But a dead man lieth before her, and there cometh a voice and a hand,
    And the cloth is plucked from the dead, and, lo, the beloved of the
      land,
    The righter of wrongs, the deliverer, yea he that gainsayed no grace: 
    In a stranger’s house is Gudrun and no change comes over her face,
    But her heart cries:  Woe, woe, woe, O woe unto me and to all! 
    On the fools, on the wise, on the evil let the swift destruction fall!

    Cold then is her voice in the high-seat, and she hears not what it
      saith;
    But Atli heedeth and hearkeneth, for she tells of the Glittering Heath,
    And the Load of the mighty Greyfell, and the Ransom of Odin the Goth: 
    Cold yet is her voice as she telleth of murder and breaking of troth,
    Of the stubborn hearts of the Niblungs, and their hands that never
      yield,
    Of their craving that nought fulfilleth, of their hosts arrayed for the
      field. 
    —­What then are the words of King Atli that the cold voice answereth
      thus?

    “King, so shalt thou do, and be sackless of the vengeance that lieth
      with us: 
    What words are these of my brethren, what words are these of my kin? 
    For kin upon kin hath pity, and good deeds do brethren win
    For the babes of their mothers’ bosoms, and the children of one womb: 
    But no man on me had pity, no kings were gathered for doom,
    When I lifted my hands for the pleading in the house of my father’s
      folk;
    When men turned and wrapped them in treason, and did on wrong as a
      cloak: 
    I have neither brethren nor kindred, and I am become thy wife
    To help thine heart to its craving, and strengthen thine hand in the
      strife.”

    Thus she stirred up the lust of Atli, she, unmoved as a mighty queen,
    While the fire that burned within her by no child of man was seen.

    There oft in the bed she lieth, and beside her Atli sleeps,
    And she seeth him not nor heedeth, for the horror over her creeps,
    And her own cry rings through the chamber that along ago she cried,
    And a man for his life-breath gasping is struggling by her side,
    Yea, who but Sigurd the Volsung; and no man of men in death
    Ere spake such words of pity as the words that now he saith,
    As the words he speaketh ever while he riseth up on the sword,
    The sword of the foster-brethren and the Kings that swore the word. 
    Lo, there she lieth and hearkeneth if yet he speak again,
    And long she lieth hearkening and lieth by the slain.

    So dreams the waking Gudrun till the morn comes on apace
    And the daylight shines on Atli, and no change comes over her face,
    And deep hush lies on the chamber; but loud cries out her heart: 
    How long, how long, O God-folk, will ye sit alone and apart,
    And let the blood of Sigurd cry on you from the earth,
    While crowned are the sons of murder with worship and with worth? 
    If ye tarry shall I tarry?  From the darkness of the womb
    Came I not in the days passed over for accomplishing your doom?