LXXVIII He more than half his camp behind him led, In one deep phalanx. At the mighty sound Alone, the Scotsmen trembled, and in dread Abandoned honour, order, and their ground: Lurcanio, Ariodantes, and their head, Zerbino, there alone the torrent bound; And haply he, who was afoot, had died, But that in time his need Rinaldo spied. LXXIX Elsewhere the paladin was making fly A hundred banners: while the cavalier So chased the quailing Saracens, the cry Of young Zerbino's peril smote the ear; For, single and afoot, his chivalry Amid the Africans had left the peer. Rinaldo turned about and took his way Where he beheld the Scots in disarray. LXXX He plants his courser, where their squadrons yield To the fierce paynims, and exclaims: "Where go Your bands, and why so basely quit the field, Yielding so vilely to so vile a foe? Behold the promised trophies, spear and shield, Spoils which your loaded churches ought to show! What praise! what glory! that alone, and reft Of his good horse, your monarch's son is left! LXXXI He from a squire receives a lance, and spies King Prusion little distant, sovereign Of the Alvaracchiae, and against him hies; Whom he unhorses, dead upon the plain. So Agricalt, so Bambirago dies; And next sore wounded is Sir Soridane; Who had been slain as well amid the throng, If good Rinaldo's lance had proved more strong. LXXXII That weapon broken, he Fusberta rears, And smites Sir Serpentine, him of the star. Though charmed from mischief are the cavalier's Good arms, he falls astounded by the jar, And thus Rinaldo round Zerbino clears The field so widely, where those champions war, That without more dispute he takes a horse Of those, who masterless, at random, course. LXXXIII That he in time remounted it was well, Who haply would not, if he more delayed: For Agramant at once, and Dardinel, Sobrino, and Balastro thither made; But he, who had in time regained the sell, Wheeled, here and there his horse, with brandished blade, Dispatching into hell the mixt array, That how men live above their ghosts might say. LXXXIV The good Rinaldo, who to overthrow The strongest of the foeman covets still, At Agramant directs a deadly blow, -- Who seems too passing-proud, and greater ill Works there, than thousand others of the foe -- And spurs his horse, the Moorish chief to spill. He smote the monarch, broadside charged the steed, And man and horse reversed upon the mead. LXXXV What time, without, in such destructive frays Hate, Rage, and Fury, all offend by turns, In Paris Rodomont the people slays, And costly house, and holy temple burns: While Charles elsewhere anther duty stays, Who nothing hears of this, nor aught discerns. He, in the town, receives the British band, Which Edward and Sir Ariman command.