These two were keeping anxious watch upon the trenches of the defeated army, when Medoro, unable to cease thinking of the master who had been left dead on the field, told his friend that he could no longer delay to go and look for his dead body, and bury it.  “You,” said he, “will remain, and so be able to do justice to my memory, in case I fail.”

Cloridan, though he delighted in this proof of his friend’s noble-heartedness, did all he could to dissuade him from so perilous an enterprise; but Medoro, in the fervour of his gratitude for benefits conferred on him by his lord, was immovable in his determination to die or to succeed; and Cloridan, seeing this, determined to go with him.

They took their way accordingly out of the Saracen camp, and in a short time found themselves in that of the enemy.  The Christians had been drinking over-night for joy at their victory, and were buried in wine and sleep.  Cloridan halted a moment, and said in a whisper to his friend, “Do you see this?  Ought I to lose such an opportunity of revenging our beloved master?  Keep watch, and I will do it.  Look about you, and listen on every side, while I make a passage for us among these sleepers with my sword.”

Without waiting an answer, the vigorous huntsman pushed into the first tent before him.  It contained, among other occupants, a certain Alpheus, a physician and caster of nativities, who had prophesied to himself a long life, and a death in the bosom of his family.  Cloridan cautiously put the sword’s point in his throat, and there was an end of his dreams.  Four other sleepers were despatched in like manner, without time given them to utter a syllable.  After them went another, who had entrenched himself between two horses; then the luckless Grill, who had made himself a pillow of a barrel which he had emptied.  He was dreaming of opening a second barrel, but, alas, was tapped himself.  A Greek and a German followed, who had been playing late at dice; fortunate, if they had continued to do so a little longer; but they never counted a throw like this among their chances.

By this time the Saracen had grown ferocious with his bloody work, and went slaughtering along like a wild beast among sheep.  Nor could Medoro keep his own sword unemployed; but he disdained to strike indiscriminately—­he was choice in his victims.  Among these was a certain Duke La Brett, who had his lady fast asleep in his arms.  Shall I pity them?  That will I not.  Sweet was their fated hour, most happy their departure; for, embraced as the sword found them, even so, I believe, it dismissed them into the other world, loving and enfolded.

Two brothers were slain next, sons of the Count of Flanders, and newly-made valorous knights.  Charlemagne had seen them turn red with slaughter in the field, and had augmented their coat of arms with his lilies, and promised them lands beside in Friesland.  And he would have bestowed the lands, only Medoro forbade it.