LXVI.
He sighs and groans, yet not for mischief sore
Endured in wounded arm or foot which bled;
But for mere shame, and never such before
Or after, dyed his cheek so deep a red,
And if he rued his fall, it grieved him more
His dame should lift him from his courser dead.
He speechless had remained, I ween, if she
Had not his prisoned tongue and voice set free.
LXVII.
“Grieve not,” she said, “sir monarch, for thy fall;
“But let the blame upon thy courser be!
“To whom more welcome had been forage, stall,
“And rest, than further joust and jeopardy;
“And well thy foe the loser may I call,
“(Who shall no glory gain) for such is he
“Who is the first to quit his ground, if aught
“Angelica of fighting fields be taught.”
LXVIII.
While she so geeks the Saracen to cheer,
Behold a messenger with pouch and horn,
On panting hackney!—man and horse appear
With the long journey, weary and forlorn.
He questions Sacripant, approaching near,
Had he seen warrior pass, by whom were borne
A shield and crest of white; in search of whom
Through the wide forest pricked the weary groom.
