719Acron had come from the ancient territory of Corythus, a Greek, leaving his marriage unfulfilled as an exile. 721When Mezentius saw him far off throwing the middle ranks into confusion, crimson with plumes and the purple of his betrothed wife: as an unfed lion, often ranging the high pens, for maddened hunger urges him, if by chance he spots a fleeing roe or a stag rising to its antlers, rejoices, gaping hugely, raises his mane and clings to the entrails crouching over them, and foul gore bathes his savage jaws; so eager Mezentius rushes into the dense enemy. 730Unhappy Acron is laid low, and dying beats the black ground with his heels and stains the broken weapons with blood.
732And the same man did not deign to lay low Orodes as he fled, or to give him a blind wound with a thrown spear: he ran to meet him face to face and engaged him man to man, superior not by stealth but by brave arms. 736Then, with his foot planted on the fallen man and leaning on his spear: 'Men, here lies tall Orodes, no part of the war to scorn.' 738His comrades shout together, taking up a joyful paean. 739But he, breathing his last: 'Not unavenged, whoever you are, victor, nor for long will you rejoice: an equal fate looks out for you too, and soon you will hold the same fields.' 742To this Mezentius, smiling with anger mixed in: 'Now die.
743As for me, the father of gods and king of men will see to that.' 744Saying this, he drew the weapon from the body: harsh rest and iron sleep press upon his eyes, and his eyes are closed in everlasting night.