XXXIX.
Above three hundred men in that affray
In little space by her dismounted lie.
Alone that warlike damsel wins the day;
From her alone the Moorish people fly.
To her Rogero, circling, threads his way,
And says; “Unless I speak with you I die.
“Hear me, for love of heaven!—what have I done,
“Alas! that ever mine approach ye shun?”
XL.
As when soft southern breezes are unpent,
Which with a tepid breath from seaward blow,
The snows dissolve, and torrents find a vent,
And ice, so hard erewhile, is seen to flow;
At those entreaties, at that brief lament,
Rinaldo’s sister’s heart is softened so;
Forthwith compassionate and pious grown;
Which anger fain had made more hard than stone.
XLI.
Would she not, could she not, she nought replied,
But spurred aslant the ready Rabicane,
And, signing to Rogero, rode as wide
As she could wend from that embattled train;
Then to a sheltered valley turned aside,
Wherein embosomed was a little plain.
In the mid lawn a wood of cypress grew,
Whose saplings of one stamp appeared to view.
