“If you have any armour that would suit my companion,” replied Orlando, “that I will accept with pleasure.”

“Come and see,” said the abbot; and they went to a room that was full of armour.  Morgante looked all about, but could find nothing large enough, except a rusty breast-plate, which fitted him marvellously.  It had belonged to an enormous giant, who was killed there of old by Orlando’s father, Milo of Angrante.  There was a painting on the wall which told the whole story:  how the giant had laid cruel and long siege to the abbey; and how he had been overthrown at last by the great Milo.  Orlando seeing this, said within himself:  “O God, unto whom all things are known, how came Milo here, who destroyed this giant?” And reading certain inscriptions which were there, he could no longer keep a firm countenance, but the tears ran down his cheeks.

When the abbot saw Orlando weep, and his brow redden, and the light of his eyes become child-like for sweetness, he asked him the reason; but, finding him still dumb with emotion, he said, “I do not know whether you are overpowered by admiration of what is painted in this chamber.  You must know that I am of high descent, though not through lawful wedlock.  I believe I may say I am nephew or sister’s son to no less a man than that Rinaldo, who was so great a Paladin in the world, though my own father was not of a lawful mother.  Ansuigi was his name; my own, out in the world, was Chiaramonte; and this Milo was my father’s brother.  Ah, gentle baron, for blessed Jesus’ sake, tell me what name is yours!”

Orlando, all glowing with affection, and bathed in tears, replied, “My dear abbot and cousin, he before you is your Orlando.”  Upon this, they ran for tenderness into each other’s arms, weeping on both sides with a sovereign affection, too high to be expressed.  The abbot was so over-joyed, that he seemed as if he would never have done embracing Orlando.  “By what fortune,” said the knight, “do I find you in this obscure place?  Tell me, my dear abbot, how was it you became a monk, and did not follow arms, like myself and the rest of us?”

“It is the will of God,” replied the abbot, hastening to give his feelings utterance.  “Many and divers are the paths he points out for us by which to arrive at his city; some walk it with the sword—­some with pastoral staff.  Nature makes the inclination different, and therefore there are different ways for us to take:  enough if we all arrive safely at one and the same place, the last as well as the first.  We are all pilgrims through many kingdoms.  We all wish to go to Rome, Orlando; but we go picking out our journey through different roads.  Such is the trouble in body and soul brought upon us by that sin of the old apple.  Day and night am I here with my book in hand—­day and night do you ride about, holding your sword, and sweating oft both in sun and shadow; and all to get round at last to the home from which we departed—­I say, all out of anxiety and hope to get back to our home of old.”  And the giant hearing them talk of these things, shed tears also.