Now dieth moon and candle, and though the day be nigh
  The roof of the hall fair-builded seems far aloof as the sky,
  But a glimmer grows on the pavement and the ernes on the roof-ridge stir: 
  Then the brethren hist and hearken, for a sound of feet they hear,
  And into the hall of the Niblungs a white thing cometh apace: 
  But the sword of Guttorm upriseth, and he wendeth from his place,
  And the clash of steel goes with him; yet loud as it may sound
  Still more they hear those footsteps light-falling on the ground,
  And the hearts of the Niblungs waver, and their pride is smitten acold,
  For they look on that latest comer, and Brynhild they behold: 
  But she sits by their side in silence, and heeds them nothing more
  Than the grey soft-footed morning heeds yester-even’s war.

  But Guttorm clashed in the cloisters and through the silence strode
  And scarce on the threshold of Sigurd a little while abode;
  There the moon from the floor hath departed and heaven without is grey,
  And afar in the eastern quarter faint glimmer streaks of day. 
  Close over the head of Sigurd the Wrath gleams wan and bare,
  And the Niblung woman stirreth, and her brow is knit with fear;
  But the King’s closed eyes are hidden, loose lie his empty hands,
  There is nought ’twixt the sword of the slayer and the Wonder of all Lands. 
  Then Guttorm laughed in his war-rage, and his sword leapt up on high,
  As he sprang to the bed from the threshold and cried a wordless cry,
  And with all the might of the Niblungs through Sigurd’s body thrust,
  And turned and fled from the chamber, and fell amid the dust,
  Within the door and without it, the slayer slain by the slain;
  For the cast of the sword of Sigurd had smitten his body atwain
  While yet his cry of onset through the echoing chambers went.

  Woe’s me! how the house of the Niblungs by another cry was rent,
  The wakening wail of Gudrun, as she shrank in the river of blood
  From the breast of the mighty Sigurd:  he heard it and understood,
  And rose up on the sword of Guttorm, and turned from the country of death,
  And spake words of loving-kindness as he strove for life and breath: 

  “Wail not, O child of the Niblungs!  I am smitten, but thou shall live,
  In remembrance of our glory, mid the gifts the Gods shall give!”

  She stayed her cry to hearken, and her heart well nigh stood still: 
  But he spake:  “Mourn not, O Gudrun, this stroke is the last of ill;
  Fear leaveth the House of the Niblungs on this breaking of the morn;
  Mayst thou live, O woman beloved, unforsaken, unforlorn!”