As she spake the outer door-leaves clashed to with a mighty sound,
    And the outer air was troubled with a new noise gathering around: 
    As of leaves in the midmost summer ere the dusk of the even warm. 
    When the winds in the hillsides gathered go forth before the storm;
    Men abode, and a wicket opened on the feast-hall’s inner side
    And the Niblungs looked for the coming of King Atli in his pride: 
    But one man entered only, and he thin and old and spare,
    A swordless man and a little—­yet was King Atli there. 
    He looked not once on the Niblungs, but forth to the high-seat went,
    And stood aloof from Gudrun with his eyes to the hall-floor bent: 
    Thence came a voice from his lips, and men heard, for the hush was
      great. 
    And the hearts of the bold were astonished ’neath the overhanging fate.

    “Ye are come, O Kings of the Niblungs, ye are come, O slayers of men! 
    But how great, and where is the ransom that shall buy your departure
      again?”

    Then spake the wise-heart Hogni:  “Do the bidden guests so long
    To depart to the night and the silence from the fire and the wine and
      the song? 
    Fear not! the feast shall be merry, and here we abide in thine hall,
    Till thou and the great feast-master shall bid the best befall.”

    There were cries of men in the city, there was clang and clatter of
      steel. 
    And high cried the thin-voiced Atli, the lord of the Eastland weal: 
    “Ye are come in your pride, O Niblungs; but this day of days is mine: 
    Will ye die? will ye live and be little?  Hear now the token and sign!”

    Great then grew the voices without, with one name was the city filled,
    Yea, all the world it might be, and all sounds of the earth were
      stilled
    With that cry of the name of Atli:  but Gunnar stood for a space
    Till the cry was something sunken, then he put back the helm from his
      face
    And spread out his hands before him, and his hands were empty and bare
    As he stood in the front of the Niblungs like a great God smiling and
      fair: 

    “We shall live and never be little, we shall die and be masters of
      fame: 
    I know not thy will, O Atli, nor what thou wouldst with thy name.”

    “Ye shall know my will,” said Atli, “ye shall do it, or do no more
    The deeds of the days of the living:  ye shall render the garnered
      store,
    Ye shall give forth the Gold of Sigurd, the wealth of the uttermost
      strand.”

    “To give a gift,” cried Hogni, “we came to King Atli’s land: 
    Tomorn for a little season thou shalt be the richest fool
    Of all kings ever told of; and the rest let the high Gods rule.”

    “O King of the East,” said Gunnar, “great gifts for thee draw nigh,
    But the treasure of the Niblungs in their guarded house shall lie.”