Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steepe His fierie face in billowes of the west, And his faint steedes watred in Ocean deepe, Whiles from their journall labours they did rest, When that infernall Monster, having kest 275 His wearie foe into that living well, Can high advance his broad discoloured brest Above his wonted pitch, with countenance fell, And clapt his yron wings, as victor he did dwell. XXXII Which when his pensive Ladie saw from farre, 280 Great woe and sorrow did her soule assay, As weening that the sad end of the warre, And gan to highest God entirely pray, That feared chance from her to turne away; With folded hands and knees full lowly bent, 285 All night she watcht, ne once adowne would lay Her daintie limbs in her sad dreriment, But praying still did wake, and waking did lament. XXXIII The morrow next gan early to appeare, That Titan rose to runne his daily race; 290 But early ere the morrow next gan reare Out of the sea faire Titans deawy face, Up rose the gentle virgin from her place, And looked all about, if she might spy Her loved knight to move[*] his manly pace: 295 For she had great doubt of his safety, Since late she saw him fall before his enemy. XXXIV At last she saw, where he upstarted brave Out of the well, wherein he drenched lay: As Eagle[*] fresh out of the Ocean wave, 300 Where he hath left his plumes all hoary gray, And deckt himselfe with feathers youthly gay, Like Eyas hauke up mounts unto the skies, His newly budded pineons to assay, And marveiles at himselfe, still as he flies: 305 So new this new-borne knight to battell new did rise. XXXV Whom when the damned feend so fresh did spy, No wonder if he wondred at the sight, And doubted, whether his late enemy It were, or other new supplied knight. 310 He, now to prove his late renewed might, High brandishing his bright deaw-burning blade,[*] Upon his crested scalpe so sore did smite, That to the scull a yawning wound it made; The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismaid. 315 XXXVI I wote not, whether the revenging steele Were hardned with that holy water dew, Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele, Or his baptized hands now greater grew; Or other secret vertue did ensew; 320 Else never could the force of fleshly arme, Ne molten mettall in his blood embrew[*]; For till that stownd could never wight him harme, By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charme. XXXVII