He seyde, “king, wel mote þou sitte, An þine knictes mitte. Þer y rod on my pleying, Sone haft{er} my dobbing, 668 Y say a schip rowe Mid wat{er}e al by flowe, Of none londische me{n}ne, Bote sarazines ke{n}ne, 672 To deye, for to pyne Þe and alle þine. “Kyng,” quoþ he, “wel þou sitte, {ant} þine knyhtes mitte. to day ich rod o my pleyyng, after my dobbyng, 668 y fond a ship rowen, in þe sound byflowen, Mid vnlondisshe menne, of sarazynes kenne, 672 to deþe forte pyne þe {ant} alle þyne. Hi gonne me assaille. Mi swerd me nolde faille; 676 I smot he{m} alle to grunde, Oþer ȝaf he{m} diþes wunde. Þ{a}t heued iþe bri{n}ge Of þe maist{er} ki{n}ge. 680 Nu is þi wile iȝolde, King, þat þu me kniȝti woldest.” He go{n}ne{n} me asaylen. My swerd me ne wolde fayle; 676 Ich broute he{m} alto grunde In one lite stounde. Þe heued ich þe bringe Of þe meyst{er} kinge. 680 Nou ich haue þe yolde, Þat þu me knicte{n} wolde.” hy gonne me asayly. swerd me nolde fayly; 676 y smot hem alle to grounde in a lutel stounde. þe heued ich þe bringe of þe maister kynge. 680 nou haue ich þe ȝolde þat þou me knyhten woldest.” [Sidenote: King Aylmar goes hunting.] ++A Moreȝe þo þe day gan sp{ri}nge, Þe king him rod an hu{n}tinge. 684 [_No gap in MS._ . . . . . . . . . . . . . .] At hom lefte ffikenhild, Þat was þe wurste moder child. 688 Heo ferde in to bure, To sen aue{n}t{ur}e. ++Þe day bi gan to sp{r}inge, Þe king rod on hunti{n}gg{e}. 684 To wode he gan wende, For to lacchen þe heynde. Wyt hym rod fokenild, Þat alþe werste mod{er} child. 688 And horn we{n}te in to boure, To sen auenture. þe day bigon to sp{ri}nge, þe kyng rod on hontynge 684 to þe wode wyde, ant Fykenyld bi is syde, þat fals wes ant vntrewe, whose him wel yknewe. 688 ¶ Horn ne þohte nout him on, ant to boure wes ygon. [Sidenote: Horn proceeds to Rymenhild’s bower, and finds her weeping.] Heo saȝ Rymenild sitte Also he were of witte. 692 Heo sat on þe sunne, Wiþ tieres al biru{n}ne. Horn sede, “lef þinore, Wi wepestu so sore?” 696