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"This youth, named Rogero, is the most beautiful and most accomplished
of knights. It is I, the unhappy Atlantes, who have reared him from his
childhood. The call of honor and the desire of glory led him from me to
follow Agramant, his prince, in his invasion of France, and I, more
devoted to Rogero than the tenderest of parents, have sought the means
The fourth day he started up and seized his arms. His helmet, his
buckler, he cast far from him; his hauberk and his clothes he rent
asunder; the fragments were scattered through the wood. In fine, he
became a furious madman. His insanity was such that he cared not to
retain even his sword. But he had no need of Durindana, nor of other
arms, to do wonderful things. His prodigious strength sufficed. At the
first wrench of his mighty arm he tore up a pine-tree by the roots.
Oaks, beeches, maples, whatever he met in his path, yielded in like
manner. The ancient forest soon became as bare as the borders of a
morass, where the fowler has cleared away the bushes to spread his
nets. The shepherds, hearing the horrible crashing in the forest,
abandoned their flocks to run and see the cause of this unwonted
uproar. By their evil star, or for their sins, they were led thither.
When they saw the furious state the Count was in, and his incredible
force, they would fain have fled out of his reach, but in their fearswhich served for food. His long fast had caused him to feel the most
ravenous hunger. Seizing whatever he found that was eatable, whether
roots, acorns, or bread, raw meat or cooked, he gorged it
indiscriminately.
Issuing thence again, the frantic Orlando gave chase to whatever living
thing he saw, whether men or animals. Sometimes he pursued the deer and
hind, sometimes he attacked bears and wolves, and with his naked hands
killed and tore them, and devoured their flesh.
Thus he wandered, from place to place, through France, imperilling his
life a thousand ways, yet always preserved by some mysterious
providence from a fatal result. But here we leave Orlando for a time,
that we may record what befell Zerbino and Isabella after their parting
with him.lost their presence of mind. The madman pursued them, seized one and
rent him limb from limb, as easily as one would pull ripe apples from a
tree. He took another by the feet, and used him as a club to knock down
a third. The shepherds fled; but it would have been hard for any to
escape, if he had not at that moment left them to throw himself with
the same fury upon their flocks. The peasants, abandoning their ploughs
and harrows, mounted on the roofs of buildings and pinnacles of the
rocks, afraid to trust themselves even to the oaks and pines. From such
heights they looked on, trembling at the raging fury of the unhappy
Orlando. His fists, his teeth, his nails, his feet, seize, break, and
tear cattle, sheep, and swine; the most swift in flight alone being
able to escape him.
When at last terror had scattered everything before him, he entered a
cottage which was abandoned by its inhabitants, and there found thatOrlando wandered all night, as chance directed, through the wood, and
at sunrise his destiny led him to the fountain where Medoro had
engraved the fatal inscription. The frantic paladin saw it a second
time with fury, drew his sword, and hacked it from the rock.
Unlucky grotto! you shall no more attract by your shade and coolness,
you shall no more shelter with your arch either shepherd or flock. And
you, fresh and pure fountain, you may not escape the rage of the
furious Orlando! He cast into the fountain branches, trunks of trees
which he tore up, pieces of rocks which he broke off, plants uprooted,
with the earth adhering, and turf and brushes, so as to choke the
fountain, and destroy the purity of its waters. At length, exhausted by
his violent exertions, bathed in sweat, breathless, Orlando sunk
panting upon the earth, and lay there insensible three days and three
nights.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.
"No, no!" cried he, "I am not the man they take me for! Orlando is
dead! I am only the wandering ghost of that unhappy Count, who is now
suffering the torments of hell!"
