Behind Clorinda was the gate—­before and round about her was a host of foes; and surely at that moment she thought that her life was drawing to its end.  Finding, however, that her dark armour befriended her in the tumult, she mingled with the enemy as though she had been one of themselves, and so, by degrees, picked her way through the confusion caused by the fire.  As the wolf, with its bloody mouth, seeks covert in the woods, even so Clorinda got clear out of the multitude into the darkness and the open country.

Not, however, so clear, alas, but that Tancred perceived her—­Tancred, her foe in creed, but her adoring lover, whose heart she had conquered in the midst of strife, and whose passion for her she knew.  But now she knew not that he had seen her; nor did he, poor valiant wretch, know that the knight in black armour whom he pursued, was a woman, and Clorinda.  Tancred had seen the warrior strike down the assailant at the gate; he had watched him as he picked his way to escape; and Clorinda now heard the unknown Tancred coming swiftly on horseback behind her as she was speeding round towards another gate in hopes of being let in.

The heroine at length turned, and said, “How now, friend?—­what is thy business?”

“Death!” answered the pursuer.

“Thou shalt have it,” replied the maiden.

The knight, as his enemy was on foot, dismounted, in order to render the combat equal; and their swords are drawn in fury, and the fight begins.[4]

Worthy of the brightest day-time was that fight—­worthy of a theatre full of valiant be-holders.  Be not displeased, O. Night! that I draw it out of thy bosom, and set it in the serene light of renown:  the splendour will but the more exhibit the great shade of thy darkness.

No trial was this of skill—­no contest of warding and traversing and taking heed—­no artful interchange of blows now pretended, now given in earnest, now glancing.  Night-time and rage flung aside all consideration.  The swords horribly clashed and hammered on one another.  Not a cut descended in vain—­not a thrust was without substance.  Shame and fury aggravated one another.  Every blow became fiercer than the last.  They closed—­they could use their blades no longer; they dashed the pummels of their swords at one another’s faces; they butted and shouldered with helm and buckler.  Three times the man threw his arms round the woman with other embraces than those of love—­three times they returned to their swords, and cut and slashed one another’s bleeding bodies; till at length they were obliged to hold back for the purpose of taking breath.

Tancred and Clorinda stood fronting one another in the darkness, leaning on their swords for want of strength.  The last star in the heavens was fading in the tinge of dawn; and Tancred saw that his enemy had lost more blood than himself, and it made him proud and joyful.  Oh, foolish mind of us humans, elated at every fancy of success!  Poor wretch! for what dost thou rejoice?  How sad will be thy victory!  What a misery to look back upon, thy delight!  Every drop of that blood will be paid for with worlds of tears!