Thus as he spake, lo far away they spyde xxxvii A varlet running towards hastily, Whose flying feet so fast their way applyde, That round about a cloud of dust did fly, Which mingled all with sweate, did dim his eye. He soone approched, panting, breathlesse, whot, And all so soyld, that none could him descry; His countenaunce was bold, and bashed not For _Guyons_ lookes, but scornefull eyglaunce at him shot. Behind his backe he bore a brasen shield, xxxviii On which was drawen faire, in colours fit, A flaming fire in midst of bloudy field, And round about the wreath this word was writ, _Burnt I do burne_. Right well beseemed it, To be the shield of some redoubted knight; And in his hand two darts exceeding flit, And deadly sharpe he held, whose heads were dight In poyson and in bloud, of malice and despight. When he in presence came, to _Guyon_ first xxxix He boldly spake, Sir knight, if knight thou bee, Abandon this forestalled place at erst, For feare of further harme, I counsell thee, Or bide the chaunce at thine owne ieoperdie. The knight at his great boldnesse wondered, And though he scornd his idle vanitie, Yet mildly him to purpose answered; For not to grow of nought he it coniectured. Varlet, this place most dew to me I deeme, xl Yielded by him, that held it forcibly. But whence should come that harme, which thou doest seeme To threat to him, that minds his chaunce t’abye? Perdy (said he) here comes, and is hard by A knight of wondrous powre, and great assay, That neuer yet encountred enemy, But did him deadly daunt, or fowle dismay; Ne thou for better hope, if thou his presence stay. How hight he then (said _Guyon_) and from whence? xli _Pyrochles_[577] is his name, renowmed farre For his bold feats and hardy confidence, Full oft approu’d in many a cruell warre, The brother of _Cymochles_, both which arre The sonnes of old _Acrates_ and _Despight_, _Acrates_ sonne of _Phlegeton_ and _Iarre_; But _Phlegeton_ is sonne of _Herebus_ and _Night_; But _Herebus_ sonne of _Aeternitie_ is hight. So from immortall race he does proceede, xlii That mortall hands may not withstand his might, Drad for his derring do, and bloudy deed; For all in bloud and spoile is his delight. His am I _Atin_, his in wrong and right, That matter make for him to worke vpon, And stirre him vp to strife and cruell fight. Fly therefore, fly this fearefull stead anon, Least thy foolhardize worke thy sad confusion.