e fool and pricked towards the ford.

VII
"Hearest thou not? hola! I want thy steed,"
(Cried Roland) and advanced with wrathful cheer.
A solid staff and knotted, for his need,
That shepherd had, wherewith he smote the peer;
Whose violence and ire all bounds exceed,
Who seems withal to wax more fierce than e'er:
A cuff he levels at that rustic's head,
And splits the solid bone, and lays him dead.

VIII
Then leaping on his horse, by different way
The country scowers, to make more spoil and wrack:
That palfrey never more tastes corn or hay;
So that few days exhaust the famished hack.
But not afoot does fierce Orlando stray,
Who will not, while he lives, conveyance lack.
As many as he finds, so many steeds
-- Their masters slain -- he presses for his needs.

IX
He came at last to Malaga, and here
Did mightier scathe than he had done elsewhere;
For now -- besides that the infuriate peer
Of all its people left the country bare,
Nor (such the ravage) could another year
The desperate havoc of the fool repair --
So many houses burnt he, or cast down,
Sacked was a third of that unhappy town.

X
Departing thence, insane Orlando flees
To Zizera, a seaward town, whose site
Is in Gibraltar's bay, or (if you please)
Say Gibletar's; for either way 'tis hight;
Here, loosening from the land, a boat he sees
Filled with a party, and for pleasure dight:
Which, for their solace, to the morning gale,
Upon that summer sea, had spread their sail.

XI
"Hoah! the boat! put back!" the count 'gan cry,
Who was in mind to go aboard their barge:
But vainly on their ears his clamours die:
For of such freight none willingly take charge.
As swiftly as a swallow cleaves the sky,
Furrowing the foamy wave the boat goes large.
Orlando urges on, with straightening knee,
And whip and spur, his horse towards the sea.

XII
He plunged into the waves, at last, parforce;
For vainly would he shun the waters green.
Bathed are knees, paunch, and croup, till of that horse
Scarcely the head above the wave is seen:
Let him not hope to measure back his course,
While smitten with the whip his ears between.
Woe worth him! he must founder by the way,
Or into Africa his load convey.

XIII
Nor poops nor prows does Roland more descry,
For all have launched their shallops, which are wide
Of that dry shore; while from his level eye