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38 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.