2067.
“I pray thee stint thy weeping, most noble lady mine,
For what avails thy sorrow? I must my life resign
Because of wounds and damage that have been dealt on me.
No more will death allow me Etzel to serve and thee.”
2068.
Then unto the Thuringians and to the Danes he spake:
“The gifts that ye were promised no hand of yours shall take
From yonder royal lady,— her ruddy gold so bright!
Death’s visage must ye look on, if ye with Hagen fight.”
2069.
All pallid was his colour, the seal of death he bore,—
The ever-valiant Iring,— to them ‘twas sorrow sore.
For Haward’s gallant liegeman there was no hope of life;
And so the men of Denmark must forward go to strife.
2070.
Irnfried as well as Haward sprang forth the hall before
With warriors a thousand; a horrible uproar
On every side resounded, mighty and clamouring.
And ah, at the Burgundians what lances sharp they fling!
2071.
And then the gallant Irnfried straight for the minstrel made,
At whose right hand redoubted great injury he had.
For lo, the noble fiddler the landgrave sore did smite
Through firmly-fasten’d helmet: he was a grewsome wight!
2072.
And thereupon Sir Irnfried the valiant minstrel smote
Till rents perforce were riven across his ring-wrought coat,
And all his breast-plate quiver’d with sparks of fiery red;
Albeit fell the landgrave before the fiddler dead.
AA
