Then loud laughed out Sinfiotli, and he said:  “I wot indeed
That Signy is my mother, and her will I help at need: 
Is the fox of the King-folk my father, that adder of the brake,
Who gave me never a blessing, and many a cursing spake? 
Yea, have I in sooth a father, save him that cherished my life,
The Lord of the Helm of Terror, the King of the Flame of Strife? 
Lo now my hand is ready to strike what stroke thou wilt,
For I am the sword of the Gods:  and thine hand shall hold the hilt.”

    Fierce glowed the eyes of King Sigmund, for he knew the time was come
    When the curse King Siggeir fashioned at last shall seek him home: 
    And of what shall follow after, be it evil days, or bliss,
    Or praise, or the cursing of all men,—­the Gods shall see to this.

    Of the slaying of Siggeir the Goth-king.

    So there are those kings abiding, and they think of nought but the day
    When the time at last shall serve them, to wend on the perilous way. 
    And so in the first of winter, when nights grow long and mirk,
    They fare unto Siggeir’s dwelling and seek wherein to lurk. 
    And by hap ’twas the tide of twilight, ere the watch of the night
      was set
    And the watch of the day was departed, as Sinfiotli minded yet
    So now by a passage he wotted they gat them into the bower
    Where lay the biggest wine-tuns, and there they abode the hour: 
    Anigh to the hall it was, but no man came thereto,
    But now and again the cup-lord when King Siggeir’s wine he drew: 
    Yea and so nigh to the feast-hall, that they saw the torches shine
    When the cup-lord was departed with King Siggeir’s dear-bought wine,
    And they heard the glee of the people, and the horns and the
      beakers’ din,
    When the feast was dight in the hall and the earls were merry therein. 
    Calm was the face of Sigmund, and clear were his eyes and bright;
    But Sinfiotli gnawed on his shield-rim, and his face was haggard and
      white: 
    For he deemed the time full long, ere the fallow blades should leap
    In the hush of the midnight feast-hall o’er King Siggeir’s golden
      sleep.

    Now it fell that two little children, Queen Signy’s youngest-born,
    Were about the hall that even, and amid the glee of the horn
    They played with a golden toy, and trundled it here and there,
    And thus to that lurking-bower they drew exceeding near,
    When there fell a ring from their toy, and swiftly rolled away
    And into the place of the wine-tuns, and by Sigmund’s feet made stay;
    Then the little ones followed after, and came to the lurking-place
    Where lay those night-abiders, and met them face to face,
    And fled, ere they might hold them, aback to the thronging hall.