From out the gate they Hafbur led, The King’s good son, at solemn pace; For him sore cried all him that eyed, So hard and stern they thought his case. And when they reached the verdant plain, Where he the gallant youth should die; He begged he might have a short respite, He’d prove his Signe’s constancy. “Do ye hang up my mantle red, That Sivard King the same may see; He may repent, and yet prevent Young Hafbur’s hanging on a tree.” When Signild proud the mantle saw, The sight it pierced her like a knife: “He’s dead,” she thought, “it vails me nought To tarry longer here in life.” She called together her maids with speed, Concealing well her bosom’s woe: “To have some play we’ll wend our way Unto the lofty chamber now.” Then out and spake proud Signelil, She spake in stern determined guise: “This day I will my own self kill, And Hafbur join in Paradise. “If any one in our band has helped To bring him to his death so foul, Shall rue his wrong when we ere long Shall burn together all to coal. “So many there are in this palace fair Whom now the death of Hafbur gladdens; But venge will I their cruelty This moment on their plighted maidens.” Then fire she set to her bower high, The fire so hastily it blazed; How well she loved to all she proved Who on that conflagration gazed. It was Hafbur, son of the King, O’er his shoulder blade he cast his sight; Of Signe good the bower stood, Enwrapt in one tremendous light. “Now take ye down my mantle red, And let it lie upon the plain; Within my breast if I possessed Ten lives to beg them I’d disdain.” King Sivard out of the window looked, And on his mind such horror came; For Hafbur he saw hang on a tree, And Signild’s bower enwrapt in flame. Outspake amain the little foot swain, And he a mantle red had on: “Now burns in bower the beauteous flower With her fair maidens, every one.” Then up and spake grey Sivard the King, His face with paleness ghastly all: “A fate so dour as this I’m sure Did never princes two befall. “If I before had heard or known The power of love was half so great, I’d ne’er, I swear, have vext the pair For all the wealth of Denmark’s state. “Run some of ye to Signild’s bower, And strive to bear my child relief; Let others race to the gallows place, For Hafbur bold was ne’er a thief.” And when they came to Signe’s bower All burnt they found the Lady fair; When out of breath they reached the heath, Hafbur was hanging dead in air. They Hafbur took, the son of the King, And round him linen white they roll’d; And him they laid beside his maid, With many a tear in Christian mould. And then the wicked maid they took, And to a death so horrid doomed; A fitting bed for her they made, Alive the wretch they have entombed. * * * * *