Then Sigmund heard the sword-point smite on the stone wall’s side,
    And slowly mid the darkness therethrough he heard it gride
    As against it bore Sinfiotli:  but he cried out at the last: 
    “It biteth, O my fosterer!  It cleaves the earth-bone fast! 
    Now learn we the craft of the masons that another day may come
    When we build a house for King Siggeir, a strait unlovely home.”

    Then in the grave-mound’s darkness did Sigmund the king upstand;
    And unto that saw of battle he set his naked hand;
    And hard the gift of Odin home to their breasts they drew;
    Sawed Sigmund, sawed Sinfiotli, till the stone was cleft atwo,
    And they met and kissed together:  then they hewed and heaved full hard
    Till lo, through the bursten rafters the winter heavens bestarred! 
    And they leap out merry-hearted; nor is there need to say
    A many words between them of whither was the way.

    For they took the night-watch sleeping, and slew them one and all
    And then on the winter fagots they made them haste to fall,
    They pile the oak-trees cloven, and when the oak-beams fail
    They bear the ash and the rowan, and build a mighty bale
    About the dwelling of Siggeir, and lay the torch therein. 
    Then they drew their swords and watched it till the flames began to win
    Hard on to the mid-hall’s rafters, and those feasters of the folk,
    As the fire-flakes fell among them, to their last of days awoke. 
    By the gable-door stood Sigmund, and fierce Sinfiotli stood
    Red-lit by the door of the women in the lane of blazing wood: 
    To death each doorway opened, and death was in the hall.

    Then amid the gathered Goth-folk ’gan Siggeir the king to call: 
    “Who lit the fire I burn in, and what shall buy me peace? 
    Will ye take my heaped-up treasure, or ten years of my fields’
      increase,
    Or half of my father’s kingdom?  O toilers at the oar,
    O wasters of the sea-plain, now labour ye no more! 
    But take the gifts I bid you, and lie upon the gold,
    And clothe your limbs in purple and the silken women hold!”

    But a great voice cried o’er the fire:  “Nay, no such men are we,
    No tuggers at the hawser, no wasters of the sea: 
    We will have the gold and the purple when we list such things to win
    But now we think on our fathers, and avenging of our kin. 
    Not all King Siggeir’s kingdom, and not all the world’s increase
    For ever and for ever, shall buy thee life and peace. 
    For now is the tree-bough blossomed that sprang from murder’s seed;
    And the death-doomed and the buried are they that do the deed;
    Now when the dead shall ask thee by whom thy days were done,
    Thou shalt say by Sigmund the Volsung, and Sinfiotli, Signy’s son.”