handbreadth stirred the beast;
  The dusk drew on and over and the light of the fire increased,
  And still as a shard on the mountain in the sandy dale alone
  Was the shape of the cloudy Greyfell, nor moved he more than the stone;
  But right through the heart of the fire for ever Sigurd stared,
  As he stood in the gold red-litten with the Wrath’s thin edges bared.

  No word for a while spake any, till Gunnar leaped to the earth,
  And the anger wrought within him, and the fierce words came to birth: 
  “Who mocketh the King of the Niblungs in the desert land forlorn? 
  Is it thou, O Sigurd the Stranger? is it thou, O younger-born? 
  Dost thou laugh in the hall, O Mother? dost thou spin, and laugh at the tale
  That has drawn thy son and thine eldest to the sword and the blaze of the
       bale? 
  Or thou, O God of the Goths, wilt thou hide and laugh thy fill,
  While the hands of the foster-brethren the blood of brothers spill?”

  But the awful voice of Sigurd across the wild went forth: 
  “How changed are the words of Gunnar! where wend his ways of worth? 
  I mock thee not in the desert, as I mocked thee not in the mead,
  When I swore beneath the turf-yoke to help thy fondest need: 
  Nay, strengthen thine heart for the work, for the gift that thy manhood
       awaits;
  For I give thee a gift, O Niblung, that shall overload the Fates,
  And how may a King sustain it? but forbear with the dark to strive;
  For thy mother spinneth and worketh, and her craft is awake and alive.”

  Then Hogni spake from the saddle:  “The time, and the time is come
  To gather the might of our mother, and of her that spinneth at home. 
  Forbear all words, O Gunnar, and anigh to Sigurd stand,
  And face to face behold him, and take his hand in thine hand: 
  Then be thy will as his will, that his heart may mingle with thine,
  And the love that he sware ’neath the earth-yoke with thine hope may
       intertwine.”

  Then the wrath from the Niblung slippeth and the shame that anger hath bred,
  And the heavy wings of the dreamtide flit over Gunnar’s head: 
  But he doth by his brother’s bidding, and Sigurd’s hand he takes,
  And he looks in the eyes of the Volsung, though scarce in the desert he
       wakes. 
  There Hogni sits in the saddle aloof from the King’s desire,
  And little his lips are moving, as he stares on the rolling fire,
  And mutters the spells of his mother, and the words she bade him say: 
  But the craft of the kings of aforetime on those Kings of the battle lay;
  Dark night was spread behind them, and the fire flared up before,
  And unheard was the wind of the wasteland mid the white flame’s wavering
       roar.