No sooner proud Signild had sunk to repose,
Than from her white side dread Sir Loumor arose.
To the hall, the dark hall, took Sir Loumor his way,
Proud Signild’s seven brothers intending to slay.
To the side of the bed upon tip toe he drew,
And the seven bold brothers he traitorously slew.
In his fell hand uptakes he both faulchion and knife,
And each of the sleepers deprived he of life.
In a bowl he collects of the murdered the gore,
And that he brings in the proud Signild before.
In, in at the door-way Sir Loumor he sped,
From Signild’s cheek faded the beautiful red.
“Sir Loumor, my lord, thy looks fill me with fright,
Say where hast thou been in the midst of the night?”
“I’ve been to the hall, if the truth I must tell,
I heard my two hunting hawks screech there, and yell.”
“O why of thy hawks art thou talking, my lord?
May God in his mercy my dears brothers guard.”
Sir Loumor produced of her brothers the gore,
And that by her foot he has placed on the floor.