XXII The shield might have been shown at first, nor he Needed to keep the cavaliers at bay; But that he loved some master-stroke to see, Achieved by lance or sword in single fray. As with the captive mouse, in sportive glee, The wily cat is sometimes seen to play; Till waxing wroth, or weary of her prize, She bites, and at a snap the prisoner dies. XXIII To cat and mouse, in battles fought before, I liken the magician and his foes; But the comparison holds good no more: For, with the ring, the maid against him goes; Firm and attentive still, and watching sore, Lest upon her the wizard should impose: And as she sees him bare the wondrous shield, Closes her eyes and falls upon the field. XXIV Not that the shining metal could offend, As wont those others, from its cover freed; But so the damsel did, to make descend The vain enchanter from his wondrous steed. Nor was in ought defeated of her end; For she no sooner on the grassy mead Had laid her head, than wheeling widely round, The flying courser pitched upon the ground. XXV Already cased again, the shield was hung, By the magician, at his sadle bow. He lights and seeks her, who like wolf among The bushes, couched in thicket, waits the roe; She without more delay from ambush sprung, As he drew near, and grappled fast the foe. That wretched man, the volume by whose aid He all his battles fought, on earth had laid: XXVI And ran to bind her with a chain, which he, Girt round about him for such a purpose, wore; Because he deemed she was no less to be Mastered and bound than those subdued before. Him hath the dame already flung; by me Excused with reason, if he strove not more. For fearful were the odds between that bold And puissant maid, and warrior weak and old! 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.