’Twas hot within the foreroom when
The fire began to roar;
But hotter in the stone bower, when
The lead began to pour.
It was the little Engel, he
His courser never turned
To ride away from the castelaye
Before the bower was burned.
Away at last he rode, and waved
His hand in exultation,
Upon espying his uncle lying
Amidst the conflagration.
Said little Engel, when he saw
His uncle’s body shrink:
“Now thou hast quaffed the self same draught
Thou mad’st my father drink.”
It was the little Engel, rode
Home to his mother’s hall;
Before it stood his mother good,
So fair arrayed in pall.
“Here dost thou stand, my mother dear,
Arrayed in robes of pall;
I’ve ridden up the land, and well
Avenged my father’s fall.”
It was the fair Dame Malfred, wrung
Her hands and wept amain:
“I’d but one care before to bear,
And now, alas, have twain!”
“Dear mother, thou wouldst have it so,
Now thee in tears I find,
When duteously thy will I’ve done:
How strange is woman’s mind!”
He turned his steed and rode away,
His face with anger red;
With dishevelled hair, the Dame stood there,
Such woeful tears she shed.
The little Engel hied him to
The King his master’s court;
Abroad the Dane King stood, and hailed
The youth in kindest sort.