Orlando Furioso

CANTO 40

AR­GU­MENT To fly the roy­al Agra­mant is fain, And sees Bis­er­ta burn­ing far away; But land­ing finds the roy­al Ser­icane, Who of his faith gives good­ly war­rant; they De­fy Or­lan­do, backed by cham­pi­ons twain; Whom bold Gradas­so firm­ly trusts to slay. For sev­en kings’ sake, fast pris­on­ers to their foes, Rogero and the Dane ex­change rude blows.

I The di­verse chances of that sea-​fight dread, Here to re­hearse would take a weary while; And to dis­course to you up­on this head, Great son of Her­cules, were to Samos’ isle To car­ry earth­en ves­sels, as ’tis said, To Athens owls, and crocodiles the Nile. In that, my lord, by what is vouched to me, Such things you saw, such things made oth­ers see.

II Your faith­ful peo­ple gazed on a long show, That night and day, where­in they crowd­ed stood, As in a the­atre, and hemmed on Po Twixt fire and sword, the hos­tile navies viewed. What out­cries may be heard, what sounds of woe, How rivers may run red with hu­man blood, In such­like com­bat, in how many a mode Men die, you saw, and you to many showed.

III I saw not, I, who was com­pelled to course, Ev­er­more chang­ing nags, six days be­fore, To Rome, in heat and haste, some help­ful force Of him our mighty pas­tor to im­plore. But, af­ter, need was none of foot or horse, For so the li­on’s beak and claws you tore, From that day un­to this I hear not said That he more trou­ble in your land has bread.

IV But Trot­to, present at this vic­to­ry, Afranio, Mo­ro, Al­bert, Han­ni­bal, Zerbinat, Bag­no, the Ar­ios­tos three, As­sured me of the mighty feat with­al, Cer­ti­fied af­ter by that en­sign­ry, Sus­pend­ed from the holy tem­ple’s wall, And fif­teen gal­leys at our riv­er-​side, Which with a thou­sand cap­tive barks I spied.

V He that those wrecks and blaz­ing fires dis­cerned, And such sore slaugh­ter, un­der dif­fer­ent shows, Which — veng­ing us for hall and palace burned — While bark re­mained, raged wide among the foes, Might al­so deem how Africk’s peo­ple mourned, With Agra­mant, mid di­verse deaths and woes, On that dark night, when the red­out­ed Dane As­sault­ed in mid sea the Moor­ish train.

VI ‘Twas night, nor gleam was any­where de­scried, When first the fleets in fu­ri­ous strife were blend­ed; But when lit sul­phur, pitch and tar from side And poop and prow in­to the sky as­cend­ed, And the de­struc­tive wild-​fire, scat­tered wide, Fed up­on ship and shal­lop ill de­fend­ed, The things about them all de­scried so clear That night was changed to day, as ‘twould ap­pear.

VII Hence Agra­mant, that by the dark de­ceived, Had rat­ed not so high the foes’ ar­ray, Nor to en­counter such a force be­lieved, But would, if ’twere op­posed, at last give way, When that wide dark­ness cleared, and he per­ceived (What least he weened up­on the first af­fray) That twice as many were the ships he fought, As his own Moor­ish barks, took oth­er thought.

VI­II In­to a boat he with some few de­scends, Brigli­ador and some pre­cious things, to flee; And so, twixt ship and ship, in si­lence wends, Un­til he finds him­self in safer sea, Far from his own; whom fiery Dudon shends, Re­duced to sad and sore ex­trem­ity; Them steel de­stroys, fires burn, and wa­ters drown; While he, that mighty slaugh­ter’s cause, is flown.

IX Agra­mant flies, and with him old So­brine, Agra­mant griev­ing he had not be­lieved, What time that sage fore­saw with eye di­vine, And told the woe where­with he is ag­grieved. But turn me to the valiant pal­adine, Who, be­fore oth­er aid can be re­ceived, Coun­sels the duke Bis­er­ta to de­stroy; That it no more may Chris­tian France an­noy.

