Juturna, warned by Jove's messenger, a bird of evil omen, tore her locks and beat her breast, regretting the gift of immortality conferred on her by Jove. Then wrapping her gray veil about her, she fled to her watery throne that she might not see the death of her brother. The frightened Turnus, still fleeing from Aeneas, abandoned his sword and took up instead a mighty rock, a landmark such as scarce six men could uplift.
Hurling this at Aeneas, he stood, his blood running chill, his eyes cast towards the Rutuli, the town, and the spear of Aeneas, that, shrieking through the air, doom laden, wrecked his heavy shield and pierced his thigh.
"Mercy!" he prayed. "Fate hath given thee the advantage. Think, thou duteous son, of my old father, Daunus."
As Aeneas stood, softened, and ready to grant the request, the sword-belt of Pallas caught his eye.
"Shalt thou escape, decked out with Pallas's spoils? No, not I slay thee, but Pallas! His hand immolates thee!" As he spoke he plunged his sword in Turnus's breast.
Chilly death came, and the warrior's spirit fled, groaning to the shades.
While Aeneas, finding the Latins hostile to him, sailed up the Tiber in search of allies, the troops he left behind under Ascanius were attacked by Turnus, and their slight fortifications besieged. They were sorely pressed, and longed to be able to inform Aeneas of their need.
Nisus was guardian of the gate, No bolder heart in war's debate, The son of Hyrtacus, whom Ide Sent, with his quiver at his side, From hunting beasts in mountain brake To follow in Aeneas' wake: With him Euryalus, fair boy; None fairer donned the arms of Troy; His tender cheek as yet unshorn And blossoming with youth new-born. Love made them one in every thought: In battle side by side they fought; And now in duty at the gate The twain in common station wait. "Can it be Heaven," said Nisus then, "That lends such warmth to hearts of men, Or passion surging past control That plays the god to each one's soul? Long time, impatient of repose, My swelling heart within me glows, And yearns its energy to fling On war, or some yet grander thing. See there the foe, with vain hope flushed! Their lights are scant, their stations hushed: Unnerved by slumber and by wine Their bravest chiefs are stretched supine. Now to my doubting thought give heed And listen where its motions lead. Our Trojan comrades, one and all, Cry loud, Aeneas to recall, And where, they say, the men to go And let him of our peril know? Now if the meed I ask they swear To give you--nay, I claim no share, Content with bare renown-- Meseems, beside yon grassy heap The way I well might find and keep, To Pallanteum's town." The youth returns, while thirst of praise Infects him with a strange amaze: "Can Nisus aim at heights so great, Nor take his friend to share his fate? Shall I look on, and let you go Alone to venture 'mid the foe? Not thus my sire Opheltes, versed In war's rude toil, my childhood nursed, When Argive terror filled the air And Troy was battling with despair: Nor such the lot my youth has tried, In hardship ever at your side, Since, great Aeneas' liegeman sworn, I followed Fortune to her bourne: Here, here within this bosom burns A soul that mere existence spurns, And holds the fame you seek to reap, Though bought with life, were bought full cheap."