So Turnus through the broken ranks doth fly On to the town-walls, where the crimson plain Is soaked, and shrill with javelins shrieks the sky, Then shouts, with hand uplifted, to his train, "Rutulians, hold! Ye Latin men refrain! Mine are the risks of Fortune, mine of right, The truce thus torn, to expiate the stain, And let the sword give judgment." At the sight The hostile ranks divide, and clear the lists of fight.
XCI.

But when the Sire AEneas heard the name Of Turnus, and his foeman's form espied, Down from the ramparts and the towers he came, And scorned delay, and put all else aside, Thundering in arms, and glorying in his pride.
As Athos huge, as Eryx huge he shows, Or huge as Father Apennine, whose side Roars with his nodding oaks, when drifted snows Shine on his joyous crest, and lighten on his brows.
XCII.

Rutulians, Trojans, Latins,--each and all Look wondering on, both they who man the height, And they who batter at the base.

Down fall Their arms.

Amazed Latinus views the sight, Two chiefs from distant countries, matched in might.
The lists set wide, they dash into the fray.
Each hurls a spear, then, hand to hand, they fight.
Loud ring the shields, and quick the broadswords play.
Earth groans, and chance contends with courage for the day.
XCIII.