Of traitors spoke, a change o’er Witold came.
Livid he grew and pale again he blushed,
Alike tormented by his rage and shame.
At last, his sabre casting from his side,
He goes, dividing all the astonished crowd.
He looked upon the old man, stayed his steps;
The clouds of anger hanging o’er his brow
Fell sudden in a rapid flood of tears;
He turned, sat down, with cloak he veiled his face,
And into secret meditation plunged