Of a surety ye must be glad, who have basely slain honour
In slaying the three noblest and best of your brotherhood.
Ardan the Proud, where now lies his yellow hair?
Ailne the Comely, where now stare his sightless eyes?
Nathos, the king of men, where now is his might, his glory?
Where are the sons of Usna whom ye swore to honour?
Let now my beauty that set all this warring aflame,
Let now my beauty be quenched as a torch that is spent—
For here shall I quench it, here, where my loved one lies,
A torch shall it be for him still through the darkness of death.