LXX The lance now broke, his sword the warrior drew, That sword which never yet was drawn in vain, And still with cut or thrust some soldier slew; Now horse, now footman of the tyrant's train. And, ever where he dealt a stroke, changed blue, Yellow, green, white and black, to crimson stain. Cymosco grieves, when most his need require, Not to have now his hollow cane and fire; LXXI And with loud voice and menacing command Bids these be brought, but ill his followers hear; For those who have found safety of his band, To issue from the city are in fear. He, when he sees them fly on either hand, Would fly as well from that dread cavalier; Makes for the gate, and would the drawbridge lift, But the pursuing county is too swift. LXXII The monarch turns his back, and leaves the knight Lord of the drawbridge and of either gate. Thanks to his swifter steed, the rest in flight He passes: good Orlando will not wait (Intent the felon, not his band, to smite) Upon the vulgar herd to wreck his hate. But his slow horse seems restive; while the king's, More nimble, flies as if equipt with wings. LXXIII From street to street, before the count he made; And vanished clean; but after little stay, Came with new arms, with tube and fire purveyed; Which, at his hest, this while his men convey. And posted at a corner, he waylaid: His foe, as hunter watches for his prey, In forest, with armed dogs and spear, attending The boar in fury from the hill descending, LXXIV Who rends the branch and overthrows the stone; And wheresoe'er he turns his haughty front, Appears (so loud the deafening crash and groan) As if he were uprending wood and mount, Intent to make him his bold deed atone, Cymosco at the pass expects the count; As soon as he appears, with ready light Touches the hole, and fires upon the knight. LXXV Behind, the weapon flames in lightning's guise, And vents the thunder from before; the ground Shakes under foot and city wall; the skies The fearful echo all about rebound. The burning bolt with sudden fury flies, Not sparing aught which in its course is found. Hissing and whizzing through the skies it went; But smote not, to the assassin's foul intent. LXXVI Whether it was his great desire to kill That baron, or his hurry made him fail, Or trembling heart, like leaf which flutters still, Made hand and arm together flinch and quail; Or that it was not the Creator's will The church so soon her champion should bewail; The glancing stroke his courser's belly tore, Outstretched on earth, from thence to rise no more.