But Atli spake to his thrall-folk, and they went, and were little
      afraid
    To take the glorious Gunnar, and the King in shackles laid: 
    They deemed they should live for ever, and eat and sleep as the swine,
    To them were the tales of the singers no token and no sign;
    For the blossom of the Niblungs they rolled amid the dust,
    That well-renowned Gunnar ’neath Atli’s chair they thrust;
    The feet of the Eastland liar on Gunnar’s neck are set,
    And by Atli Gudrun sitteth, and nought she stirreth yet.

    Outbrake the glee of the dastards, and they that had not dared
    To meet the swords of the Niblungs, no whit the God-folk feared: 
    They forgat that the Norns were awake, and they praised the master of
      guile
    The war-spent conquering Atli and the face without a smile;
    And the tumult of their triumph and the wordless mingled roar
    Went forth from that hall of the Eastlands and smote the heavenly
      floor.

    At last spake Atli the mighty:  “Stand up, thou war-won thrall,
    Whom they that were once the Niblungs did once King Gunnar call!”

    From the dust they dragged up Gunnar, and set him on his feet,
    And the heart within him was living and the pride for a war-king meet;
    And his glory was nothing abated, and fair he seemed and young,
    As the first of the Cloudy Kings, fresh shoot from the sower sprung. 
    But Atli looked upon him, and a smile smoothed out his brow
    As he said:  “What thoughtest thou, Gunnar, when thou layst in the dust
      e’en now?”

    He said:  “Of Valhall I thought, and the host of my fathers’ land,
    And of Hogni that thou hast slaughtered, and my brother Sigurd’s hand.”

    Said Atli:  “Think of thy life, and the days that shall be yet,
    And thyself, maybe, as aforetime, in the throne of thy father set.”

    “O Eastland liar,” said Gunnar, “no more will I live and rue.”

    Said Atli:  “The word I have spoken, thy word may yet make true.”

    “I weary of speech,” said the Niblung, “with those that are lesser
      than I.”

    “Yet words of mine shalt thou hearken,” said Atli, “or ever thou die.”

    “So crieth the fool,” said Gunnar, “on the God that his folly hath
      slain.”

    Said Atli:  “Forth shall my word, nor yet shall be gathered again.”

    “Yet meeter were thy silence; for thy folk make ready to sing.”

    “O Gunnar, I long for the Gold with the heart and the will of a king.”

    “This were good to tell,” said Gunnar, “to the Gods that fashioned the
      earth!”

    “Make me glad with the Gold,” said Atli, “live on in honour and worth!”