th tears,
To his Brandimart in haste the warrior goes;
The field about him red with blood appears,
His helmet cleft as by a hatchet's blows;
And, had it been than spungy rind more frail,
Would have defended him no worse than mail.

XIII
Orlando lifts the helmet, and descries
Brandimart's head by that destructive brand
Cleft even to his nose, between the eyes;
Yet so the wounded knight his spirits manned,
That pardon of the king of Paradise
He, before death, was able to demand,
And to exhort to patience Brava's peer,
Whose manly cheeks were wet with many a tear;

XIV
And -- "Roland, in thy helping orisons, I
Beseech thee to remember me," he cried,
"Nor recommend to thee less warmly my --"
-- Flordelice would, but could not, say -- and died;
And sounds and songs of angels in the sky,
As the soul parts, are heard on every side;
Which from its prison freed, mid hymns of love,
Ascends into the blissful realms above.

XV
Orlando, albeit he should joy in heart
At death so holy, and is certified
That called to bliss above is Brandimart;
For he heaven opened to the knight described;
Through human wilfulness -- which aye takes part
With our weak senses -- hardly can abide
The loss of one, above a brother dear,
Nor can refrain from many a scalding tear.

XVI
Warlike Sobrino, of much blood bereaved,
Which from his flank and wounded visage rained,
Long since had fallen, reversed and sore aggrieved,
And had by now his vessels well nigh drained.
Olivier too lies stretched; nor has retrieved,
Nor can retrieve, his crippled foot, save sprained,
And almost crushed; so long between the plain,
And his stout courser jammed, the limb has lain;

XVII
And but Orlando helped (so woe begone
Was weeping Olivier, and brought so low)
He could not have released his limb alone;
And, when released, endures such pain, such woe,
The helpless warrior cannot stand upon,
Or shift withal his wounded foot, and so
Benumbed and crippled is the leg above,
That he without assistance cannot move.

XVIII
The victory brought Orlando small delight;
On whom too heavily and hardly weighed
Of slaughtered Brandimart the piteous sight;
Nor sure of Oliviero's life he made.
Sobrino yet survived; but little light
The wounded monarch had, amid much shade:
For almost spend his ebbing life remained
So fast from him the crimson blood