seer flung a morsel drowsy with honey and drugged meal. He, opening his triple throat in ravenous hunger, catches it when thrown and, with monstrous frame relaxed, sinks to earth and stretches his bulk over all the den. The warder buried in sleep, Aeneas wins the entrance, and swiftly leaves the bank of that stream whence none return.

At once are heard voices and wailing sore – the souls of infants weeping, whom, on the very threshold of the sweet life they shared not, torn from the breast, the black day swept off and plunged in bitter death. Near them were those on false charge condemned to die. Yet not without lot, not without a judge, are these places given: Minos, presiding, shakes the urn; he it is who calls a conclave of the silent, and learns men’s lives and misdeeds.