Together, all the others of the band
       Turned thither, whence was shot the murderous reed;
     Meanwhile he launched another from his stand,
       That a new foe might by the weapon bleed,
     Whom (while he made of this and that demand,
       And loudly questioned who had done the deed)
     The arrow reached—­transfixed the wretch’s throat
     And cut his question short in middle note.

     Zerbino, captain of those horse, no more
       Can at the piteous sight his wrath refrain;
     In furious heat he springs, upon Medore,
       Exclaiming, “Thou of this shalt bear the pain.” 
     One hand he in his locks of golden ore
       Enwreaths, and drags him to himself amain;
     But as his eyes that beauteous face survey,
     Takes pity on the boy, and does not slay.

     To him the stripling turns, with suppliant cry,
       And, “By thy God, sir knight,” exclaims, “I pray,
     Be not so passing cruel, nor deny
       That I in earth my honored king may lay: 
     No other grace I supplicate, nor I
       This for the love of life, believe me, say. 
     So much, no longer, space of life I crave,
     As may suffice to give my lord a grave.

     “And if you needs must feed the beast and bird,
       Like Theban Creon, let their worst be done
     Upon these limbs; so that by me interred
       In earth be those of good Almontes’s son.” 
     Medoro thus his suit, with grace, preferred,
       And words to move a mountain; and so won
     Upon Zerbino’s mood, to kindness turned,
     With love and pity he all over burned.

     This while, a churlish horseman of the band,
       Who little deference for his lord confest,
     His lance uplifting, wounded overhand
       The unhappy suppliant in his dainty breast. 
     Zerbino, who the cruel action scanned,
       Was deeply stirred, the rather that, opprest,
     And livid with the blow the churl had sped,
     Medoro fell as he was wholly dead.

* * * * *

     The Scots pursue their chief, who pricks before,
       Through the deep wood, inspired by high disdain,
     When he has left the one and the other Moor,
       This dead, that scarce alive, upon the plain. 
     There for a mighty space lay young Medore,
       Spouting his life-blood from so large a vein
     He would have perished, but that thither made
     A stranger, as it chanced, who lent him aid.

          THE SAVING OF MEDORO

     From ‘Orlando Furioso,’ Canto 19

     By chance arrived a damsel at the place,
       Who was (though mean and rustic was her wear)
     Of royal presence and of beauteous face,
       And lofty manners, sagely debonnair. 
     Her have I left unsung so long a space,
       That you will hardly recognize the fair
     Angelica:  in her (if known not) scan
     The lofty daughter of Catay’s great khan.