He, now to prove his late renewed might,
High brandishing his bright dew-burning blade,
Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite,
That to the skull a yawning wound it made:
The deadly dint his dulled senses all dismayed.

I wot not, whether the revenging steel
Were hardened with that holy water dew,
Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feel,
Or his baptized hands now greater grew;
Or other secret virtue did ensue;
Else never could the force of fleshly arm,
Nor molten metal in his blood embrew:
For till that stownd could never wight him harm,
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor mighty charm.

Book 1, Canto 11