Nought Sigurd spake in answer but looked straight forth with a frown,
    And stretched out his hand to Gunnar, as one that claimeth his own. 
    Then no word speaketh Gunnar, but taketh his hand in his hand,
    And they look in the eyes of each other, and a while in the desert
      they stand
    Till the might of Grimhild prevaileth, and the twain are as
      yester-morn;
    But sad was the golden Sigurd, though his eyes knew nought of scorn: 
    And he spake: 
                “It is finished, O Gunnar! and I will that our brotherhood
    May endure through the good and the evil as it sprang in the days of
      the good;
    But I bid thee look to the ending, that the deed I did yest’reve
    Bear nought for me to repent of, for thine heart of hearts to grieve. 
    Thou art troth-plight, O King of the Niblungs, to Brynhild Queen of
      the earth,
    She hath sworn thine heart to cherish and increase thy worth with her
      worth: 
    She shall come to the house of Gunnar ere ten days are past and o’er;
    And thenceforth the life of Brynhild shall part from thy life no more,
    Till the doom of our kind shall speed you, and Odin and Freyia shall
      call,
    And ye bide the Day of the Battle, and the uttermost changing of all.”

    The praise and thanks they gave him! the words of love they spake! 
    The tale that the world should hear of, deeds done for Sigurd’s sake! 
    They were lovely might you hear them:  but they lack; for in very deed
    Their sound was clean forgotten in the day of Sigurd’s need.

    But as yet are those King-folk lovely, and no guile of heart they know,
    And, in troth and love rejoicing, by Sigurd’s side they go: 
    O’er heath and holt they hie them, o’er hill and dale they ride,
    Till they come to the Burg of the Niblungs and the war-gate of their
      pride;
    And there is Grimhild the wise-wife, and she sits and spins in the
      hall.

    “Rejoice, O mother,” saith Gunnar, “for thy guest hath holpen all
    And this eve shall thy sons be merry:  but ere ten days are o’er
    Here cometh the Maid, and the Queen, the Wise, and the Chooser of war;
    So wrought is the will of the Niblungs and their blossoming boughs
      increase,
    And joyous strife shall we dwell in, and merry days of peace.”

    So that night in the hall of the ancient they hold high-tide again,
    And the Gods on the Southland hangings smile out full fair and fain,
    And the song goes up of Sigurd, and the praise of his fame fulfilled,
    But his speech in the dead sleep lieth, and the words of his wisdom
      are chilled: 
    And men say, the King is careful, for he thinks of the people’s weal,
    And his heart is afraid for our trouble, lest the Gods our joyance
      steal.