They had come to the threshold, when the maiden cries: “Tis time to ask the oracles; the god, lo! the god!” As thus she spoke before the doors, suddenly not countenance nor colour was the same, nor stayed her tresses braided; but her bosom heaves, her heart swells with wild frenzy, and she is taller to behold, nor has her voice a mortal ring, since now she feels the nearer breath of deity. “Are you slow to vow and to pray?” she cries. “Are you slow, Trojan Aeneas? For till then the mighty mouths of the awestruck house will not gape open.” So she spoke and was mute. A chill shudder ran through the Teucrians’ sturdy frames, and their king pours forth prayers from his inmost heart: “Phoebus, who never failed to pity Troy’s sore agony, who guided the Dardan shaft and hand of Paris against the body of