And now with a mighty dust, and an infinite sound of horns and tambours, which came filling the valley, the first army of the infidels made its appearance, horses neighing, and a thousand pennons flying in the air.  King Falseron led them on, saying to his officers:  “Let nobody dare to lay a finger on Orlando.  He belongs to myself.  The revenge of my son’s death is mine.  I will cut the man down that comes between us.”  “Now, friends,” said Orlando, “every man for himself, and St. Michael for us all!  There is not one here that is not a perfect knight.”  And he might well say it, for the flower of all France was there, except Rinaldo and Ricciardetto—­every man a picked man, all friends and constant companions of Orlando.

So the captains of the little troop and of the great army sat looking at one another, and singling one another out as the latter came on, and then the knights put spear in rest, and ran for a while two and two in succession, one against the other.

Astolpho was the first to move.  He ran against Arlotto of Sorio, and thrust his antagonist’s body out of the saddle, and his soul into the other world.  Oliver encountered Malprimo, and, though he received a thrust which hurt him, sent his lance right through the heart of Malprimo.

Falseron was daunted at this blow.  “Truly,” thought he, “this is a marvel.”  Oliver did not press on among the Saracens, his wound was too painful; but Orlando now put himself and his whole band in motion, and you may guess what an uproar ensued.  The sound of the rattling of blows and helmets was as if the forge of Vulcan had been thrown open.  Falseron beheld Orlando coming so furiously, that he thought him a Lucifer who had burst his chain, and was quite of another mind than when he purposed to have him all to himself.  On the contrary, he recommended himself to his gods, and turned away, meaning to wait for a more auspicious season of revenge.  But Orlando hailed him with a terrible voice, saying, “O thou traitor! was this the end to which old quarrels were made up?” Then he dashed at Falseron with a fury so swift, and at the same time with a mastery of his lance so marvellous, that, though he plunged it in the man’s body so as instantly to kill him, and then withdrew it, the body did not move in the saddle.  The hero himself, as he rushed onwards, was fain to see the end of a stroke so perfect, and turning his horse back, touched the carcass with his sword, and it fell on the instant!

When the infidels beheld their leader dead such fear fell upon them that they were for leaving the field to the paladins, but they were unable.  Marsilius had drawn the rest of his forces round the valley like a net, so that their shoulders were turned in vain.  Orlando rode into the thick of them, and wherever he went thunderbolts fell upon helmets.  Oliver was again in the fray, with Walter and Baldwin, Avino and Avolio, while Arch-bishop Turpin had changed his crosier for a lance, and chased a new flock before him to the mountains.