He drinketh and craveth for battle, and his hand for a sword doth seek,
    And he looketh about on his brethren, but his lips no word may speak;
    They speak the name, and he hears not, and again he drinks of the cup
    And knows not friend nor kindred, and the wrath in his heart wells up,
    That no God may bear unmingled, and he cries a wordless cry,
    As the last of the day is departing and the dusk time drawing anigh.

    Then Grimhild goes from the chamber, and bringeth his harness of war,
    And therewith they array his body, and he drinketh the cup once more,
    And his heart is set on the murder, and now may he understand
    What soul is dight for the slaying, and what quarry is for his hand. 
    For again, they tell him of Sigurd, and the man he remembereth,
    And praiseth his mighty name and his deeds that laughed on death.

    Now dusk and dark draw over, and through the glimmering house
    They go to the place of the Niblungs, the high hall and glorious;
    For hard by is the chamber of Sigurd:  there dight in their harness of
      war
    In their thrones sit Gunnar and Hogni, but Guttorm stands on the floor
    With his blue blade naked before them:  the torches flare from the wall
    And the woven God-folk waver, but the hush is deep in the hall,
    And those Niblung faces change not, though the slow moon slips from her
      height
    And earth is acold ere dawning, and new winds shake the night.

    Now it was in the earliest dawn-dusk that Guttorm stirred in his place,
    And the mail-rings tinkled upon him, as he turned his helm-hid face,
    And went forth from the hall and the high-seat; but the Kings sat still
      in their pride
    And hearkened the clash of his going and heeded how it died.

    Slow, all alone goeth Guttorm to Sigurd’s chamber door,
    And all is open before him, and the white moon lies on the floor
    And the bed where Sigurd lieth with Gudrun on his breast,
    And light comes her breath from her bosom in the joy of infinite rest. 
    Then Guttorm stands on the threshold, and his heart of the murder is
      fain,
    And he thinks of the deeds of Sigurd, and praiseth his greatness and
      gain;
    Bright blue is his blade in the moonlight—­but lo, how Sigurd lies,
    As the carven dead that die not, with fair wide-open eyes;
    And their glory gleameth on Guttorm, and the hate in his heart is
      chilled,
    And he shrinketh aback from the threshold and knoweth not what he
      willed.

    But his brethren heed and hearken, and they hear the clash draw nigh,
    But they stir no whit in their pride, though the lord of all creatures
      should die. 
    Then they see where cometh Guttorm, but they cast him never a word,
    For white ’neath the flickering torches they see his unstained sword;