CXXX The moat of thirty feet, not less, he cleared, As dexterously as leaps the greyhound fleet, Nor at his lighting louder noise was heard Than if he had worn felt beneath his feet. He now of this, now that, the mantle sheared; As though of pewter, not of iron beat, Or rather of soft rind their arms had been: So matchless was his force and sword so keen! CXXXI This while, not idle, those of ours had laid Snares in the inner moat, a well-charged mine: Where broom and thick fascines, all over paid With swarthy pitch, in plenty intertwine. Though they from bank to bank that hollow line, Filling the bottom well-nigh to the brink; And countless vessels the defenders sink. CXXXII Charged with salt-petre, oil, or sulphur pale, One and the other, or with such like gear; While ours, intent the paynims that assail The town, should pay their daring folly dear, (Who from the ditch on different parts would scale The inner bulwark's platform) when they hear The appointed signal which their comrades raise, Set, at fit points, the wildfire in a blaze. CXXXIII For that the moat was full from side to side, The scattered flames united into one, And mounted to such height, they well-nigh dried The watery bosom of the moon; a dun And dismal cloud above extending wide, Dimmed every glimpse of light, and hid the sun: A fearful crash, with a continued sound, Like a long peal of thunder, shook the ground. CXXXIV A horrid concert, a rude harmony Of deep lament, and yell and shriek, which came From those poor wretches in extremity, Perishing through their furious leader's blame, Was heard, as in strange concord, to agree With the fierce crackling of the murderous flame. No more of this, no more! -- Here, sir, I close My canto, hoarse, and needing short repose. CANTO 15 ARGUMENT Round about Paris every where are spread The assailing hosts of Africa and Spain. Astolpho home by Logistilla sped, Binds first Caligorantes with his chain; Next from Orrilo's trunk divides the head; With whom Sir Aquilant had warred in vain, And Gryphon bold: next Sansonet discerns, Ill tidings of his lady Gryphon learns. I Though Conquest fruit of skill or fortune be, To conquer always is a glorious thing. 'Tis true, indeed, a bloody victory Is to a chief less honour wont to bring; And that fair field is famed eternally, And he who wins it merits worshipping, Who, saving from all harm his own, without Loss to his followers, puts the foe to rout. II You, sir, earned worthy praise, when you o'erbore The lion of such might by sea, and so Did by him, where he guarded either shore From Francolino to the mouth of Po, That I, though yet again I heard him roar, If you were present, should my fear forego. How fields are fitly won was then made plain; For we were rescued, and your foemen slain.