For me, for me shall my father and my liegemen tarry long.

Ne’er from her nearest and dearest hath woman received such wrong!”

(C) Then writhed he in mortal sufferance: he gasped with hard-drawn breath;

And he groaned from a heart sore anguished: “For this my murderous death

Through all your days hereafter shall ye bear the brand of Cain.

Know me herein true prophet—your own selves have ye slain!”

To right and to left were the flowers all drenched with the crimson flow.

Now hard with death is he wrestling, but short is the agony-throe,

For the wound that the blade death-dealing had stricken was all too sore.

Now the peerless knight and stainless shall never speak word more.