For but little thereto are those tidings that folk have told of the
      Queen. 
    Henceforth with the Niblung people anew beginneth thy life,
    And fair days of peace await thee, and fair days of glorious strife. 
    And my heart shall be grieved at thy grief, and be glad of thy
      well-doing,
    And all men shall say thou hast wedded a true heart and a king.”

    So spake he in semblance of Gunnar, and from off his hand he drew
    A ring of the spoils of the Southland, a marvel seen but of few,
    And he set the ring on her finger, and she turned to her lord and
      spake: 
    “I thank thee, King, for thy goodwill, and thy pledge of love I take. 
    Depart with my troth to thy people:  but ere full ten days are o’er
    I shall come to the Sons of the Niblungs, and then shall we part no
      more
    Till the day of the change of our life-days, when Odin and Freyia
      shall call. 
    Lo, here, my gift of the morning! ’twas my dearest treasure of all;
    But thou art become its master, and for thee was it fore-ordained,
    Since thou art the man of mine oath and the best that the earth hath
      gained.”

    And lo, ’twas the Grief of Andvari, and the lack that made him loth,
    The last of the God-folk’s ransom, the Ring of Hindfell’s oath;
    Now on Sigurd’s hand it shineth, and long he looketh thereon,
    But it gave him back no memories of the days that were bygone. 
    Then in most exceeding sorrow rose Sigurd from the bed,
    And again lay Brynhild silent as an image of the dead. 
    Then the King did on his war-gear and girt his sword to his side,
    And was e’en as an image of Gunnar when the Niblungs dight them to
      ride. 
    And she on the bed of the bridal, remembering hope that was,
    Lay still, and hearkened his footsteps from the echoing chamber pass. 
    So forth from the hall goes the Wooer, and slow and slow he goes,
    As a conquered king from his city fares forth to meet his foes;
    And he taketh the reins of Greyfell, nor yet will back him there,
    But afoot through the cold slaked ashes of yester-eve doth fare,
    With his eyes cast down to the earth; till he heareth the wind, and
      a cry,
    And raiseth a face brow-knitted and beholdeth men anigh,
    And beholdeth Hogni the King set grey on his coal-black steed,
    And beholdeth the image of Sigurd, the King in the golden weed: 
    Then he stayeth and stareth astonished and setteth his hand to his
      sword;
    Till Hogni cries from his saddle, and his word is a kindly word: 

    “Hail, brother, and King of the people! hail, helper of my kin! 
    Again from the death and the trouble great gifts hast thou set thee
      to win
    For thy friends and the Niblung children, and hast crowned thine
      earthly fame,
    And increased thine exceeding glory and the sound of thy loved name.”