he cried, raising his eyes and hands towards heaven, “why dost thou think me worthy of such shame as this?  What have I done to merit such a punishment? whither am I borne?  How shall I venture again to enter the walls of Laurentum or look upon my camp?  What will be said of me by the warriors who have followed me into this war, and whom—­unutterable shame!—­I have abandoned to the bloodthirsty Trojans!  O winds! take pity on me, I entreat you; dash this vessel on some rugged crag, and overwhelm me so that I can no longer be conscious either of my humiliation or of the reproaches of my Rutulians.”  While he thus lamented, he was uncertain whether he should put an end to his own life with his sword or plunge into the sea and endeavor to regain the land by swimming.  Three times he attempted each expedient, and as often Juno, full of pity, restrained him.  Carried along by a favorable wind, the ship bore him safely to the capital of his father, King Daunus.

Meanwhile AEneas raged through the battle-field in search of the victim whom the queen of the Gods had thus snatched from his conquering hands.  Under his leadership the Trojans and their allies, flushed with success, pressed more eagerly on their discomfited foe; but Mezentius now advanced to restore the courage of the Rutulians.  The Etrurians, as soon as they saw their expelled monarch, out of hostility to whom they had engaged in the war, rushed upon him with shouts of rage; but he, as fearless as he was wicked, stood as firmly against them as a great rock on the shore meets all the fury of the winds and waves.  Three warriors he overthrew in quick succession:  Hebrus he cut down with his sword, Latagus he slew by hurling a great stone which battered in his face, and at Palmus he threw a javelin which pierced his thigh and extended him helpless on the ground.  Then the raging king slew Evas the Phrygian, and a Trojan named Mimas, who in former days had been the companion of Paris, having been born in Troy on the same night that gave to the light the ill-starred son of Priam.  Paris now lay in eternal repose amid the ruins of his native city, while to Mimas the sword of Mezentius assigned an unknown grave on the distant shore of Italy.  And just as when an old wild boar, chased from his retreat amid the wooded Alps, stands at bay among the underwood, and the hunters, afraid to approach him, ply him with darts from a distance, while he gnashes his tusks with rage and faces them undaunted, so stood Mezentius; while his former subjects, though filled with just anger against him, and eager for his destruction, dare not come within reach of his dreaded sword, but galled him with spears and useless clamor.  It chanced that a Greek from Corytus, named Acron, presented himself in the front, conspicuous in nodding plumes, and in purple trappings that had been worked for him by his betrothed wife.  His gay attire caught the eye of Mezentius, who rushed forward and smote down the luckless Greek; then, as