XL He, without clamour, without any noise. So moves his triple host, their flags below. Zerbino, marching by the stream, enjoys The honour first to assail the barbarous foe; The paladin the Irishmen employs More inland, with a wider wheel to go. Thus England's horse and foot, the two between, Led by the Duke of Lancaster, are seen. XLI The paladin rode on, along the shore, When he had put the warriors in their way, And, passing by their squadrons, pricked before Valiant Zerbino and his whole array, Until he reached the quarters of the Moor, Where Oran's king, and king Sobrino lay; Who, half-a-mile removed from those of Spain, Posted upon that side, observed the plain. XLII With such a faithful escort fortified And sure, the Christians who had thither wound, With Silence and the Angel for their guide, No longer could stand mute or keep their ground: But hearing now the foe, with shouts defied Their host, and made the shrilling trumpets sound; And with loud clamours, which Heaven's concave fill, Sent through the paynim's bones a deadly chill. XLIII Rinaldo spurs before the troops combined His foaming courser, and his weapon rests; And a full bow-shot leaves the Scots behind: So all delay the impatient peer molests. As oftentimes an eddying gust of winds Issues, ere yet the horrid storm infests, So sallying swiftly from the following herd, Rinaldo forth upon Baiardo spurred. XLIV As the aspect of the paladin of France, The wavering Moorish files betray their fear; And, trembling in their hands, is seen the lance, Their thighs and stirrups quivering, like the spear. King Pulian only marks the knight's advance, Knowing Rinaldo not, unchanged in cheer; Nor thinking such a cruel shock to meet, Gallops against him on his courser fleet. XLV He stoops upon the weapon which he strains, Whole and collected for the martial game: Then to his horse abandoning the reins, And goading with both spurs the courser, came. Upon the other side no valour feigns, But shows, by doings, what he is in name; -- With what rare grace and matchless art he wars, The son of Aymon, rather son of Mars. XLVI Well-matched in skill, they aimed their cruel blows, With lances at each other's heads addrest; Ill matched, in arms and valour, were the foes, For this past on, and that the champaigne prest. More certain proof of worth, when warriors close, There needs than knightly lance, well placed in rest; But Fortune even more than Valour needs, Which ill, without her saving succour, speeds.