On a sudden, Cloridan having arrived at a spot so quiet that he became aware of the silence, missed his beloved friend.  “Great God!” he exclaimed, “what have I done?  Left him I know not where, or how!” The swift runner instantly turned about, and, retracing his steps, came voluntarily back on the road to his own death.  As he approached the scene where it was to take place, he began to hear the noise of men and horses; then he discerned voices threatening; then the voice of his unhappy friend; and at length he saw him, still bearing his load, in the midst of the whole troop of horsemen.  The prince was commanding them to seize him.  The poor youth, however, burdened as he was, rendered it no such easy matter; for he turned himself about like a wheel, and entrenched himself, now behind this tree and now behind that.  Finding this would not do, he laid his beloved burden on the ground, and then strode hither and thither, over and round about it, parrying the horsemen’s endeavours to take him prisoner.  Never did poor hunted bear feel more conflicting emotions, when, surprised in her den, she stands over her offspring with uncertain heart, groaning with a mingled sound of tenderness and rage.  Wrath bids her rush forward, and bury her nails in the flesh of their enemy; love melts her, and holds her back in the middle of her fury, to look upon those whom she bore.[14]

Cloridan was in an agony of perplexity what to do.  He longed to rush forth and die with his friend; he longed also still to do what he could, and not to let him die unavenged.  He therefore halted awhile before he issued from the trees, and, putting an arrow to his bow, sent it well-aimed among the horsemen.  A Scotsman fell dead from his saddle.  The troop all turned to see whence the arrow came; and as they were raging and crying out, a second stuck in the throat of the loudest.

“This is not to be borne,” cried the prince, pushing his horse towards Medoro; “you shall suffer for this.”  And so speaking, he thrust his hand into the golden locks of the youth, and dragged him violently backwards, intending to kill him; but when he looked on his beautiful face, he couldn’t do it.

The youth betook himself to entreaty.  “For God’s sake, sir knight!” cried he, “be not so cruel as to deny me leave to bury my lord and master.  He was a king.  I ask nothing for myself—­not even my life.  I do not care for my life.  I care for nothing but to bury my lord and master.”

These words were spoken in a manner so earnest, that the good prince could feel nothing but pity; but a ruffian among the troop, losing sight even of respect for his lord, thrust his lance into the poor youth’s bosom right over the prince’s hand.  Zerbino turned with indignation to smite him, but the villain, seeing what was coming, galloped off; and meanwhile Cloridan, thinking that his friend was slain, came leaping full of rage out of the wood, and laid about him with his sword in mortal desperation.  Twenty swords were upon him in a moment; and perceiving life flowing out of him, he let himself fall down by the side of his friend.[15]