LXIX.
Not thinking, howsoe’er, she was a maid,
Who in no look or act the maid confest;
Duke Aymon’s daughter, loth to be delaid,
Refuses, as a traveller that is pressed.
But they so often and so sorely prayed,
That she could ill refuse the kings’ request.
Her lance she levels, at three strokes extends
All three on earth, and thus the warfare ends:
LXX.
For Bradamant no more her courser wheeled,
But turned her back upon the foes o’erthrown.
They, that intent to gain the golden shield,
Had sought a land so distant from their own,
Rising in sullen silence from the field
(For speech with all their hardihood was gone)
Appeared as stupefied by their surprise,
Nor to Ulania dared to lift their eyes.
LXXI.
For they, as thither they their course addrest,
Had vaunted to the maid in boasting vein,
‘No paladin or knight with lance in rest,
‘Against the worst his saddle could maintain.’
To make them vail yet more their haughty crest,
And look upon the world with less disdain,
She tells them, by no paladin or peer
Were they unhorsed, but by a woman’s spear.
