Ubaldo raised his voice and spoke.  “All Europe and Asia,” said he, “are in arms.  Whoever desires fame, or is a worshipper of his Saviour, is a fighter in the land of Syria.  Thou only, O son of Bertoldo, remainest out of the high way of renown—­in luxury—­in a little corner; thou only, unmoved with the movement of the world, the champion of a girl.  What dream, what lethargy can have drowned a valour like thine?  What vileness have had attraction for thee?  Up, up, and with us.  The camp, the commander himself calls for thee; fortune and victory await thee.  Come, fated warrior, and finish thy work; see the false creed which thou hast shaken, laid low beneath thy inevitable sword.”

On hearing these words the noble youth remained for a time without speaking, without moving.  At length shame gave way to a passionate sense of his duty.  With a new fire in his cheeks, he tore away the effeminate ornaments of his servitude, and quitted the spot without a word.  In a few moments he had threaded the labyrinth:  he was outside the gate.  Ere long he was descending the mountain.

But meantime Armida had received news of the two visitors; and coming to look for them, and casting her eyes down the steep, she beheld—­with his face, alas, turned no longer towards her own—­the hasty steps of her hero between his companions.  She wished to cry aloud, but was unable.  She might have resorted to some of her magic devices, but her heart forbade her.  She ran, however—­for what cared she for dignity?—­she ran down the mountain, hoping still by her beauty and her tears to arrest the fugitive; but his feet were too strong, even for love:  she did not reach him till he had arrived on the sea-shore.  Where was her pride now? where the scorn she had exhibited to so many suitors? where her coquetry and her self-sufficiency—­her love of being loved, with the power to hate the lover?  The enchantress was now taught what the passion was, in all its despair as well as delight.  She cried aloud.  She cared not for the presence of the messengers.  “Oh, go not, Rinaldo,” she cried; “go not, or take me with thee.  My heart is torn to pieces.  Take me, or turn and kill me.  Stop, at least, and be cruel to me here.  If thou hast the heart to fly me, it will not be hard to thee to stay and be unkind.”

Even the messengers were moved at this, or seemed to be moved.  Ubaldo told the fugitive that it would be heroical in him to wait and hear what the lady had to say, with gentleness and firmness.

His conquest over himself would then be complete.

Rinaldo stopped, and Armida came up breathless and in tears—­lovelier than ever.  She looked earnestly at him at first, without a word.  He gave her but a glance, and looked aside.