X And hence in pub­lic or­der was it said, The camp should to its arms the third day stand; For this, it was with many barks best­ed; For all were placed not at the Dane’s com­mand. That fleet the wor­thy San­sonet­to led, (As good a war­rior he by sea as land) Which a mile off the port, and overight Bis­er­ta, now was an­chored by the knight.

XI Or­lan­do and the duke, like Chris­tians true, Which dare no dan­ger with­out God for guide, That fast and prayer be made their army through, Or­dain by procla­ma­tion to be cried; And that up­on the third day, when they view The sig­nal, all shall bown them, far and wide, Bis­er­ta’s roy­al city to at­tack, Which they, when tak­en, doom to fire and sack.

XII And so, when now de­vout­ly have been done Vig­il and vow, and holy prayer and fast, Kin, friends, and those to one an­oth­er known, To­geth­er feast; who, when with glad repast Their wast­ed bod­ies were re­freshed, be­gun To em­brace and weep; and acts and speech­es past, Up­on the ban­quet’s close, amid those crews Such as best friends, about to sev­er, use.

XI­II The holy priests with­in Bis­er­ta’s wall, Pray with their griev­ing peo­ple, and in tears, Aye beat their bo­soms, and for suc­cour call Up­on their Ma­homet, who noth­ing hears. What vig­ils, of­fer­ings, and what gifts with­al Were promised silent­ly, amid their fears! What tem­ples, stat­ues, im­ages were vowed, In mem­ory of their bit­ter woes, aloud!

XIV And, when the ca­di hath his bless­ing said, The peo­ple arms and to the ram­part hies. As yet repos­ing in her Tithon’s bed Au­ro­ra was, and dusky were the skies; When to their posts, their sev­er­al troops to head, Here San­sonet­to, there As­tolpho flies. And when they hear Or­lan­do’s sig­nal blown As­sault with fu­ri­ous force Bis­er­ta’s town.

XV Washed by the sea, up­on two quar­ters, were The city walls, two stood on the dry shore, Of a con­struc­tion ex­cel­lent and rare, Where­in was seen the work of days of yore: Of oth­er bul­warks was the town nigh bare; For since Bran­zar­do there the scep­tre bore; Few ma­sons at com­mand, and lit­tle space That monarch had to for­ti­fy the place.

XVI The Nu­bian king is charged by Eng­land’s peer, With sling and ar­row so the Moors to gall, That none up­on the works shall dare ap­pear; And that, pro­tect­ed by the cease­less fall Of stone and dart, in safe­ty cav­alier And foot­man may ap­proach the very wall; Who load­ed, some with plank, with rock-​stone some, And some with beam, or weight­ier bur­den, come.

XVII This and that oth­er thing the Nu­bians bore, And by de­grees filled-​up that chan­nel wide, Whose wa­ters were cut off the day be­fore, So that in many parts the ooze was spied. Filled is the ditch in haste from shore to shore, And forms a lev­el to the fur­ther side. Cheer­ing the foot­men on the works to mount, Stand Olivi­er, As­tolpho, and the Count.

XVI­II The Nu­bian up­on hope of gain in­tent, Im­pa­tient of de­lay, nor heed­ing how With press­ing per­ils they were com­passed, went Pro­tect­ed by the shel­ter­ing boar and sow. With bat­ter­ing ram, and oth­er in­stru­ment, To break the gate and make the tur­ret bow, Speed­ily to the city wall they post, Nor un­pro­vid­ed find the payn­im host.

XIX For steel, and fire, and roof, and tur­ret there, In guise of tem­pest on the Nu­bians fell, Which plank and beam from those dread en­gines tear, Made for an­noy­ance of the in­fi­del. In the ill be­gin­ning, and while dim the air, Much in­jury the chris­tened host be­fell; But when the sun from his rich man­sion breaks, For­tune the fac­tion of the Moor for­sakes.

XX The as­sault is re­in­forced on ev­ery side, By Count Or­lan­do, both by sea and land: The fleet, with San­sonet­to for its guide, En­tered the har­bour, and ap­proached the strand; And sore­ly they with var­ious en­gines plied, With ar­rows and with slings, the payn­im band; And sent the as­sailants scal­ing-​lad­der, spear, And naval stores, and ev­ery need­ful gear.

