The wretched beholder got off his horse and entered the grotto.  The first thing that met his eyes was a larger inscription in the Saracen lover’s own handwriting and tongue—­a language which the slayer of the infidels was too well acquainted with.  The words were in verse, and expressed the gratitude of the “poor Medoro,” the writer, for having had in his arms, in that grotto, the beautiful Angelica, daughter of King Galafron, whom so many had loved in vain.  The writer invoked a blessing on every part of it, its shades, its waters, its flowers, its creeping plants; and entreated every person, high and low, who should chance to visit it, particularly lovers, that they would bless the place likewise, and take care that it was never polluted by foot of herd.

Thrice, and four times, did the unhappy Orlando read these words, trying always, but in vain, to disbelieve what he saw.  Every time he read, they appeared plainer and plainer; and every time did a cold hand seem to be wringing the heart in his bosom.  At length he remained with his eyes fixed on the stone, seeing nothing more, not even the stone itself.  He felt as if his wits were leaving him, so abandoned did he seem of all comfort.  Let those imagine what he felt who have experienced the same emotions—­who know, by their own sufferings, that this is the grief which surpasses all other griefs.  His head had fallen on his bosom; his look was deprived of all confidence; he could not even speak or shed a tear.  His impetuous grief remained within him by reason of his impetuosity—­like water which attempts to rush out of the narrow-necked bottle, but which is so compressed as it comes, that it scarcely issues drop by drop.

Again he endeavoured to disbelieve his eyes—­to conclude that somebody had wished to calumniate his mistress, and drive her lover mad, and so had done his best to imitate her handwriting.  With these sorry attempts at consolation, he again took horse, the sun having now given way to the moon, and so rode a little onward, till he beheld smoke rising out of the tops of the trees, and heard the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle.  By these signs he knew that he was approaching a village.  He entered it, and going into the first house he came to, gave his horse to the care of a youth, and was disarmed, and had his spurs of gold taken off, and so went into a room that was shewn him without demanding either meat or drink, so entirely was he filled with his sorrow.

Now it happened that this was the very cottage into which Medoro had been carried out of the wood by the loving Angelica.  There he had been cured of his wounds—­there he had been loved and made happy—­and there, wherever the County Orlando turned his eyes, he beheld the detested writing on the walls, the windows, the doors.  He made no inquiries about it of the people of the house:  he still dreaded to render the certainty clearer than he would fain suppose it.