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And these poor remnants of my former treasure
You Germans take from me,—take memory from
me!

"As a defeated knight in tournament
Escapes with life though honour has been lost;
And, dragging out despisfed days in scorn,
Returns once more unto his conqueror;
And for the last time straining forth his arm,
Breaketh his sword beneath the victor's feet,—
So my last failing courage me inspires;
Yet once more to the lute my hand is bold;
Let the last Wajdelote of Litwa sing
Litwa's last song!"
He ended, and awaited
The Master's answer. All in silence deep
Await. With mockery and with curious eye
Konrad tracks Witold's every look and motion.

They noted all how when the Wajdelote
Of traitors spoke, a change o'er Witold came.
Livid he grew and pale again he blushed,
Alike tormented by his rage and shame.
At last, his sabre casting from his side,
He goes, dividing all the astonished crowd.