"How long will you tarry here among your kinsmen, my prince?" grumbles the Dardanian ambassador; Aeneas imagines he has been instructed to do so by Father, who tires of leading his assemblies alone.
"At least until the marriages of my cousins are concluded," he replies, "only imagine how it would look to slight any of Priam's mighty sons"; but his eyes are fixed on one cousin in particular, the brightest and dearest (and maddest) of them all.
Her hair gleams like dark fire, and Aeneas itches to burn.