Cloridan, when he perceived that he had evaded his foes, discovered that Medoro was not with him.  “Ah!” exclaimed he, “how could I, dear Medoro, so forget myself as to consult my own safety without heeding yours?” So saying, he retraced the tangled passes of the wood toward the place from whence he had fled.  As he approached he heard the noise of horses, and the menacing voices of armed men.  Soon he perceived Medoro, on foot, with the cavaliers surrounding him.  Zerbino, their commander, bade them seize him.  The unhappy Medoro turned now this way, now that, trying to conceal himself behind an oak or a rock, still bearing the body, which he would by no means leave.  Cloridan not knowing how to help him, but resolved to perish with him, if he must perish, takes an arrow, fits it to his bow, discharges it, and pierces the breast of a Christian knight, who falls helpless from his horse.  The others look this way and that, to discover whence the fatal bolt was sped.  One, while demanding of his comrades in what direction the arrow came, received a second in his throat, which stopped his words, and soon closed his eyes to the scene.

Zerbino, furious at the death of his two comrades, ran upon Medoro, seized his golden hair, and dragged him forward to slay him.  But the sight of so much youth and beauty commanded pity.  He stayed his arm.  The young man spoke in suppliant tones.  “Ah! signor,” said he, “I conjure you by the God whom you serve, deprive me not of life until I shall have buried the body of the prince, my master.  Fear not that I will ask you any other favor; life is not dear to me; I desire death as soon as I shall have performed this sacred duty.  Do with me then as you please.  Give my limbs a prey to the birds and beasts; only let me first bury my prince.”  Medoro pronounced these words with an air so sweet and tender that a heart of stone would have been moved by them.  Zerbino was so to the bottom of his soul.  He was on the point of uttering words of mercy, when a cruel subaltern, forgetting all respect to his commander, plunged his lance into the breast of the young Moor.  Zerbino, enraged at his brutality, turned upon the wretch to take vengeance, but he saved himself by a precipitate flight.

Cloridan, who saw Medoro fall, could contain himself no longer.  He rushed from his concealment, threw down his bow, and, sword in hand, seemed only desirous of vengeance for Medoro, and to die with him.  In a moment, pierced through and through with many wounds, he exerts the last remnant of his strength in dragging himself to Medoro, to die embracing him.  The cavaliers left them thus to rejoin Zerbino, whose rage against the murderer of Medoro had drawn him away from the spot.

Cloridan died; and Medoro, bleeding copiously, was drawing near his end when help arrived.

A young maiden approached the fallen knights at this critical moment.  Her dress was that of a peasant-girl, but her air was noble, and her beauty celestial; sweetness and goodness reigned in her lovely countenance.  It was no other than Angelica, the Princess of Cathay.