the grim leader of the Aurunci sank lifeless on the field.  His fall was a sore discouragement to the troops of Turnus, which would have sought safety in flight, had not Lausus, the gallant son of Mezentius,—­noble and upright offspring of an unworthy father,—­suddenly come to their aid.  First encountering Abas, leader of the Populonians, he slew him with a single blow of his sword, and followed up his success with a furious slaughter of Arcadians and Etrurians.  Thus the battle continued:  on the one side Pallas impetuously urged the attack; on the other Lausus not less obstinately maintained the defense.  They were equal in years, and in beauty and grace of form; and to both alike the Fates had assigned a place among the victims of the war.  But the Gods had ordained that they should not encounter hand to hand; each was destined to succumb to a superior foe.

Turnus was leading his troops in another quarter of the field, when he was summoned to hasten to the assistance of Lausus, who alone was bearing up the battle against Pallas and his Arcadians.  Quickly he turned his chariot in that direction, and as soon as he reached the spot, called on his warriors to withdraw from the conflict.  “I alone,” he said, “will encounter Pallas; to me his life is given.  Would to Heaven his father were here to witness our combat.”  The Rutulians obeyed the command of their king, and fell back; while Pallas, amazed at their retreat and the sudden appearance of Turnus, gazed on his opponent.  Then, in reply to his vaunting speech, he said, “Now, either by carrying off thy spoils or by a noble death at thy hands, I shall be rendered famous.  My sire knows how to bear either extremity of fortune.  Cease thy threatenings and let us engage.”  As he spoke, the hearts of the Arcadians, who loved him, were filled with fear and sorrow.  Turnus sprang from his chariot, and came forward to the encounter on foot, advancing as a lion bounds toward his prey.  As soon as Pallas thought him within reach of his spear, he prepared to throw it, and uttered this prayer to Hercules:  “By my father’s hospitality, and that abode which thou, his guest, didst visit, O Alcides, aid, I implore thee, my arduous attempt.  May the dying eyes of Turnus behold me strip him, expiring, of his bloody armor, and endure the sight of a victorious foe.”  Hercules, from his place on Olympus, heard the prayer, and knowing that the decree of Fate was otherwise, answered with heavy groans and unavailing tears.  These were not unseen by Jupiter, who strove to console his immortal son.  “To every one,” he said, “his day is fixed; a short and irretrievable term of life is given to all; but to lengthen out fame by heroic deeds is the best that man can do.  Under the lofty walls of Troy many sons of gods themselves perished,—­among them the heroic Sarpedon, my own offspring, perished; Turnus, too, is summoned by the Fates, and has nearly reached his term of life.”  He spoke, and turned away his gaze from the battlefield, himself pitying the untimely death of Pallas.