“I am none of the Norns,” said Hogni, “nor the heart of Odin the Goth,
    To avenge the foster-brethren, or broken love and troth: 
    Thy will is the story fated, nor shall I look on the deed
    With uncursed hands unreddened, and edges dulled at need.”

    Again spake Grimhild the wise-wife:  “Where then is Guttorm the brave? 
    For he blent not his blood with the Volsung’s, nor his oath to Sigurd
      gave,
    Nor called on Earth to witness, nor went beneath the yoke;
    And now is he Sigurd’s foeman; and who may curse his stroke?”

    Then Hogni laughed and answered:  “His feet on the threshold stand: 
    Forged is thy sword, O Mother, and its hilts are come to hand,
    And look that thou whet it duly; for the Norns are departed now;
    From the blood of our foster-brother no branch of bale shall grow;
    Hoodwinked are the Gods of heaven, their sleep-dazed eyes are blind;
    They shall peer and grope through the darkness, and nought therein
      shall find,
    Save the red right hand of Guttorm, and his lips that never swore;
    At the young man’s deed shall they wonder, and all shall be covered
      o’er: 
    Ho, Guttorm, enter, and hearken to the counsel of the wise!”

    Then in through the door strode Guttorm fair-clad in hunter’s guise,
    With no steel save his wood-knife girded; but his war-fain eyes stared
      wild,
    As he spake:  “What words are ye hiding from the youngest Niblung child? 
    What work is to win, my brethren, that ye sit in warrior’s weed,
    And tell me nought of the glory, and cover up the deed?”

    Then uprose Grimhild the wise-wife, and took the cup again;
    Night-long had she brewed that witch-drink and laboured not in vain,
    For therein was the creeping venom, and hearts of things that prey
    On the hidden lives of ocean, and never look on day;
    And the heart of the ravening wood-wolf and the hunger-blinded beast
    And the spent slaked heart of the wild-fire the guileful cup increased: 
    But huge words of ancient evil about its rim were scored,
    The curse and the eyeless craving of the first that fashioned sword.

    So the cup in her hand was gleaming, as she turned unto Guttorm and
      spake;
    “Be merry, King of the War-fain! we hold counsel for thy sake: 
    The work is a God’s son’s slaying, and thine is the hand that shall
      smite,
    That thy name may be set in glory and thy deeds live on in light.”

    Forth flashed the flame from his eyen, and he cried:  “Where then is
      the foe,
    This dread of mine house and my brethren, that my hand may lay him
      alow?”

    “Drink, son,” she said, “and be merry! and I shall tell his name,
    Whose death shall crown thy life-days, and increase thy fame with his
      fame.”