But Ranild rode by a secret road,
And he bade the Monks themselves prepare;
I tell to ye for a verity
That Ranild practis’d cunning rare.
Now after the hart and hind they start,
And after the nimble roe as well;
The long day’s space endur’d the chase,
Till murky night upon them fell.
Then in faultering guise the King he cries,
For his heart I ween was full of dread:
“God help us now, and Saint Gertrude thou,
We fairly out of the path have sped.”
Then about he spied and about he pried,
Amid the bushes so dark and drear,
Till sight he got of a little cot
Where fire and light were burning clear.
And into that house King Erik goes,
His luck the Monarch there will try;
And he was aware of a damsel fair,
No fairer ever had met his eye.
And her to his breast the King he press’d,
And kiss’d her oft with fond delight:
“My lovely may, I beg and pray
That thou wilt sleep with me this night.”
Then answer’d and said the woodland maid,
With a burst of laughter wild and loud:
“In mind I keep how thou didst sleep
With Ingeborga fair and proud.
“Answer, I pray, and fairly say,
How many maids hast thou, Sir King,
Deserted and left of fame bereft?
For that will death upon thee bring.”
“If that thou know, fair maid, I trow
That thou canst tell much more to me;
Now tiding give how long I shall live,
And say how many my foemen be.”
With solemn air said the maiden fair,
“Hark thou to me and believe my word;
For life thou must look to the little crook,
Whereon doth hang thy trusty sword.