LXXXI "Although mine is the faulchion, rightfully, Let us for it in courtesy contend; Nor will I in this battle, that it be More mine than thine, but to a tree suspend: Bear off the weapon freely hence, if me Thou kill or conquer." As he made an end, He Durindana from his belt unslung, And in mid-field upon a sapling hung. LXXXII Already distant half the range of bow Is from his opposite each puissant knight, And pricks against the other, nothing slow To slack the reins or ply the rowels bright. Already dealt is either mighty blow, Where the helm yields a passage to the sight. As if of ice, the shattered lances fly, Broke in a thousand pieces, to the sky. LXXXIII One and the other lance parforce must split, In that the cavaliers refuse to bend; The cavaliers, who in the saddle sit, Returning with the staff's unbroken end. The warriors, who with steed had ever smit, Now, as a pair of hinds in rage contend For the mead's boundary or river's right, Armed with two clubs, maintain a cruel fight. LXXXIV The truncheons which the valiant champions bear, Fail in the combat, and few blows resist; Both rage with mightier fury, here and there, Left without other weapon than the fist; With this the desperate foes engage, and, where The hand can grapple, plate and mail untwist. Let none desire, to guard himself from wrongs, A heavier hammer or more holding tongs. LXXXV How can the Saracen conclude the fray With honour, which he haughtily had sought? 'Twere forty to waste time in an assay Where to himself more harm the smiter wrought Than to the smitten: in conclusion, they Closed, and the paynim king Orlando caught, And strained against his bosom; what Jove's son Did by Antaeus, thinking to have done. LXXXVI Him griped athwart, he, in impetuous mood, Would now push from him, now would closely strain; And waxed so wroth that, in his heat of blood, The Tartar little thought about his rein. Firm in his stirrups self-collected stood Roland, and watched his vantage to obtain; He to the other courser's forehead slipt His wary hand, and thence the bridle stript. LXXXVII The Saracen assays with all his might To choak, and from the sell his foeman tear: With either knee Orlando grasps it tight, Nor can the Tartar more him, here or there. But with the straining of the paynim knight, The girts which hold his saddle broken are. Scarce conscious of his fall, Orlando lies, With feet i' the stirrups, tightening yet his thighs. LXXXVIII As falls a sack of armour, with such sound Tumbled Orlando, when he prest the plain. King Mandricardo's courser, when he found His head delivered from the guiding rein, Made off with him, unheeding what the ground, Stumbling through woodland, or by pathway plain, Hither and tither, blinded by his fear; And bore with him the Tartar cavalier.