667.
To hide his voice he fail’d not, and ne’er a word spake he.
And so ’twas plain to Gunther, although he could not see,
That nothing sly or secret was passing ’twixt the twain.
But little peace or comfort did either of them gain!
668.
He bore himself as though he the great King Gunther were,
And in his arms clasp’d closely that maiden passing fair.
But on a bench by-standing she hurl’d him from the bed,
So that against a footstool he loudly smote his head.
669.
Arising, strong as ever, up leapt the gallant man:
This time he would do better! but soon as he began
To try and overpower her, again she wrought him woe.
Ne’er wife hath made a fending the like of that, I trow!
670.
And when he gave not over, the maiden sprang upright:
“Full ill doth it beseem you to touch my shift so white!
Coarse are you and unmanner’d: woe therefore you betide!
You shall not soon forget it!” the comely maiden cried.
671.
She clasp’d the good knight tightly with both her arms around,
And would have laid and bound him, as she the king had bound,—
That she in peace and quiet might lie upon her bed.
The ruffling of her raiment she vengefully repaid.
672.
What did his valour serve him, and what his power of limb,
When she essayed to show him that she could master him?
By might and main she bore him— not elsewise could it be—
And ’twixt the bed and cupboard she crush’d him cruelly.