XXI Or­lan­do, Oliviero, Brandi­mart, And he, in air so dar­ing hereto­fore, Do fierce and fu­ri­ous bat­tle on that part, Which lies the fur­thest in­land from the shore: Each leads a por­tion of those Aethiops swart, Or­dered in equal bands be­neath the four, Who at the walls, the gate­ways, or else­where, All give of prowess shin­ing proofs and rare.

XXII So bet­ter could be seen each war­rior’s claim, That in con­fused in com­bat there and here. Who of re­ward is wor­thy, who of shame, To a thou­sand and to watch­ful eyes is clear. Dragged up­on wheels are tow­ers of wood­en frame, And oth­ers well-​trained ele­phants up­rear, Which so o’er­top the tur­rets of the foe, Those bul­warks stand a mighty space be­low.

XXI­II Brandi­mart to the walls a lad­der brought, Climbed, and to climb with­al to oth­ers cried: Many suc­ceed, with bold as­sur­ance fraught, For none can fear be­neath so good a guide: Nor was there one who marked, nor one who thought Of mark­ing, if such weight it would abide. Brandi­mart on­ly, on the foes in­tent, Clam­bered and fought, and grasped a bat­tle­ment.

XXIV Here clang with hand and foot the dar­ing knight, Sprang on the em­bat­tled wall, and whirled his sword; And, show­ing mick­le to­kens of his might, The payn­ims charged, o’erthrew, hewed down and gored: But all at once, o’er­bur­thened with that weight, The lad­der breaks be­neath the as­sail­ing horde; And, sav­ing Brandi­mart, the Chris­tians all In­to the ditch with head­long ru­in fall.

XXV Not there­fore blenched the valiant cav­alier, Nor thought he of re­treat, al­beit was none Of his own band that fol­lowed in his rear; Al­though he was a mark for all the town. Of many prayed, the war­rior would not hear The prayer to turn; but mid the foes leapt down; I say, in­to the city took a leap, Where the town-​wall was thir­ty cu­bits deep.

XXVI He, with­out any harm on the hard ground, As if on feath­ers or on straw, did light; And, like cloth shred and shorn, the payn­ims round In fury shreds and shears the valiant knight. Now springs on these, now those, with vig­or­ous bound; And these and those be­take them­selves to flight. They that with­out have seen the leap he made, Too late to save him deem all hu­man aid.

XXVII Through­out the squadrons a deep ru­mour flew, A mur­mur and a whis­per, there and here, From mouth to mouth, the Fame by mo­tion grew, And told and mag­ni­fied the tale of fear: For up­on many quar­ters stormed that crew, Where good Or­lan­do was, where Olivi­er, Where Otho’s son, she flew on pin­ions light, Nor ev­er paused up­on her nim­ble flight.

XXVI­II Those war­riors, and Or­lan­do most of all, Who love and prize the gen­tle Brandi­mart, Hear­ing, should they de­fy up­on that call, They would from so renowned a com­rade part, Their scal­ing-​lad­ders plant, and mount the wall With ri­val­ry, which shows the king­ly heart; Who car­ry all such ter­ror in their look, That, at the very sight, their foe­men shook.

XXIX As on loud ocean, lashed by bois­ter­ous gale The bil­lows the rash bark as­sault, and still — Now threat­en­ing poop, now threat­en­ing prow — as­sail, And, in their rage and fury, fain would fill; The pi­lot sighs and groans, dis­maid and pale, — He that should aid, and has not heart or skill — At length a surge the pin­nace sweeps and swal­lows, And wave on wave in long suc­ces­sion fol­lows;

XXX Thus when those win the wall, they leave a space So wide, that who be­neath their con­duct go, Safe­ly may fol­low them; for at its base, A thou­sand lad­ders have been reared be­low. Mean­while the bat­ter­ing rams, in many a place, Have breached that wall, and with such mighty blow, The bold as­sailant can, from many a part, Bear suc­cour to the gal­lant Brandi­mart.

