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Then she speaks thus:

'Turnus, if bravery hath any just self-confidence, I dare and promise to
engage Aeneas' cavalry, and advance to meet the Tyrrhene horse. Permit
my hand to try war's first perils: do thou on foot keep by the walls and
guard the city. '

To this Turnus, with eyes fixed on the terrible maiden: 'O maiden flower
of Italy, how may I essay to express, how to prove my gratitude? But
now, since that spirit of thine excels all praise, share thou the toil
with me. Aeneas, as the report of the scouts I sent assures, hath sent
on his light-armed horse to annoy us and scour the plains; himself he
marches on the city across the lonely ridge of the mountain steep. I am
arranging a stratagem of [515-550]war in his pathway on the wooded
slope, to block a gorge on the highroad with armed troops. Do thou
receive and join battle with the Tyrrhene cavalry; with thee shall be
gallant Messapus, the Latin squadrons, and Tiburtus' division: do thou
likewise assume a captain's charge. '

So speaks he, and with like words heartens Messapus and the allied
captains to battle, and advances towards the enemy. There is a sweeping
curve of glen, made for ambushes and devices of arms. Dark thick foliage
hems it in on either hand, and into it a bare footpath leads by a narrow
gorge and difficult entrance. Right above it on the watch-towers of the
hill-top lies an unexpected level, hidden away in shelter, whether one
would charge from right and left or stand on the ridge and roll down
heavy stones. Hither he passes by a line of way he knew, and, seizing
his ground, occupies the treacherous woods.

Meanwhile in the heavenly dwellings Latona's daughter addressed fleet
Opis, one of her maiden fellowship and sacred band, and sadly uttered
these accents: 'Camilla moves to fierce war, O maiden, and vainly girds
on our arms, dear as she is beyond others to me. For her love of Diana
is not newly born, nor her spirit stirred by sudden affection. Driven
from his kingdom through jealousy of his haughty power, Metabus left
ancient Privernum town, and bore his infant with him in his flight
through war and battle, the companion of his exile, and called her by
her mother Casmilla's name, with a little change, Camilla.
Carrying her
before him on his breast, he sought a long ridge of lonely woodland; on
all sides angry weapons pressed on him, and Volscian soldiery spread
hurrying round about. Lo, in mid flight swoln Amasenus ran foaming with
banks abrim, so heavily had the clouds burst in rain. He would swim it;
but love of the infant holds him back in alarm for so dear a burden.
Inly revolving [551-586]all, he settled reluctantly on a sudden
resolve: the great spear that the warrior haply carried in his stout
hand, of hard-knotted and seasoned oak, to it he ties his daughter
swathed in cork-tree bark of the woodland, and binds her balanced round
the middle of the spear; poising it in his great right hand he thus
cries aloft: "Gracious one, haunter of the woodland, maiden daughter of
Latona, a father devotes this babe to thy service; thine is this weapon
she holds, thine infant suppliant, flying through the air from her
enemies. Accept her, I implore, O goddess, for thine own, whom now I
entrust to the chance of air. " He spoke, and drawing back his arm, darts
the spinning spear-shaft: the waters roar: over the racing river poor
Camilla shoots on the whistling weapon. But Metabus, as a strong band
now presses nigher, plunges into the river, and triumphantly pulls spear
and girl, his gift to Trivia, from the grassy turf. No cities ever
received him within house or rampart, nor had his savagery submitted to
it; he led his life on the lonely pastoral hills. Here he nursed his
daughter in the underwood among tangled coverts, on the milk of a wild
brood-mare's teats, squeezing the udder into her tender lips. And so
soon as the baby stood and went straight on her feet, he armed her hands
with a sharp javelin, and hung quiver and bow from her little shoulders.
Instead of gold to clasp her tresses, instead of the long skirted gown,
a tiger's spoils hang down her back. Even then her tender hand hurled
childish darts, and whirled about her head the twisted thong of her
sling, and struck down the crane from Strymon or the milk-white swan.
Many a mother among Tyrrhenian towns destined her for their sons in
vain; content with Diana alone, she keeps unsoiled for ever the love of
her darts and maidenhood. Would she had not plunged thus into warfare
and provoked the Trojans by attack! so were she now dear to me and one
of my [587-620]company. But since bitter doom is upon her, up, glide
from heaven, O Nymph, and seek the Latin borders, where under evil omen
they join in baleful battle.