groaned for pity and stretched forth his hand, and the
portraiture of filial love stood before his soul. “What