Now list to this maid Siguné who her grief would bemoan as meet, 455 She spake to the lad, 'Thou art courteous, all hail! to thy youth so sweet, And thy face so fair; yea blessèd thy lot shall hereafter be! No javelin pierced this hero, but slain in a joust was he-- From truth wast thou born who truly for another's woe can grieve!' Then his name she was fain to hearken, ere the lad her side might leave, 460 And she spake, God with skill had wrought him--But his answer was naught but this, 'At home all who know me call me '_Bon fils, Cher fils, Beau fils!_' Ere ever the word was spoken, the maiden she knew his name-- Now hearken aright his title, that hereafter ye own his fame Who is hero of this my venture, who now standeth the maid beside-- 465 And her red lips they spake unfaltering, 'Thou art _Parzival_,' she cried, And thy name it shall mean '_to pierce thro_',' for thy mother's faithful heart With furrow of grief was riven when she from her lord must part: And I speak not that those shouldst vaunt thee; thy mother my aunt shall be, And in truth, with no guile of falsehood, thy race will I tell to thee!' 470 'An Angevin was thy father, thy mother of fair Waleis, And I know for a truth thy birthplace was the city of Kanvoleis; And thou art the King of Norgals, and there in the citadel As king shalt thou bear the sceptre and crown as beseems thee well. For thy sake was he slain, this hero, who thy kingdom for thee would guard, 475 His truth it hath faltered never, tho' in death did he find reward. Two brothers have wrought thee evil, two kingdoms from thee have reft, And Orilus this thy kinsman in a joust hath lifeless left. And me too hath he left in sorrow--He served me nor thought it shame, This prince of thy land, where my childhood did thy mother's tending claim. 480 Now fair and sweet my cousin wouldst thou hear how he met his end? 'Twas the fair wove leash of a brachet that brought sorrow unto my friend-- He hath served us twain, in our service hath he won him but death alone, And I, I have won but sorrow, and henceforth for his death make moan, For scant of wit was I surely, that I gave not my love afore-- 485 So God hath my gladness shattered, and the dead I love evermore!'