XXXI Even with that rage where­with the stream that reigns, The king of rivers — when he breaks his mound, And makes him­self a way through Man­tu­an plains — The greasy fur­rows and glad har­vests, round, And, with the sheep­cotes, flock, and dogs and swains Bears off, in his o’er­whelm­ing wa­ters drowned; Over the elm’s high top the fish­es glide, Where fowls erewhile their nim­ble pin­ions plied;

XXXII Even with that rage rushed in the im­petu­ous band, Where many breach­es in the wall were wrought, To slay with burn­ing torch and tren­chant brand, That peo­ple, which to evil pass were brought. Mur­der and rap­ine there, and vi­olent hand Dipt deep in blood and plun­der, in a thought, De­stroy that sump­tu­ous and tri­umphant town, Which of all Africk wore the roy­al crown.

XXXI­II Filled with dead bod­ies of the payn­im horde, Blood is­sued from so many a gap­ing wound, A fouler fos­se was formed and worse to ford Than gir­dles the in­fer­nal city round. From house to house the fire in fury poured; Mosque, por­ti­co, and palace, went to ground; And spoiled and emp­ty man­sions with the clang, Of beat­en breast, and groan and out­cry rang.

XXXIV The vic­tors, laden with their mighty prey, From that un­hap­py city’s gates are gone, One with fair vase, and one with rich ar­ray, Or sil­ver plate from an­cient al­tar won. The moth­er this, that bore the child away; Rapes and a thou­sand evil things were done. Of much, and what they can­not hin­der, hear Renowned Or­lan­do and fair Eng­land’s peer.

XXXV By Olivi­er, amid that slaugh­ter wide, Fell Bu­ci­faro of the payn­im band; And — ev­ery hope and com­fort cast aside — Bran­zar­do slew him­self with his own brand; Pierced with three wounds where­of he short­ly died, Fol­vo was tak­en by As­tolpho’s hand; The monar­chs three, in­trust­ed to whose care Agra­mant’s African do­min­ions were.

XXXVI Agra­mant, who had left with­out a guide His fleet this while, and with So­bri­no fled, Wept over his Bis­er­ta when he spied Those fires that on the roy­al city fed. When near­er now the king was cer­ti­fied, How in that cru­el strife his town had sped, He thought of dy­ing, and him­self had slain, But that So­bri­no’s words his arm re­strain.

XXXVII “What vic­to­ry, my lord,” (So­bri­no cries) “Could bet­ter than thy death the Chris­tian cheer, Whence he might hope to joy in qui­et wise Fair Africa, from all an­noy­ance clear? Thy be­ing yet alive this hope de­nies; Hence shall he ev­er­more have cause for fear. For well the foe­man knows, save thou art gone, He for short time will fill thine Africk throne.

XXXVI­II “Thy sub­jects by thy death de­prived will be Of hope, the on­ly good they have in store, Thou, if thou liv’st, I trust, shalt set us free, Re­deem from trou­ble, and to joy re­store. Cap­tives for ev­er, if thou di­est, are we; Africk is trib­utary ev­er­more. Al­though not for thy­self, yet not to give My liege, an­noy­ance to thy fol­low­ers, live.

XXXIX “The sol­dan, he thy neigh­bour, will be won, Sure­ly with men and mon­ey thee to aid: By him with evil eye King Pepin’s son, So strong in Africa, will be sur­veyed. All ef­forts to re­store thee to thy throne By No­ran­dine, thy kins­man, will be made. Turk, Per­sian and Ar­me­ni­an, Arab, Mede, If prayed, will all as­sist thee in thy need.”

XL In such and such like words, with wary art, With hope of quick­ly win­ning back his reign, So­bri­no soothed the king, while in his heart He oth­er thought per­chance did en­ter­tain. Well knows he to what pass, what evil mart That lord is brought; how of­ten sighs in vain, Whoe’er fore­goes the scep­tre which he swayed, And to bar­bar­ians hath re­course for aid.

