But that night, when the feast was over, to Gudrun Sigurd came,
    And she noted the ring on his finger, and she knew it was nowise the
      same
    As the ring he was wont to carry; so she bade him tell thereof: 
    Then he turned unto her kindly, and his words were words of love;
    Nor his life nor his death he heeded, but told her last night’s tale: 
    Yea he drew forth the sword for his slaying, and whetted the edges of
      bale;
    For he took that Gold of Andvari, that Curse of the uttermost land,
    And he spake as a king that loveth, and set it on her hand;
    But her heart was exceeding joyous, as he kissed her sweet and soft,
    And bade her bear it for ever, that she might remember him oft
    When his hand from the world was departed and he sat in Odin’s home.

    But no one of his words she forgat when the latter days were come,
    When the earth was hard for her footsteps, and the heavens were
      darkling above
    And but e’en as a tale that is told were waxen the years of her love,
    Yea thereof, from the Gold of Andvari, the sparks of the waters wan,
    Sprang a flame of bitter trouble, and the death of many a man,
    And the quenching of the kindreds, and the blood of the broken troth,
    And the Grievous Need of the Niblungs and the Sorrow of Odin the Goth.

    How Brynhild was wedded to Gunnar the Niblung.

    So wear the ten days over, and the morrow-morn is come,
    And the light-foot expectation flits through the Niblung home,
    And the girded hope is ready, and all people are astir,
    When the voice of the keen-eyed watchman from the topmost tower they
      hear: 
    “Look forth from the Burg, O Niblungs, and the war-gate of renown! 
    For the wind is up in the morning, and the may-blooms fall adown,
    And the sun on the earth is shining, and the clouds are small and high,
    And here is a goodly people and an army drawing anigh.”

    Then horsed are the sons of the earl-folk, and their robes are
      glittering-gay,
    And they ride o’er the bridge of the river adown the dusty way,
    Till they come on a lovely people, and the maids of war they meet,
    Whose cloaks are blue and broidered, and their girded linen sweet;
    And they ride on the roan and the grey, and the dapple-grey and the
      red,
    And many a bloom of the may-tide on their crispy locks is shed: 
    Fair, young are the sons of the earl-folk, and they laugh for love
      and glee,
    As the lovely-wristed maidens on the summer ways they see.

    But lo, mid the sweet-faced fellows there cometh a golden wain,
    Like the wain of the sea be-shielded with the signs of the war-god’s
      gain: 
    Snow-white are its harnessed yoke-beasts, and its bench-cloths are of
      blue,