Enter now another person in armour, but wearing half an inch more of length of blue petticoat, and with luxuriant locks streaming from beneath the plumed 265helmet. ’Tis Bramante, the warrior maiden, who in shrill soprano declines to be left out of any chivalric ruction. Three six-inch swords flash in the candlelight; three vows to conquer or die bring down the dinner napkin to tumultuous applause. The pit has been absorbed to the point of letting its cigarettes go out, and the author and the valet hastily resume their forgotten condescension. Every one cracks and eats melon seeds until the second act reveals the court of a Saracen palace. The thumps of the three adventurers’ striding feet bring out hasty swarms of black slaves, who fall like grain before the Christian swords. Better metal than this must meet a Paladin! Turbaned warriors fling themselves into the fray, and the clash of steel on steel rings through the palace. Orlando is down, Rinaldo and Bramante fight side by side, though Rinaldo staggers with wounds. The crescented turbans one by one roll in the dust, and as the two panting conquerors lean exhausted upon their bloody swords—enter the Soldan himself! Now Turk meets Paladin, and comes the tug of war. Bramante squeaks like a mouse; hops like a sparrow. Ding, dong! Rinaldo is beaten to his knee and the Soldan shortens his blade for a final thrust, but—Bramante rushes in, and with one terrific sweep of her sword shears his head so clean from his shoulders that it rolls to the footlights and puts out one of the candles. Ha! ha! He trusted in his false god, Mahound! Bramante hops violently. Enter suddenly, rescued Christian Maid. Also in armour; also possessing piercing falsetto. 266Saved! saved! She falls clattering upon Rinaldo’s breast, and Bramante, after an instant’s hesitation, falls there on top of her, with peculiarly vicious intensity. More dinner napkin. More frenzied applause. Gaspero draws a long breath. His eyes are full of tears of feeling. Scene in the wood again. Charlemagne has thanked Rinaldo. Has thanked Bramante. Has blessed the Christian Maid, and has retired exhausted to his afternoon nap! Christian Maid insists upon expressing her gratitude to the Paladin with her arms round his neck. Bramante drags her off by her back hair, a dialogue ensuing which bears striking likeness to the interview of cats on a back fence. Christian Maid opines that Bramante is no lady, and swords are out instantly. One, two, three!—clash, slash, bang! Rinaldo hops passionately and futilely around the two contestants. Ladies! Ladies! he protests in agony, but blood is beginning to flow, when, suddenly, a clap of thunder—a glitter of lightning!