abroad, notwithstanding the heat, which made
the shepherds glad to sit without their jerkins, and receive the coolness
on their naked bodies: even the hard-skinned cattle were glad of it; and
Orlando, who was armed _cap-a-pie_, was delighted to take off his helmet,
and lay aside his buckler, and repose awhile in the midst of a scene so
refreshing. Alas! it was the unhappiest moment of his life.

Casting his eyes around him, while about to get off his horse, he
observed a handwriting on many of the trees which he thought he knew.
Riding up to the trees, and looking more closely, he was sure he knew it;
and in truth it was no other than that of his adored mistress Angelica,
and the inscription one of those numerous inscriptions of which I have
spoken. The spot was one of the haunts of the lovers while they abode in
the shepherd's cottage. Wherever the County turned his eyes, he beheld,
tied together in true-lovers' knots, nothing but the words

"ANGELICA AND MEDORO."

All the trees had them--his eyes could see nothing else; and every letter
was a dagger that pierced his heart.

The unhappy lover tried in vain to disbelieve what he saw. He endeavoured
to compel himself to think that it was some other Angelica who had
written the words; but he knew the handwriting too well. Too often had he
dwelt upon it, and made himself familiar with every turn of the letters.
He then strove to fancy that "Medoro" was a feigned name, intended for
himself; but he felt that he was trying to delude himself, and that the
more he tried, the bitterer was his conviction of the truth. He was like
a bird fixing itself only the more deeply in the lime in which it is
caught, by struggling and beating its wings.

Orlando turned his horse away in his anguish, and paced it towards a
grotto covered with vine and ivy, which he looked into. The grotto, both
outside and in, was full of the like inscriptions. It was the retreat the
lovers were so fond of at noon. Their names were written on all sides of
it, some in chalk and coal,[17] others carved with a knife.

The wretched beholder got off his horse and entered the grotto. The first
thing that met his eyes was a larger inscription in the Saracen lover's
own handwriting and tongue--a language which the slayer of the infidels
was too well acquainted with. The words were in verse, and expressed the
gratitude of the "poor Medoro," the writer, for having had in his arms,
in that grotto, the beautiful A