But loudest in Laurentum rose the noise Of woe and wailing for their friends who died.
Here, mothers, wives, sad sisters, orphaned boys Curse the dire war, and Turnus and his bride.
"Let him, let Turnus fight it out," they cried; "Who claims chief honours and Italia's throne, And caused the quarrel, let his sword decide"; And spiteful Drances: "Ay, 'tis he alone Whom Latium's foes demand; the challenge is his own." XXIX.

And voices, too, with various reasons, plead For Turnus, sheltered by the queen's great name, And spoils that speak for many a glorious deed.
Lo, in the midst, the tumult still aflame, With doleful news from Diomede, back came The envoys.

All was useless,--gifts, and prayer, And proffered gold; his answer was the same: Let Latins look for other arms elsewhere, Or beg the Trojan king in clemency to spare.
XXX.

Grief bowed Latinus, and his heart sank low.
The wrath of Heaven, the recent funerals, The graves before them--all AEneas show The god's true choice.

A council straight he calls, And Latium's chiefs convenes within his walls.
All meet; along the crowded ways the peers Stream at the summons.