XLI Jugurtha, mar­tial Han­ni­bal, and more In an­cient times, good proof of this af­ford: In our own era, Lewis, hight the Moor, De­liv­ered in­to oth­er Lewis’ ward. Your broth­er, Duke Alphon­so, wis­er lore Learned from their fate; — I speak to you, my lord — Wont them as very mad­men to de­cry, That more on oth­ers than them­selves re­ly;

XLII And there­fore aye, through­out that war­fare drear Waged by the pon­tiff, in his fierce dis­dain, Al­beit up­on his fee­ble pow­ers the peer Could ill de­pend, though from Ital­ian plain Was driv­en the friend that aid­ed him whilere, And by the foe pos­sessed was Naples’ reign, He against men­ace, against promise steeled, Ne’er to an­oth­er would his duke­dom yield.

XLI­II East­ward King Agra­mant had turned his prow; And sea­ward steered his bark, of Africk wide; When from the land a wicked wind ‘gan blow, And took the reel­ing ves­sel on one side: The mas­ter, seat­ed at the helm, his brow Raised to­wards heav­en, and to the monarch cried: “I see so fell and fierce a tem­pest form, Our pin­nace can­not face the pelt­ing storm.

XLIV “If you, my lords, will lis­ten to my lore, An isle is on our left-​hand; and to me It seems that it were well to make that shore Till overblown the tem­pest’s fury be.” To his ad­vice as­sents the roy­al Moor, And makes the lar­board land, from per­il free; Which, for the sailor’s weal, when tem­pests rise, ‘Twixt Vul­can’s lofty forge and Africk lies.

XLV With ju­niper and myr­tle over­grown, Of habi­ta­tions is that islet bare; A pleas­ing soli­tude; and where alone Har­bour wild stag and roe­buck, deer and hare; And, save to fish­er­men, is lit­tle known, That of­ten­times on the shorn bram­bles there Hang their moist nets; mean­while, un­trou­bled sleep The scaly fish­es in their qui­et deep.

XLVI Here oth­er ves­sel, shel­tered from the main, They found, by tem­pest tost up­on that land, Which had con­veyed the king of Ser­icane Erewhile from Ar­les; on one and the oth­er hand, In rev­er­ent wise and wor­thy of the twain, Those valiant kings em­braced up­on the strand: For friends the monar­chs were, and late be­fore The walls of Paris, arms to­geth­er bore.

XLVII With much dis­plea­sure Ser­icana’s knight Heard by King Agra­mant his griefs dis­plaid; Then him con­soled, and in his cause to fight, Like cour­te­ous king, the kind­ly of­fer made: But brooked nat, that to Egypt’s peo­ple, light And lack­ing faith, he should re­sort for aid. “That thith­er it is per­ilous to wend, Ex­iles (he said) are warned by Pom­pey’s end.

XLVI­II “And for Sena­pus’ Aethiopi­an crew Have come be­neath As­tolpho, as ye show, To wrest your fruit­ful Africa from you, And burnt and laid her chiefest city low. And with their squadrons is Or­lan­do, who Was wan­der­ing void of wit, short while ago, The fittest cure for all, where­by to scape Out of this trou­ble I, meseems, can shape.

XLIX “I, for your love, will un­der­take the quest, The Count in sin­gle com­bat to ap­pear; He vain­ly would, I wot, with me con­test, If whol­ly made of cop­per or of steel. I rate the Chris­tian church, were he at rest, As wolf rates lambs, when hun­ger­ing for his meal. Next have I thought how of the Nu­bian band — A brief and easy task — to free your land.

L “I will make oth­er Nu­bians, they that hold An­oth­er faith, di­vid­ed by Nile’s course, And Arabs and Mac­ro­bians (rich in gold And men are these, and those in herds of horse), Chal­daean, Perse, and many more, con­trolled By my good scep­tre, in such mighty force, Will make them war up­on the Nu­bians’ reign, Those reavers shall not in your land re­main.”

