XLII.
“Thou needs art raving mad,” replied in few
The chief,—nor more. But with his lance in rest,
The Tartar monarch at the speaker flew,
And with the levelled spear transfixed his breast.
For the point pierced the yielding corslet through,
And lifeless he, perforce, the champaign prest.
The son of Agrican his lance regained,
Who weaponless without the spear remained.
XLIII.
Nor sword nor club the warlike Tartar bore,
Since, when the Trojan Hector’s plate and chain
He gained, because the faulchion lacked, he swore
(To this obliged), nor swore the king in vain,
That save he won the blade Orlando wore,
He would no other grasp,—that Durindane,
Held in high value by Almontes bold,
Which Roland bears, and Hector bore of old.
XLIV.
Great is the Tartar monarch’s daring, those
At such a disadvantage to assay.
He pricks, with levelled lance, among his foes,
Shouting, in fury,—“Who shall bar my way?”
Round and about him suddenly they close;
These draw the faulchion, and those others lay
The spear in rest: a multitude he slew,
Before his lance was broke upon the crew.
