Sigurd slayeth Regin the Master of Masters on the Glittering Heath.

  There standeth Sigurd the Volsung, and leaneth on his sword,
  And beside him now is Greyfell and looks on his golden lord,
  And the world is awake and living; and whither now shall they wend,
  Who have come to the Glittering Heath, and wrought that deed to its end? 
  For hither comes Regin the Master from the skirts of the field of death.

* * * * *

  Afoot he went o’er the desert, and he came unto Sigurd and stared
  At the golden gear of the man, and the Wrath yet bloody and bared,
  And the light locks raised by the wind, and the eyes beginning to smile,
  And the lovely lips of the Volsung, and the brow that knew no guile;
  And he murmured under his breath while his eyes grew white with wrath: 

  “O who art thou, and wherefore, and why art thou in the path?”

  Then he turned to the ash-grey Serpent, and grovelled low on the ground,
  And he drank of that pool of the blood where the stones of the wild were
       drowned,
  And long he lapped as a dog; but when he arose again,
  Lo, a flock of the mountain-eagles that drew to the feastful plain;
  And he turned and looked on Sigurd, as bright in the sun he stood,
  A stripling fair and slender, and wiped the Wrath of the blood.

* * * * *

  Then he scowled and crouched and darkened, and came to Sigurd and spake: 
  “O child, thou hast slain my brother, and the Wrath is alive and awake.”

  “Thou sayest sooth,” said Sigurd, “thy deed and mine is done: 
  But now our ways shall sunder, for here, meseemeth, the sun
  Hath but little of deeds to do, and no love to win aback.”

* * * * *

  But Regin darkened before him, and exceeding grim was he grown,
  And he spake:  “Thou hast slain my brother, and wherewith wilt thou atone?”

  “Stand up, O Master,” said Sigurd, “O Singer of ancient days,
  And take the wealth I have won thee, ere we wend on the sundering ways. 
  I have toiled and thou hast desired, and the Treasure is surely anear,
  And thou hast wisdom to find it, and I have slain thy fear.”

  But Regin crouched and darkened:  “Thou hast slain my brother,” he said.

  “Take thou the Gold,” quoth Sigurd, “for the ransom of my head!”

  Then Regin crouched and darkened, and over the earth he hung;
  And he said:  “Thou hast slain my brother, and the Gods are yet but young.”

* * * * *

  And he spake:  “Thou hast slain my brother, and today shall thou be my
       thrall: 
  Yea, a King shall be my cook-boy and this heath my cooking-hall.”

  Then he crept to the ash-grey coils where the life of his brother had lain,
  And he drew a glaive from his side and smote the smitten and slain,
  And tore the heart from Fafnir, while the eagles cried o’erhead,
  And sharp and shrill was their voice o’er the entrails of the dead.