But thus the valiant Diomed replied. Incapable of fear: “Thy thought is wrong. I am not wounded, and I well perceive That ye will never give the conflict o’er Till one of you, laid low amid the dust, Pour out his blood to glut the god of war.”

He spake, and cast his spear. Minerva kept The weapon faithful to its aim. It struck The nose, and near the eye; then passing on Betwixt the teeth, the unrelenting edge Cleft at its root the tongue; the point came out Beneath the chin. The warrior from his car Fell headlong; his bright armor, fairly wrought, Clashed round him as he fell; his fiery steeds Started aside with fright; his breath and strength Were gone at once, Aeneas, with his shield And his long spear, leaped down to guard the slain, That the Achaians might not drag him thence. There, lion-like, confiding in his strength, He stalked around the corpse, and over it Held his round shield and lance, prepared to slay Whoever came, and shouting terribly.