When young Rogero pricked that crowd among.
Rogero smites the head from six or four,
Who in escaping from the field are slow.
He to the breast divides as many more,
And countless to the eyes and teeth below.
I grant no helmets on their heads they wore,
But there were shining iron caps enow;
And, if fine helmets did their temples press,
His sword would cut as deep, or little less.
Such good Rogero’s force and valour are,
As never now-a-days in warrior dwell;
Nor yet in rampant lion, nor in bear,
Nor (whether home or foreign) beast more fell.
Haply with him the earthquake might compare,
Or haply the great devil—not he of hell—
But he who is my lord’s,285 who moves in fire,
And parts heaven, earth, and ocean in his ire.
At every stroke he never less o’erthrew
Than one, and oftener two, upon the plain;
And four, at once, and even five he slew;
So that a hundred in a thought were slain.
The sword Rogero from his girdle drew
As knife cuts curd, divides their plate and chain.
Falerina in Orgagna’s garden made,
To deal Orlando death, that cruel blade.286
But to have forged that falchion sorely rued,
Who saw her garden wasted by the brand.
What wreck, what ruin then must have ensued,
From this when wielded by such warrior’s hand?
If e’er Rogero force, e’er fury shewed,
If e’er his mighty valour well was scanned,
’Twas here; ’twas here employed; ’twas here displayed;
In the desire to give his lady aid.
As hare from hound unslipt, that helpless train
Defends itself against the cavalier.
Many lay dead upon the cumbered plain,
And numberless were they who fled in fear.
Meanwhile the damsel had unloosed the chain
From the youth’s hands, and him in martial gear
Was hastening, with what speed she might, to deck,
With sword in hand and shield about his neck.287
He, who was angered sore, as best he could,
Sought to avenge him of that evil crew;
And gave such signal proofs of hardihood,
As stamped him for a warrior good and true.
The sun already in the western flood
Had dipt his gilded wheels, what time the two,
Valiant Rogero and his young compeer,
Victorious issued, of the city clear.
When now Rogero and the stranger knight,
Clear of the city-gates, the champaigne reach,
The youth repays, with praises infinite,
Rogero in kind mode and cunning speech,
Who him, although unknown, had sought to right,
At risk of life, and prays his name to teach
That he may know to whom his thanks he owed
For such a mighty benefit bestowed.
“The visage of Bradamant I see,
The beauteous features and the beauteous cheer.”
Rogero said; “and yet the suavity
I of her well-known accents do not hear:
Nor such return of thanks appears to be
In place towards her faithful cavalier.
And if in very sooth it is the same,
How has the maid so soon forgot my name?”
In wary wise, intent the truth to find,
Rogero said, “You have I seen elsewhere;
And have again, and yet again, divined,
Yet know I not, nor can remember where.
Say it, yourself, if it returns to mind,
And, I beseech, your name as well declare:
Which I would gladly hear, in the desire
To know whom I have rescued from the fire.”
“—Me, it is possible you may have seen,
I know not when nor where (the youth replied);
For I too range the world, in armour sheen,
Seeking adventure strange on every side;
Or haply it a sister may have been,
Who to her waist the knightly sword has tied;
Born with me at a birth; so like to view,
The family discerns not who is who.
“You not first, second, or even fourth will be,
Who have in this their error had to learn;
Nor father, brother, nor even mother me
From her (such our resemblance) can discern.
’Tis true, this hair, which short and loose you see,
In many guise, and hers, with many a turn,
And in long tresses wound about her brow,
Wide difference made between us two till now.
“But since the day, that, wounded by a Moor
In the head (a story tedious to recite)
A holy man, to heal the damsel’s sore,
Cut short to the mid-ear her tresses bright,
Excepting sex and name, there is no more
One from the other to distinguish: hight
I Richardetto am, Bradamant she;
Rinaldo’s brother and his sister we.
“And to displease you were I not afraid,
You with a wonder would I entertain,
Which chanced from my resemblance to the maid;
Begun in pleasure, finishing in pain.”
He to whom nought more pleasing could be said,
And to whose ears there was no sweeter strain
That what in some sort on his lady ran,
Besought the stripling so, that he began.
“It so fell out, that as my sister through
The neighbouring wood pursued her path, a wound
Was dealt the damsel by a paynim crew,
Which her by chance without a helmet found.
And she was fain to trim the locks which grew
Clustering about the gash, to maker her sound
Of that ill cut which in her head she bore:
Hence, shorn, she wandered through the forest hoar.
“Ranging, she wandered to a shady font;
Where, worn and troubled, she, in weary wise,
Lit from her courser and disarmed her front,
And, couched upon the greenwood, closed her eyes.
A tale more pleasing than what I recount
In story there is none, I well surmise:
Thither repaired young Flordespine of Spain,
Who in that wood was hunting with her train.
“And, when she found my sister in the shade,
Covered, except her face, with martial gear,
—In place of spindle, furnished with the blade—
Believed that she beheld a cavalier:
The face and manly semblance she surveyed,
Till conquered was her heart: with courteous cheer
She wooed the maid to hunt
