'Not with mine honour this may be;
Ask all save this thou wilt,' quoth he,
'And have thy full desire.' But she
Made answer: 'Nought will I of thee,
⁠Nought if not this.' Then Balen turned,
And saw the sorceress hard beside
By whose fell craft his mother died:
Three years he had sought her, and here espied
⁠His heart against her yearned.

'Ill be thou met,' he said, 'whose ire
Would slake with blood thy soul's desire:
By thee my mother died in fire;
Die thou by me a death less dire.'
⁠Sharp flashed his sword forth, fleet as flame,
And shore away her sorcerous head.
'Alas for shame,' the high king said,
'That one found once my friend lies dead;
⁠Alas for all our shame!