LXIV Upright upon his steed, the knight unknown, Who at the encounter horse and rider threw, Deeming enough was in the conflict done, Cares not the worthless warfare to renew; But endlong by the readiest path is gone, And measures, pricking frith and forest through, A mile, or little less, in furious heat, Ere the foiled Saracen regains his feet. LXV As the bewildered and astonished clown Who held the plough (the thunder storm o'erpast) There, where the deafening bolt had beat him down, Nigh his death-stricken cattle, wakes aghast, And sees the distant pine without its crown, Which he saw clad in leafy honours last; So rose the paynim knight with troubled face, The maid spectatress of the cruel case. LXVI He sighs and groans, yet not for mischief sore Endured in wounded arm or foot which bled; But for mere shame, and never such before Or after, dyed his cheek so deep a red, And if he rued his fall, it grieved him more His dame should lift him from his courser dead. He speechless had remained, I ween, if she Had not his prisoned tongue and voice set free. LXVII "Grieve not," she said, "sir monarch, for thy fall; But let the blame upon thy courser be! To whom more welcome had been forage, stall, And rest, than further joust and jeopardy; And well thy foe the loser may I call, (Who shall no glory gain) for such is he Who is the first to quit his ground, if aught Angelica of fighting fields be taught." LXVIII While she so seeks the Saracen to cheer, Behold a messenger with pouch and horn, On panting hackney! -- man and horse appear With the long journey, weary and forlorn. He questions Sacripant, approaching near, Had he seen warrior pass, by whom were borne A shield and crest of white; in search of whom Through the wide forest pricked the weary groom. LXIX King Sacripant made answer, "As you see, He threw me here, and went but now his way: Then tell the warrior's name, that I may be Informed whose valour foiled me in the fray." To him the groom, -- "That which you ask of me I shall relate to you without delay: Know that you were in combat prostrate laid By the tried valour of a gentle maid. LXX "Bold is the maid; but fairer yet than bold, Nor the redoubted virgin's name I veil: 'Twas Bradamant who marred what praise of old Your prowess ever won with sword and mail." This said, he spurred again, his story told, And left him little gladdened by the tale. He recks not what he says or does, for shame, And his flushed visage kindles into flame. LXXI After the woeful warrior long had thought Upon his cruel case, and still in vain, And found a woman his defeat had wrought, For thinking but increased the monarch's pain, He climbed the other horse, nor spake he aught; But silently uplifted from the plain, Upon the croup bestowed that damsel sweet, Reserved to gladder use in safer seat.