they were obliged to hold back for the purpose of taking breath.

Tancred and Clorinda stood fronting one another in the darkness, leaning
on their swords for want of strength. The last star in the heavens was
fading in the tinge of dawn; and Tancred saw that his enemy had lost more
blood than himself, and it made him proud and joyful. Oh, foolish mind of
us humans, elated at every fancy of success! Poor wretch! for what dost
thou rejoice? How sad will be thy victory! What a misery to look back
upon, thy delight! Every drop of that blood will be paid for with worlds
of tears!

Dimly thus looking at one another stood the combatants, bleeding a while
in peace. At length Tancred, who wished to know his antagonist, said, "It
hath been no good fortune of ours to be compelled thus to fight where
nobody can behold us; but we have at least become acquainted with the
good swords of one another. Let me request, therefore (if to request any
thing at such a time be not unbecoming), that I may be no stranger to thy
name. Permit me to learn, whatever be the result, who it is that shall
honour my death or my victory."

"I am not accustomed," answered the fierce maiden, "to disclose who I am;
nor shall I disclose it now. Suffice to hear, that thou seest before thee
one of the burners of the tower."

Tancred was exasperated at this discovery. "In an evil moment," cried he,
"hast thou said it. Thy silence and thy speech alike disgust me." Into
the combat again they dash, feeble as they were. Ferocious indeed is the
strife in which skill is not thought of, and strength itself is dead; in
which valour rages instead of contends, and feebleness becomes hate and
fury. Oh, the gates of blood that were set open in wounds upon wounds!
If life itself did not come pouring forth, it was only because scorn
withheld it.

As in the AEgean Sea, when the south and north winds have lost the
violence of their strength, the billows do not subside nevertheless, but
retain the noise and magnitude of their first motion; so the continued
impulse of the combatants carried them still against one another,
hurling them into mutual injury, though they had scarcely life in their
bodies.[5]

And now the fatal hour has come when Clorinda must die. The sword of
Tancred is in her bosom to the very hilt. The stomacher under the cuirass
which enclosed it is filled with a hot flood.

Her legs give way beneath her. She falls--she feels that she is
departing. The co