'And my thoughts to thy sire are turning; his country was fair Anjou, And he left thee far other heirdom (for his heart never falsehood knew,) Than the heritage thou hast won thee, and the crown of an evil fame! And could I but think thy mother had wrought here a deed of shame 680 I had said that _his_ child thou wert not! Yet her faith it but wrought her woe, And of her naught but good be spoken! And thy father, as all men know, In his manhood was true and steadfast, and in many a distant land He won for him meed of honour, and his praise o'er all men did stand. For great heart and little falsehood as a roof did defend his breast, 685 A dam 'gainst the flood of evil, and a home for his love to rest. And in manly strength and courage was his honour for aye held fast, But _thy_ truth it is turned to falsehood, and thine honour to earth is cast! Alas! for the day I heard it, alas! for the mournful tale, That the child of fair Herzeleide in knighthood and faith should fail.' 690 She herself was the prey of sorrow, and her hands did she wring amain, While the teardrops they chased each other down her cheeks like a shower of rain. And her eyes they gave faithful witness to the grief that her bosom filled, For of true heart she spake, the maiden, nor e'en then was the sorrow stilled. Then unto the king she turned her, and she spake 'Is there here a knight 695 Who yearneth for love's rewarding, and for honour and fame would fight? For I know of four queens, and maidens four hundred, and all are fair, In Château Merveil is their dwelling; and like to the empty air Shall be all knightly ventures to the venture that Burg within, Yet he who shall face its peril, from true love shall his guerdon win. 700 And tho' far be that Burg and distant, and weary and rough the way, Its walls must I seek if haply I reach them ere close of day.' And sad was the maid, not joyful, nor courteous she bade farewell, But weeping she gazed around her, and she cried as the teardrops fell, 'Ah! woe unto thee, Monsalväsch, thou dwelling and goal of grief, 705 Since no man hath pity on thee, or bringeth thy woe relief!'