But ere he marched farre, he with them met, vii And fiercely charged them with all his force; But _Talus_ sternely did vpon them set, And brusht, and battred them without remorse, That on the ground he left full many a corse; Ne any able was him to withstand, But he them ouerthrew both man and horse, That they lay scattred ouer all the land, As thicke as doth the seede after the sowers hand. Till _Artegall_ him seeing so to rage, viii Willd him to stay, and signe of truce did make: To which all harkning, did a while asswage Their forces furie, and their terror slake; Till he an Herauld cald, and to him spake, Willing him wend vnto the Tyrant streight, And tell him that not for such slaughters sake He thether came, but for to trie the right Of fayre _Irenaes_ cause with him in single fight. And willed him for to reclayme with speed ix His scattred people, ere they all were slaine, And time and place conuenient to areed, In which they two the combat might darraine. Which message when _Grantorto_ heard, full fayne And glad he was the slaughter so to stay, And pointed for the combat twixt them twayne The morrow next, ne gaue him longer day. So sounded the retraite, and drew his folke away. That night Sir _Artegall_ did cause his tent x There to be pitched on the open plaine; For he had giuen streight commaundement, That none should dare him once to entertaine: Which none durst breake, though many would right faine For fayre _Irena_, whom they loued deare. But yet old _Sergis_ did so well him paine, That from close friends, that dar’d not to appeare, He all things did puruay, which for them needfull weare. The morrow next, that was the dismall day, xi Appointed for _Irenas_ death before, So soone as it did to the world display His chearefull face, and light to men restore, The heauy Mayd, to whom none tydings bore Of _Artegalls_[389] arryuall, her to free, Lookt vp with eyes full sad and hart full sore; Weening her lifes last howre then neare to bee, Sith no redemption nigh she did nor heare nor see. Then vp she rose, and on her selfe did dight xii Most squalid garments, fit for such a day, And with dull countenance, and with doleful spright, She forth was brought in sorrowfull dismay, For to receiue the doome of her decay. But comming to the place, and finding there Sir _Artegall_, in battailous array Wayting his foe, it did her dead hart cheare, And new life to her lent, in midst of deadly feare.