Driving through The ranks, "Stand off," he shouts to his allies, "I fight with Pallas; Pallas is my due.
Would that his sire were here himself to view!" All clear the field.

Then, pondering with surprise The proud command, as back the crowd withdrew, The youth, amazed at Turnus, rolls his eyes And scans his giant foe, and thus in scorn replies: LXI.

"Or kingly spoils shall make me famed to-day, Or glorious death.

Whatever end remain, My sire can bear it.

Put thy threats away." Then forth he stepped; cold horror chills his train.
Down from his car, close combat to darrain, Leapt Turnus.