So one day and another prick the train, That they to Paris' leaguered gates are nigh, Scarce ten miles distant, on the banks of Seine;
When, as good Fortune wills it, they descry Gryphon and Aquilant, the two that stain Their virtuous armour with a different dye;
Sable was Aquilant's, white Gryphon's, weed;
Good Olivier's and Sigismonda's seed.