XXVII.
Intending to behead the fallen foe,
She lifts her conquering hand; but in mid space,
When she beholds his visage, stops the blow,
As if disdaining a revenge so base.
She sees in him, her prowess has laid low,
A venerable sire, with sorrowing face;
Whose hair and wrinkles speak him, to her guess,
Of years six score and ten, or little less.
XXVIII.
“Kill me, for love of God!” (afflicted sore,
The old enchanter full of wrath did cry)
But the victorious damsel was not more
Averse to kill, than he was bent to die.
To know who was the necromancer hoar
The gentle lady had desire, and why
The tower he in that savage place designed,
Doing such outrage foul to all mankind.
XXIX.
“Nor I, by malice moved, alas! poor wight,”
(The weeping necromancer answer made,)
“Built the fair castle on the rocky height,
“Nor yet for rapine ply the robber’s trade;
“But only to redeem a gentle knight
“From danger sore and death, by love was swayed;
“Who, as the skies foreshow, in little season,
“Is doomed to die a Christian, and by treason.
