“I am,” he said, “in wiage chargit with the.”
A suerd him gaiff off burly burnist steill;75
“Gud sone,” he said, “this brand thou sall bruk weill.”
Off topastone him thocht the plumat was;
Baith hilt and hand all glitterand lik the glas.
“Der sone,” he said, “we tary her to lang;
“Thow sall go se quhar wrocht is mekill wrang.”80
Than he him led till a montane on hycht;
The warld him thocht he mycht se with a sicht.
He left him thar, syne sone fra him he went.