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A strange custom hath Momčilo,
Each holy Sunday in the morning
He riseth early and goeth on hunting to the lake;
With him he taketh his nine dear brothers,
And his twelve brothers' sons,
And forty henchmen from the Castle;
And when the eve of Sunday is come,
I will singe the wings of Jabučilo,70
I will seal up the keen sword,
I will seal it fast with salt blood,
That it may not be drawn forth of its sheath:
Thus shalt thou slay Momčilo."
When this letter came to the King,
And he perceived what the writing told him,
He was filled with joy.
Straightway he gathered a mighty host.
And came with the host to Hercegovina;
He led them forth to the level lake80
And lay in a bushment in the greenwood.
When now the eve of Sunday was come,
Momčilo went to his bedchamber
And laid him down on the soft pallet;
Soon after his wife entered in also,
But she would not lie on the soft pallet;
Down her cheeks she wept hot tears,
Wherefore Vojvoda Momčilo asked of her:
"Vidosava, my faithful wife.
What great grief is thine90
That thou criest tears down?"
And Vidosava his wife made answer:
"Lord and Master Momčilo Vojvoda,
No ill-fortune is come upon me,
But I have heard a wondrous marvel,
I have heard—I have not seen—
That thou hast a horse Jabučilo,
Jabučilo a wingéd horse,
But on thy horse have I seen no wings,
