“He hath thee, Witlaf,” came from the board in a merry shout. “Thou hast met thy match.”
“Nay; here is another,” cried Witlaf on his mettle. “I wot that there be few men that can unravel this: I saw the dead produce the living, and by the living the dead were consumed.”
Wulfhere smiled as sagely and answered:
“From the friction of trees fire was produced, which consumed.”
So, fast and furious grew the fun, every minstrel or bard contributing his quota to the mirth; Witlaf and Wulfhere leading, each striving to outdo the other.
The feast thickened, and mead, pigment, and morat circled round the board, and the tongue of the Saxon was unloosened. Then did the harp pass from hand to hand and each sang. Even the nobles at the king’s board lifted up their voices in song. Again the cup-bearer approached the place where the minstrels sat.
“The lady Elswitha wishes to know if thy daughter sings not alone?” said he, addressing the bard. “Hath she not some simple lay that will charm the ear?”
“She hath,” answered the gleeman, “and gracious is the lady in the asking. Egwina, Elswitha would hear thee sing. Thy sweetest, child! ’Tis the Lady who asks thee.”
Then timidly the maiden arose. The company hushed the noisy revel, and listened as the sweet voice of the girl sounded through the hall. Her voice quavered slightly when she began, but the maiden on the dais smiled reassuringly at her, and she took courage. It grew stronger and then pealed forth in all its strength and beauty:
“Alone sits the exile,
Alone on the plain;
And the voice of the south wind
Speaks to him in vain.
“For back hath his fancy
Flown to his lord;
When oft he had followed him
With arrow and sword.
“Again does he seem to feel
As of old his caresses;
The thought is so sweet to him.
The awakening distresses.
“No friends hath he now,
Nor lord for to follow;
Long have they been estranged,
Life seem but hollow.
“Naught doth earth hold for him;
No surcease of sorrow:
For hunger of heartache
Fails comfort to borrow.
“Cold, cold is his earth dwelling,
Care sits on his brow;
Joyless his dark abode,
Bereft is he now.
“Those he hath loved in life
The tomb now is holding;
Fain would he join them there
For rest he is needing.”