LI Gradas­so’s sec­ond of­fer seemed to be Most op­por­tune to King Troy­ano’s son; And much he blest the chances of the sea, Which him up­on that desert isle had thrown: Yet would not up­on any pact agree, — Nay, not to re­pos­sess Bis­er­ta’s town — Gradas­so should for him in fight con­tend; Deem­ing too sore his hon­our ‘twoud of­fend.

LII “If Roland is to be de­fied, more due The bat­tle is to me (that king replies) I am pre­pared for it; and let God do His will by me, in good or evil wise.” ” — Fol­low my mode; an­oth­er mode and new, Which comes in­to my mind” (Gradas­so cries), “Let both of us to­geth­er wage this fight Against Or­lan­do and an­oth­er knight.”

LI­II “So not left out, I care not, if I be The first or last (said Agra­mant): I know In arms no bet­ter can I find than thee, Though I should seek a com­rade, high or low, And what (So­bri­no cried) be­comes of me? I should be more ex­pert if old in show; And ev­er­more in per­il it is good, Force should have Coun­sel in his neigh­bour­hood.”

LIV Strick­en in years, yet vig­or­ous was the sage, And well had proved him­self with sword and spear; And said, he found him­self in gray old age, Such as in green and sup­ple youth whilere. They own his claim, and for an em­bas­sage Forth­with a couri­er find, then bid him steer For Africa, where camped the Chris­tians lie, And Count Or­lan­do on their part de­fy;

LV With equal num­ber of armed knights to be, Match­ing his foes, on Lampe­dosa’s shore; Where on all quar­ters that cir­cum­flu­ent sea, By which they are in­isled, is heard to roar. The payn­im mes­sen­ger un­ceas­ing­ly, Like one in need­ful haste, used sail and oar, Till he found Roland in Bis­er­ta, where The host be­neath his eye their plun­der share.

LVI From those three monar­chs to the cav­alier The in­vi­ta­tion was in pub­lic told; So pleas­ing to Anglante’s valiant peer, To the her­ald he was lib­er­al of his gold: From his com­pan­ions had he heard whilere That Durin­dane was in Gradas­so’s hold: Hence, to re­trieve that faul­chion from the foe, To In­dia had the Count re­solved to go:

LVII Deem­ing he should not find that king else­where, Who, so he heard, had sailed from the French shore. A near­er place is of­fered now; and there He hopes Gradas­so shall his prize re­store; Moved al­so by Al­montes’ bu­gle rare, To ac­cept the chal­lenge which the her­ald bore; Nor less by Brigli­adoro; since he knew In Agra­mant’s pos­ses­sion were the two.

LVI­II He chose for his com­pan­ions in the fight The faith­ful Brandi­mart and Olivi­er: Well has he proved the one and the oth­er’s might; Knows he alike to both is pass­ing dear. Good hors­es and good ar­mour seeks the knight And good­ly swords and lances, far and near, For him and his; meseems to you is known How none of those three war­riors had his own.

LIX Or­lan­do (as I oft have cer­ti­fied) In fury, his had scat­tered wide and far; Rodomont took the oth­ers’, which be­side The riv­er, locked in that high tur­ret are. Few through­out Africa could they pro­vide; As well be­cause to France, in that long war, King Agra­mant had born away the best, As be­cause Africa but few pos­sest.

LX What could be had of ar­mour, rust­ed o’er And brown with age, Or­lan­do bids unite; Mean­while with his com­pan­ions on the shore, He walks, dis­cours­ing on the fu­ture fight. So wan­der­ing from their camp three miles and more, It chanced that, turn­ing to­wards the sea their sight, Un­der full sail ap­proach­ing, they de­scried A helm­less bar­que, with nought her course to guide.

LXI She, with­out pi­lot, with­out crew, alone, As wind and for­tune or­dered it, was bound: The ves­sel neared the shore, with sails full-​blown, Fur­row­ing the waves, un­til she took the ground. But ere of these three war­riors more be shown, The love where­with I to the Child am bound, To his sto­ry brings me back, and bids record What past ‘twixt him and Cler­mont’s war­like lord.

