On her he next a cross's handle broke;
Wherewith her back, and arms, and head he plies:
His mercy with loud voice the wretch bespoke, And hugged that angel's knees with suppliant cries.
Michael suspends not the avenging stroke Till hunted to the Moorish camp she flies, Then thus: "Believe worse vengeance yet in store, If I beyond these lines behold thee more."