As a fine singer, before he lets loose his tongue in the lofty utterance of his emotion, prepares the minds of his hearers with some sweet prelude, exquisitely modulating in a lower tone,—­so the enchantress, whose anguish had not deprived her of all sense of her art, breathed a few sighs to dispose the soul of her idol to listen, and then said:  “I do not beg thee to hear me as one that loves me.  We both loved once; but that is over.  I beg thee to hear, even though as one that loves me not.  It will cost thy disdain nothing to grant me that.  Perhaps thou hast discovered a pleasure in hating me.  Do so.  I come not to deprive thee of it.  If it seem just to thee, just let it be.  I too once hated.  I hated the Christians—­hated even thyself.  I thought it right to do so:  I was bred up to think it.  I pursued thee to do thee mischief; I overtook thee; I bore thee away; and worse than all—­for now perhaps thou loathest me for it—­I loved thee.  I loved thee, for the first time that I loved any one; nay, I made thee love me in turn; and, alas, I gave myself into thine arms.  It was wrong.  I was foolish; I was wicked.  I grant that I have deserved thou shouldst think ill of me, that thou shouldst punish me, and quit me, and hate to have any remembrance of this place which I had filled with delights.  Go; pass over the seas; make war against my friends and my country; destroy us all, and the religion we believe in.  Alas! ’we’ do I say?  The religion is mine no longer—­O thou, the cruel idol of my soul.  Oh, let me go with thee, if it be but as thy servant, thy slave.  Let the conqueror take with him his captive; let her be mocked; let her be pointed at; only let her be with thee.  I will cut off these tresses, which no longer please thee:  I will clothe myself in other attire, and go with thee into the battle.  I have courage and strength enough to bear thy lance, to lead thy spare-horse, to be, above all, thy shield-bearer—­thy shield.  Nothing shall touch thee but through me—­through this bosom, Rinaldo.  Perhaps mischance may spare thee for its sake.  Not a word? not a little word?  Do I dare to boast of what thou hadst once a kind word for, though now thou wilt neither look upon me nor speak to me?”

She could say no more:  her words were suffocated by a torrent of tears.  But she sought to take his hand, to arrest him by his mantle—­in vain.  He could scarcely, it is true, restrain his tears:  but he did.  He looked sorrowful, but composed; and at length he said:  “Armida, would I could do as thou wishest; but I cannot.  I would relieve thee instantly of all this tumult of emotion.  No hate is there in him that must quit thee; no such disdain as thou fanciest; nothing but the melancholy and impetuous sense of his duty.  Thou hast erred, it is true—­erred both in love and hate; but have I not erred with thee? and can I find excuse which is not found for thyself?  Dear and honoured ever wilt thou be with Rinaldo, whether