So Sigurd looked on the horn, and he saw how fair it was scored
  With the cunning of the Dwarf-kind and the masters of the sword;
  And he drank and smiled on Grimhild above the beaker’s rim,
  And she looked and laughed at his laughter; and the soul was changed in him. 
  Men gazed and their hearts sank in them, and they knew not why it was,
  Why the fair-lit hall was darkling, nor what had come to pass: 
  For they saw the sorrow of Sigurd, who had seen but his deeds erewhile,
  And the face of the mighty darkened, who had known but the light of its
       smile.

  But Grimhild looked and was merry:  and she deemed her life was great,
  And her hand a wonder of wonders to withstand the deeds of Fate: 
  For she saw by the face of Sigurd and the token of his eyes
  That her will had abased the valiant, and filled the faithful with lies.

* * * * *

  But the heart was changed in Sigurd; as though it ne’er had been
  His love of Brynhild perished as he gazed on the Niblung Queen: 
  Brynhild’s beloved body was e’en as a wasted hearth,
  No more for bale or blessing, for plenty or for dearth. 
  —­O ye that shall look hereafter, when the day of Sigurd is done,
  And the last of his deeds is accomplished, and his eyes are shut in the sun,
  When ye look and long for Sigurd, and the image of Sigurd behold,
  And his white sword still as the moon, and his strong hand heavy and cold,
  Then perchance shall ye think of this even, then perchance shall ye wonder
       and cry,
  “Twice over, King, are we smitten, and twice have we seen thee die.”

* * * * *

  Men say that a little after the evil of that night
  All waste is the burg of Brynhild, and there springeth a marvellous light
  On the desert hard by Lymdale, and few men know for why;
  But there are, who say that a wildfire thence roareth up to the sky
  Round a glorious golden dwelling, wherein there sitteth a Queen
  In remembrance of the wakening, and the slumber that hath been;
  Wherein a Maid there sitteth, who knows not hope nor rest
  For remembrance of the Mighty, and the Best come forth from the Best.

Now after Sigurd took the witch-drink came a great hush upon the feast-hall for a space.  But Grimhild was fain of that hour and cried to the scalds for music, and they hastened to strike the harp, but no joy mingled with the sounds and no man was moved to singing.

No word spake Sigurd till the feast was over; then he strode out alone from the hall and the folk fell back before him.  So he took a steed and all that night he rode alone in the deedless dark, and all the morrow, very heavy at heart yet knowing no cause for grief, and remembering all things save Brynhild.