CXIX · Section 3

CXIX But when the Pagan’s joy and comfort fled, It seemed the sun was set, the day was night, Gainst the brave prince with whom he combated He turned, and on the forehead struck the knight: When thunders forged are in Typhoius’ bed, Not Brontes’ hammer falls so swift, so right; The furious stroke fell on Rinaldo’s crest, And made him bend his head down to his breast.

CXX The champion in his stirrups high upstart, And cleft his hauberk hard and tender side, And sheathed his weapon in the Pagan’s heart, The castle where man’s life and soul do bide; The cruel sword his breast and hinder part With double wound unclosed, and opened wide; And two large doors made for his life and breath, Which passed, and cured hot love with frozen death.