LXII I spake of that good pair of war­riors, who Had both re­treat­ed from the mar­tial fray, Be­hold­ing pact and treaty bro­ken through, And ev­ery troop and band in dis­ar­ray. Which lead­er to his oath was first un­true, And was oc­ca­sion of such evil, they Study to learn of all the pass­ing train; King Agra­mant or the Em­per­or Charle­magne.

LXI­II Mean­while a ser­vant of the Child’s, at hand, — Faith­ful, ex­pert and wary was the wight, Nor in the shock of ei­ther fu­ri­ous band, Had ev­er of his war­like lord lost sight — To bold Rogero bore his horse and brand, That he might aid his com­rades now in flight. Rogero backed the steed and grasped the sword; But not in bat­tle mixed that mar­tial lord.

LX­IV Thence he de­part­ed; but he first re­newed His com­pact with Mon­tal­ban’s knight — that so His Agra­mant con­vinced of per­jury stood — Him and his evil sect he would forego. That day no fur­ther feats of hardi­hood Rogero will per­form against the foe: He but de­mands of all that make for Ar­les, Who first broke faith, King Agra­mant or Charles?

LXV From all he hears re­peat­ed, far and near, That Agra­mant had broke the promise plight: He loves that king, and from his side to veer, For this, be­lieves would be no er­ror light. The Moors were broke and scat­tered (this whilere Has been re­hearsed) and from the gid­dy height Of HER re­volv­ing wheel were down­ward hurled, Who at her plea­sure rolls this nether world.

LXVI Rogero pon­ders if he should re­main, Or rather should his sovereign lord at­tend: Love for his la­dy fits him with a rein And bit, which lets him not to Africk wend; Wheels him, and to a counter course again Spurs him, and threats his restive mood to shend, Save he main­tains the treaty, and the troth Pledged to the pal­adin with solemn oath.

LXVII A wake­ful, sting­ing care, on the oth­er side Scourges and goads no less the cav­alier; Lest, if he now from Agra­mant di­vide, He should be taxed with base­ness or with fear. If many deem it well he should abide, To many and many it would ill ap­pear: Many would say, that oaths un­bind­ing are, Which ’tis un­law­ful and un­just to swear.

LXVI­II He all that day and the en­su­ing night Re­mains alone, and so the fol­low­ing day; For­ev­er sift­ing in his doubt­ful sprite, If it be bet­ter to de­part or stay: Last­ly for Agra­mant de­cides the knight; To him in Africk will he wend his way: Moved by his love for his liege-​la­dy sore, But moved by hon­our and by du­ty more.

LX­IX He made for Ar­les, where yet he hoped would ride The fleet which him to Africa might bear; Nor in the port nor off­ing ships es­pied, Nor Sara­cens save dead be­held he there. For Agra­mant had swept the road­stead wide, And burnt what ves­sels in the haven were. Rogero takes the road, when his hope fails, Along the sea-​beat shore to­ward Mar­seilles.

LXX Up­on some boat he hoped to lay his hand, Which him for love or force should thence con­vey. Al­ready Ogi­er’s son had made the land, With the bar­bar­ians’ fleet, his cap­tive prey. You could not there have cast a grain of sand Be­tween those ves­sels; moored close­ly lay The mighty squadrons to that har­bour brought, With con­querors these, and those with pris­on­ers fraught.

LXXI The ves­sels of the Moor that were not made The food of fire and wa­ter on that night (Sav­ing some few that fled) were all con­veyed Safe to Mar­seilles by the vic­to­ri­ous knight Sev­en of those kings, that Moor­ish scep­tres swayed, Who, hav­ing seen their squadron put to flight, With their sev­en ships had yield­ed to the foe, Stood mute and weep­ing, over­whelmed with woe.

LXXII Dudon had is­sued forth up­on dry land, Bent to find Charle­magne that very day; And of the Moor­ish spoil and cap­tive band Made in tri­umphal pomp a long dis­play. The pris­on­ers all were ranged up­on the strand, And round them stood their Nu­bian vic­tors gay; Who, shout­ing in his praise, with loud ac­claim, Made all that re­gion ring with Dudon’s name.

