It was about the middle of the third day when the paladin arrived on the pleasant bank of a stream which wound through a meadow enamelled with flowers.  High trees, whose tops met and formed an arbor, over-shadowed the fountain; and the breeze which blew through their foliage tempered the heat.  Hither the shepherds used to resort to quench their thirst, and to enjoy the shelter from the midday sun.  The air, perfumed with the flowers, seemed to breathe fresh strength into their veins.  Orlando felt the influence, though covered with his armor.  He stopped in this delicious arbor, where everything seemed to invite to repose.  But he could not have chosen a more fatal asylum.  He there spent the most miserable moments of his life.

He looked around, and noted with pleasure all the charms of the spot.  He saw that some of the trees were carved with inscriptions —­he drew near, and read them, and what was his surprise to find that they composed the name of Angelica!  Farther on he found the name of Medoro mixed with hers.  The paladin thought he dreamed.  He stood like one amazed—­like a bird that, rising to fly, finds its feet caught in a net.

Orlando followed the course of the stream, and came to one of its turns where the rocks of the mountain bent in such a way as to form a sort of grotto.  The twisted stems of ivy and the wild vine draped the entrance of this recess, scooped by the hand of nature.

The unhappy paladin, on entering the grotto, saw letters which appeared to have been lately carved.  They were verses which Medoro had written in honor of his happy nuptials with the beautiful queen.  Orlando tried to persuade himself it must be some other Angelica whom those verses celebrated, and as for Medoro, he had never heard his name.  The sun was now declining, and Orlando remounted his horse, and went on his way.  He soon saw the roof of a cottage whence the smoke ascended; he heard the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle, and arrived at a humble dwelling which seemed to offer an asylum for the night.  The inmates, as soon as they saw him, hastened to tender him service.  One took his horse, another his shield and cuirass, another his golden spurs.  This cottage was the very same where Medoro had been carried, deeply wounded,—­where Angelica had tended him, and afterwards married him.  The shepherd who lived in it loved to tell everybody the story of this marriage, and soon related it, with all its details, to the miserable Orlando.

Having finished it, he went away, and returned with the precious bracelet which Angelica, grateful for his services, had given him as a memorial.  It was the one which Orlando had himself given her.

This last touch was the finishing stroke to the excited paladin.  Frantic, exasperated, he exclaimed against the ungrateful and cruel princess who had disdained him, the most renowned, the most indomitable of all the paladins of France,—­him, who had rescued her from the most alarming perils,—­him, who had fought the most terrible battles for her sake,—­she to prefer to him a young Saracen!  The pride of the noble Count was deeply wounded.  Indignant, frantic, a victim to ungovernable rage, he rushed into the forest, uttering the most frightful shrieks.