As Rinaldo advanced, the crowd opened before him, the Christians to let his sword have free course, the Pagans to escape its sweep.  Dardinel and he stood face to face.  Rinaldo exclaimed, fiercely, “Young man, whoever gave you that noble buckler to bear made you a dangerous gift; I should like to see how you are able to defend those quarterings, red and white.  If you cannot defend them against me, how pray will you do so when Orlando challenges them?” Dardinel replied:  “Thou shalt learn that I can defend the arms I bear, and shed new glory upon them.  No one shall rend them from me but with life.”  Saying these words, Dardinel rushed upon Rinaldo with sword uplifted.  The chill of mortal terror filled the souls of the Saracens when they beheld Rinaldo advance to attack the prince, like a lion against a young bull.  The first blow came from the hand of Dardinel, and the weapon rebounded from Mambrino’s helmet without effect.  Rinaldo smiled, and said, “I will now show you if my strokes are more effectual.”  At these words he thrust the unfortunate Dardinel in the middle of his breast.  The blow was so violent that the cruel weapon pierced the body, and came out a palm-breadth behind his back.  Through this wound the life of Dardinel issued with his blood, and his body fell helpless to the ground.

As a flower which the passing plough has uprooted languishes, and droops its head, so Dardinel, his visage covered with the paleness of death, expires, and the hopes of an illustrious race perish with him.

Like waters kept back by a dike, which, when the dike is broken, spread abroad through all the country, so the Moors, no longer kept in column by the example of Dardinel, fled in all directions.  Rinaldo despised too much such easy victories to pursue them; he wished for no combats but with brave men.  At the same time, the other paladins made terrible slaughter of the Moors.  Charles himself, Oliver, Guido, and Ogier the Dane, carried death into their ranks on all sides.

The infidels seemed doomed to perish to a man on that dreadful day; but the wise king, Marsilius, at last put some slight degree of method into the general rout.  He collected the remnant of the troops, formed them into a battalion, and retreated in tolerable order to his camp.  That camp was well fortified by intrenchments and a broad ditch.  Thither the fugitives hastened, and by degrees all that remained of the Moorish army was brought together there.

The Emperor might perhaps that night have crushed his enemy entirely; but not thinking it prudent to expose his troops, fatigued as they were, to an attack upon a camp so well fortified, he contented himself with encompassing the enemy with his troops, prepared to make a regular siege.  During the night the Moors had time to see the extent of their loss.  Their tents resounded with lamentations.  This warrior had to mourn a brother, that a friend; many suffered with grievous wounds, all trembled at the fate in store for them.