Note (return) — BOOK THE FIFTH.

And there, of a truth, Æneas, the king of men, had perished, unless Venus, the daughter of Jove, had quickly perceived him, his mother, who brought him forth to Anchises as he fed his oxen; 211 but around her own dear son she spread her white arms, and before him she extended the folds of her shining robe, as a fence against arrows, lest any of the swift-horsed Greeks having cast the steel into his breast, should take away his life. She, indeed, stealthily bore off her beloved son from the battle. Nor was the son of Capaneus forgetful of those commands which warlike Diomede gave him: but he detained his own solid-hoofed steeds apart from the tumult, having stretched forth the reins from the rim; and rushing forward, drove from the Trojans to the well-greaved Greeks the beautiful-maned steeds of Æneas, and gave them to Deipylus, his beloved companion (whom he honoured above all his coevals, because he possessed in his mind sentiments congenial with himself), to drive them to the hollow ships: but the hero himself, having ascended his chariot, took the splendid reins; and instantly drove his solid-hoofed steeds after the son of Tydeus with ardour; but Diomede pursued Venus with the cruel steel, 212 knowing that she was an unwarlike goddess, nor [one] of those goddesses who administer the war of men, neither Minerva, nor city-destroying Bellona. But when he had now overtaken her, having pursued her through a great crowd, then the son of magnanimous Tydeus, having stretched forward, wounded the feeble [goddess] in the extremity of the hand, bounding on with the sharp brass. Instantly the spear pierced through the skin, through her ambrosial robe (which the Graces themselves had wrought), at the extremity [of the hand] above the palm. Immortal blood flowed from the goddess, ichor, such, to wit, as flows from the blessed gods. For they eat not bread, nor drink dark wine; therefore are they bloodless, and are called immortal. But she screaming aloud, cast her son from her: and him Phoebus Apollo rescued in his hands in a sable cloud, lest any of the swift-horsed Greeks, casting the steel into his breast, should take away his life. But warlike Diomede shouted loudly after her: