XV And casts away his bow, and, 'mid the band Of foemen, whirls his falchion, in desire Rather of death, than hoping that his hand May snatch a vengeance equal to his ire. Amid so many blades, he views the sand Tinged with his blood, and ready to expire, And feeling he the sword no more can guide, Lets himself drop by his Medoro's side. XVI The Scots pursue their chief, who pricks before, Through the deep wood, inspired by high disdain, When he has left the one and the other Moor, This dead, that scarce alive, upon the plain. There for a mighty space lay young Medore, Spouting his life-blood from so large a vein, He would have perished, but that thither made A stranger, as it chanced, who lent him aid. XVII By chance arrived a damsel at the place, Who was (though mean and rustic was her wear) Of royal presence and of beauteous face, And lofty manners, sagely debonair: Her have I left unsung so long a space, That you will hardly recognise the fair. Angelica, in her (if known not) scan, The lofty daughter of Catay's great khan. XVIII Angelica, when she had won again The ring Brunello had from her conveyed, So waxed in stubborn pride and haught disdain, She seemed to scorn this ample world, and strayed Alone, and held as cheap each living swain, Although, amid the best, by Fame arrayed: Nor brooked she to remember a galant In Count Orlando or king Sacripant; XIX And above every other deed repented, That good Rinaldo she had loved of yore; And that to look so low she had consented, (As by such choice dishonoured) grieved her sore. Love, hearing this, such arrogance resented, And would the damsel's pride endure no more. Where young Medoro lay he took his stand, And waited her, with bow and shaft in hand. XX When fair Angelica the stripling spies, Nigh hurt to death in that disastrous fray, Who for his king, that there unsheltered lies, More sad than for his own misfortune lay, She feels new pity in her bosom rise, Which makes its entry in unwonted way. Touched was her haughty heart, once hard and curst, And more when he his piteous tale rehearsed. XXI And calling back to memory her art, For she in Ind had learned chirurgery, (Since it appears such studies in that part Worthy of praise and fame are held to be, And, as an heir-loom, sires to sons impart, With little aid of books, the mystery) Disposed herself to work with simples' juice, Till she in him should healthier life produce; XXII And recollects a herb had caught her sight In passing hither, on a pleasant plain, What (whether dittany or pancy hight) I know not; fraught with virtue to restrain The crimson blood forth-welling, and of might To sheathe each perilous and piercing pain, She found it near, and having pulled the weed, Returned to seek Medoro on the mead.