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Full many a spoil they leave behind
Of solid silver thrice refined,
Armour and bowls of costliest mould
And rugs in rich confusion rolled.
A belt Euryalus puts on
With golden knobs, from Rhamnes won:
Of old by Cædicus 'twas sent,
An absent friendship to cement,
To Remulus, fair Tibur's lord,
Who, dying, to his grandson left
The shining prize: the Rutule sword
In after days the trophy reft.
Athwart his manly chest in vain
He binds these trappings of the slain;
Then 'neath his chin in triumph laced
Messapus' helm, with plumage graced.
The camp at length they leave behind,
And round the lake securely wind.

Meanwhile a troop is on its way,
From Latium's city sped,
An offshoot from the host that lay
Along the plain in close array,
Three hundred horsemen, sent to bring
A message back to Turnus king,
With Volscens at their head.
Now to the camp they draw them nigh,
Beneath the rampart's height,
When from afar the twain they spy,
Still steering from the right;
The helmet through the glimmering shade
At once the unwary boy betrayed,
Seen in the moon's full light.
Not lost the sight on jealous eyes:
'Ho! stand! who are ye?' Volscens cries
'Whence come, or whither tend?'