Nought spake she, nothing she moved, and the tears were dried on her
      cheek;
    But the very words of Grimhild did Gunnar’s memory seek;
    He sought and he found and considered; and mighty he was and young,
    And he thought of the deeds of his fathers and the tales of the
      Niblungs sung;
    How they bore no God’s constraining, and rode through the wrong and
      the right
    That the storm of their wrath might quicken, and their tempest carry
      the light. 
    The words of his mother he gathered and the wrath-flood over him
      rolled,
    And with it came many a longing, that his heart had never told,
    Nay, scarce to himself in the night-tide, for the gain of the ruddy
      rings,
    And the fame of the earth unquestioned and the mastery over kings,
    And he sole King in the world-throne, unequalled, unconstrained;
    And with wordless wrath he fretted at the bonds that his glory had
      chained,
    And the bitter anger stirred him, and at last he spake and cried: 

    “How long, O all-wise Brynhild, like the dead wilt thou abide,
    Nor speak to thy lord and thy husband and the man that rode thy Fire,
    And mocked at the bane of King-folk to accomplish thy desire? 
    I deem thou sickenest, Brynhild, with the love of a mighty-one,
    The foe, the King’s supplanter, he that so long hath shone
    Mid the honour of our fathers, and the lovely Niblung house,
    Like a serpent amidst of the treasure that the day makes glorious.”

    Yet never a word she answered, nor unto the great King turned,
    Till through all the patience of King-folk the flame of his anger
      burned,
    And his voice was the rattling thunder, as he cried across the bed: 

    “O who art thou, fearful woman? art thou one of the first of the dead? 
    Hast thou long ago seen and hated the tide of the Niblung praise,
    And clad thee in flesh twice over for the bane of our happy days? 
    Art thou come from the far-off country that none may live and behold
    For the bane of the King of the Niblungs, and of Sigurd lord of the
      Gold?”

    Then she raised herself on her elbow and turned her eyes on the King: 
    “O tell me, Gunnar,” she said, “that thou gavest Andvari’s Ring
    To thy sister the white-armed Gudrun!—­thou, not thy captain of war,
    The son of the God-born Volsungs, the Lord of the Treasure of yore! 
    O swear it that I may live! that I may be glad in thine hall,
    And weave with the wisdom of women, and broider the purple and pall,
    And look in thy face at the chess-play, and drink of thy carven cup,
    And whisper a word in season when the voice of the wise goes up,
    And speak thee the speech of kindness by the hallowed Niblung hearth. 
    O swear it, King of the Niblungs, lest thine honour die of the dearth! 
    O swear it, lord I have wedded, lest mine honour come to nought,
    And I be but a wretch and a bondmaid for a year’s embracing bought!”