So spake Apollo's aged prophetess. “Now up and on!” she cried. “Thy task fulfil! We must make speed. Behold yon arching doors Yon walls in furnace of the Cyclops forged! 'T is there we are commanded to lay down Th' appointed offering.” So, side by side, Swift through the intervening dark they strode, And, drawing near the portal-arch, made pause. Aeneas, taking station at the door, Pure, lustral waters o'er his body threw, And hung for garland there the Golden Bough.