a breathing-space in the battle, and again and again they return to the charge. But alas for Palamon! just at evening he is overcome, when he would go to the help of the brave Lycurgus, who is unhorsed, and fighting bravely; and Theseus cries out that Arcite has the victory, and Palamon must yield himself conquered.
Then Palamon’s heart sinks like lead in his breast, and by the throne of Jupiter, on high Olympus, Venus wrings her hands, in anguish of his defeat. But who is more proud than Arcite, and whose eyes beam so tenderly as Emelie’s, since, woman-like, her heart is already moved with love for the victorious hero.
Now he rides forward, the dust on his armor, many a stain of red blood on his waving mantle, his plumes nodding proudly, his eyes full of gladness. Now Emelie bends forward, with the laurel wreath in her hand, when, alas that I must write it! the fiery steed of Arcite starts, plunges forward and then back, and over his arched neck flings Arcite on the stone pavement in front of the royal dais. Thus has Saturn redeemed his pledge to Venus, and sudden death overtaken the victor under the shadow of the laurel wreath.
They cleared the brave knight of his armor, and still he lingered a little, always crying for Emelie. Then he died, and his fair lady and
