With two white steeds into the midmost dashed Bold Lucagus and Liger, brethren twain.
Around him Lucagus his broad sword flashed His brother wheeled the horses with the rein.
Fired at the sight, AEneas in disdain Rushed on them, towering with uplifted spear.
"No steeds of Diomede, nor Phrygian plain," Cries Liger, "nor Achilles' car are here.
This field shall end the war, thy fatal hour is near." LXXX.

So fly his words, but not in words the foe Makes answer, but his javelin hurls with might.
As o'er the lash proud Lucagus bends low To prick the steeds, and planting for the fight His left foot forward, stands in act to smite, Clean through the nether margin of his shield The Dardan shaft goes whistling in its flight, And thrills his groin upon the left.

He reeled, And from the chariot fell half-lifeless on the field.
LXXXI.

Then bitterly AEneas mocked him: "Lo, Proud Lucagus! no lagging steeds have played Thy chariot false, nor shadows of the foe Deceived thy horses, and their hearts dismayed.
'Tis thou--thy leap has lost the car!" He said And snatched the reins.

The brother in despair Slipped down, and spread his hapless hands, and prayed: "O by thyself, great son of Troy, forbear; By those who bore thee such, have pity on my prayer." LXXXII.