Turnus gallops along the walls—a way in?—no way in. As a wolf prowling in wait around some crowded sheepfold, bearing the wind and rain in the dead of night, howls 70 at chinks in the fence, and the lambs keep bleating on, snug beneath their dams. The wolf rages, desperate, how can he maul a quarry out of reach? Exhausted, frenzied with building hunger, starved so long, his jaws parched for blood.
