And now suffer me to sing a song to you on the lute." He stretched out his hand, and took down from the wall a forgotten and half-strung lute, which was hanging there; and, with surprising skill and rapidity, having put it in a state fit for use, he struck some chords, and raised this song to the low melancholy tones of the instrument: "The flow'ret was mine own, mine own, But I have lost its fragrance rare, And knightly name and freedom fair, Through sin, through sin alone.
The flow'ret was thine own, thine own, Why cast away what thou didst win?
Thou knight no more, but slave of sin, Thou'rt fearfully alone!" "Have a care!" shouted he at the close in a pealing voice, as he pulled the strings so mightily that they all broke with a clanging wail, and a cloud of dust rose from the old lute, which spread round him like a mist.
Sintram had been watching him narrowly whilst he was singing, and more and more did he feel convinced that it was impossible that this man and his fellow-traveller of the morning could be one and the same.

Nay, the doubt rose to certainty, when the stranger again looked round at him with the same timid, anxious air, and with many excuses and low reverences hung the lute in its old place, and then ran out of the hall as if bewildered with terror, in strange contrast with the proud and stately bearing which he had shown to Biorn.
The eyes of the boy were now directed to his father, and he saw that he had sunk back senseless in his seat, as if struck by a blow.

Sintram's cries called Rolf and other attendants into the hall; and only by great labour did their united efforts awake the lord of the castle.

His looks were still wild and disordered; but he allowed himself to be taken to rest, quiet and yielding..