LXXI­II Rogero, when from far the ships he spied, Be­lieved they were the fleet of Agra­mant, And, to know fur­ther, pricked his cours­er’s side; Then, near­er, mid those knights of mick­le vaunt, Nasa­mon’s king a pris­on­er he de­sired, Agri­calt, Bam­bi­ra­go, Faru­rant, Bal­as­tro, Mani­lar­do, and Rime­dont; Who stood with weep­ing eyes and droop­ing front.

LXXIV In their un­hap­py state to leave that crew The Child, who loved those monar­chs, can­not bear; That use­less is the emp­ty hand he knew; That where force is not, lit­tle prof­its prayer. He couched his lance, their keep­er over­threw, Then proved his wont­ed might with faul­chion bare; And in a mo­ment stretched up­on the strand Above a hun­dred of the Nu­bian band.

LXXV The noise Sir Dudon hears, the slaugh­ter spies, But knows not who the stranger cav­alier: He marks how, put to rout, his peo­ple flies; With an­guish, with lament and mighty fear; Quick­ly for cours­er, shield, and hel­met cries, (Bo­som, and arms, and thighs, were mailed whilere) Leaps on his horse, nor — hav­ing seized his lance — For­gets he is a pal­adin of France.

LXXVI He called on ev­ery one to stand aside, And with the galling spur his cours­er prest; Mean­while a hun­dred oth­er foes have died, And filled with hope was ev­ery pris­on­er’s breast; And as Rogero holy Dudon spied Ap­proach on horse­back, (foot­men were the rest,) Es­teem­ing him their head, he charged the knight, Im­pelled by huge de­sire to prove his might.

LXXVII Al­ready, on his part, had moved the Dane; But when he saw the Child with­out a spear, He flang is own far from him, in dis­dain To take such van­tage of the cav­alier. Ad­mir­ing at Sir Dudon’s cour­te­ous vein, “Be­lie him­self he can­not,” said the peer, “And of those per­fect war­riors must be one That as the pal­adins of France are known.

LXXVI­II “If I my will can com­pass, he shall shew His name, to me, ere fur­ther deed be done.” He made de­mand; and in the stranger knew Dudon, the Dan­ish Ogi­er’s valiant son: He from Rogero claimed an equal due, And from the Child as cour­te­ous an­swer won. — Their names on ei­ther side an­nounced — the foes A bold de­fi­ance speak, and come to blows.

LXXIX Bold Dudon had with him that iron mace, Which won him death­less fame in many a fight: Where­with he proved him ful­ly of the race Of that good Dan­ish war­rior, famed for might. That best of faul­chions, which through iron case Of cuirass or of casque was wont to bite, Youth­ful Rogero from the scab­bard snatched, And with the mar­tial Dane his val­our matched.

LXXX But for the gen­tle youth was ev­er willed To of­fend his la­dy-​love the least he could, And knew he should of­fend her, if he spilled, In that dis­as­trous bat­tle, Dudon’s blood (Well in the lin­eage of French hous­es skilled He wist of Beat­rice’s sis­ter­hood, — Bradamant’s moth­er she — with Armelline, The moth­er of the Dan­ish pal­adine).

LXXXI He there­fore nev­er thrust in that af­fray, And rarely smote an edge on plate and chain. Now ward­ing off the mace, now giv­ing way, Be­fore the fall of that de­scend­ing bane. Turpin be­lieves it in Rogero lay Sir Dudon in few sword-​strokes to have slain. Yet nev­er when the Dane his guard fore­goes, Save on the faul­chion’s flat de­scend the blows.

LXXXII The flat as feat­ly as the edge he plies, Of that good faul­chion forged of stub­born grain; And, at strange blind­man’s bluff, in weary wise, Ham­mers on Dudon with such might and main, He of­ten daz­zles so the war­rior’s eyes, That hard­ly he his sad­dle can main­tain. But to win bet­ter au­di­ence for my rhyme, My can­to I de­fer to oth­er time.