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Though late, their hearts might be turned; but our wrong and our bitter pain

Waxed evermore twofold; and the children of true-born blood

In our halls were dishonoured, and grew up amidst us a bastard brood.{810}

Yea, and our maids unwedded, and widowed wives thereto,

Uncared for about our city wandered to and fro.

No father had heeded, no, never so little, his daughter’s plight,

Not though before his eyes he beheld her slain outright

By a tyrannous stepdame’s hands: and sons would defend no more

A mother from outrage and shame, as they wont in the days of yore.

No love for a sister then the heart of the brother bore.

But only the handmaid-thralls in the home found grace in their sight,

In the dance, in the market-place, and whenso the banquet was dight.

Till at last some God in our hearts this desperate courage awoke,{820}

No more to receive them, when back they returned from the Thracian folk,

Our towers within, that so they might heed the right, or begone

Hence to another land, even they and their thralls war-won.