Then Sigurd looked on the speaker, as one who would answer again,
    But his words died out on the waste and the fire-blast made them vain. 
    Then he casteth the reins to his brother, and Gunnar praiseth his gift,
    And springeth aloft to the saddle as the fair sun fails from the lift;
    And Sigurd looks on the burden that Greyfell doth uprear,
    The huge king towering upward in the dusky Niblung gear: 
    There sits the eager Gunnar, and his heart desires the deed,
    And of nought he recketh and thinketh, but a fame-stirred warrior’s
      need;
    But Greyfell trembleth nothing and nought of the fire doth reck: 
    Then the spurs in his flank are smitten, and the reins lie loose on
      his neck,
    And the sharp cry springeth from Gunnar—­no 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 fosterbrethren 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.”