LXXXII His mirror Valour bore about, and here Each blemish of the soul was seen confest: None looked therein, except an aged peer, Whose blood was chilled, but courage unreprest. That death were better deems this cavalier Than life in flight, and in disgrace possest: I mean Noritia's king, who lays his lance In rest against the paladin of France; LXXXIII He broke it on the border of the shield Of the intrepid count, with stedfast hand, Who, by the stroke unshaken, nothing reeled: And smote the king, in passing, with his brand. Him Fortune saved; for as Orlando wheeled The blade, it turned, descending, in his hand. Although an-edge he guides not still the sword, Stunned from his saddle reels the paynim lord. LXXXIV Astounded from his saddle reels the king, Nor him Orlando turns about to see. He cuts, and cleaves, and slays his following; Who all believe him at their backs to be. As through the spacious air, with troubled wing, The starlings from the daring merlin flee; So, of that broken squadron, scattered round, Some fly, some dip, and some fall flat to ground. LXXXV He ceased not his ensanguined blade to sway Till living wight remained not in his view. Orlando doubted to resume his way, Although the country all about he knew. Does he the right or left-hand road assay, His thoughts still rove from what his steps pursue, And he to seek the damsel is in dread Through other path than that by which she fled. LXXXVI Through wood and field his courser did he goad, Often inquiring for the royal dame: Beside himself, he strayed beside his road, And to the foot of rising mountain came, Whence (it was night-time) through a fissure glowed The distant flicker of a quivering flame. Orlando to the rock approached, to spy If there Angelica concealed might lie. LXXXVII As where low junipers o'er shade her lair, Or in the stubble of the open lay, What time the hunters seek the fearful hare Through traversed woods, and through uncertain way, -- Lest peradventure she be hidden there, They every bramble, every bush assay; Even so, where hope the toiling warrior leads, Searching his lady-love, Orlando speeds. LXXXVIII Pricking in haste towards that ray, the count Arrived where in the wood the light was shed, Forth-streaming from a crevice in the mount, Within whose womb a spacious grotto spread; And there, like wall or bank, discerned in front, Of thorns and underwood a bristly bed, To hide the grotto's inmates, and defend From scathe or scorn, which others might intend.