And now they have crossed the trench, and through night’s shadow Invade the hostile camp; they are bound to be The doom of many. They see the bodies sprawling In drunken sleep, the chariots half turned over, Men lying under the wheels and among the reins, And Nisus whispers:--“Euryalus, we must Be bold; the chance is given; here lies our way. Watch and keep back, lest some one steal upon us Along the trail behind. I lead, you follow Where I have cut the way; it will be a broad one.” His voice was silent; and he drew the sword At Rhamnes, cushioned on high covers, lying In a deep slumber, breathing deep, a king And Turnus’ favorite augur, but his doom No augury prevented. Nisus struck Three slaves, and then the armor-bearer of Remus, And Remus’ charioteer--their necks were severed With steel, and their lord Remus was beheaded. The trunk spurts blood, the earth and couch are darkened With blood, black-flowing. Lamyrus and Lamus Are slain, and young Serranus, handsome gambler Who had won high stakes that night, and slept contented Smiling at the gods’ favor, luckier surely If he had lost all night. A starving lion Loose in a sheepfold with the crazy hunger Urging him on, gnashing and dragging, raging With bloody mouth against the fearful feeble, So Nisus slaughters. And his savage comrade Keeps pace with him: Fadus is slain, Herbesus, Rhoetus, Abaris, all of them unconscious, Murdered in sleep. One of them, Rhoetus, wakened A little, saw, and tried to hide, and crouching Behind a wine-bowl, took the sword, and rose, Stumbled and sprawled and belched, the red life spurting Out of the mouth, red wine, red blood. All hotly Euryalus went on. Messapus’ quarters Are next in line; the fires burn low, the horses, Tether-contented, graze. Then, briefly, Nisus, Sensing his comrade’s recklessness in slaughter, Calls:--“Light is near, our enemy; give over, We have killed enough, we have cut the path we needed. No more of this!” They left behind them armor Of solid silver, bowls, rich-woven carpets, But must take something: Rhamnes’ golden sword-belt Euryalus held on to, all that armor That went with long tradition, from father to son, From son to enemy, once more a trophy For young Euryalus. He dons the armor, Picks up, puts on, besides, a shapely helmet, The spoil of Messapus, the long plume flowing. They leave the camp, are on their way to safety.