Meanwhile the father at the wave of Tiber’s flood was
stanching his wounds with water, and giving ease to his
frame, leaning on a tree’s trunk. His brazen helmet is hanging
from a distant bough, and his heavy arms are resting
on the mead. Round him stand his bravest warriors: he,
sick and panting, is relieving his neck, while his flowing 5
beard scatters over his bosom: many a question asks he
about Lausus, many a messenger he sends to call him off
and convey to him the charge of his grieving sire. But
Lausus the while was being carried breathless on his shield