But the Wrath cried out in answer as Sigurd leapt adown
    To the wasted soil of the desert by that rampart of renown;
    He looked but little beneath it, and the dwelling of God it seemed,
    As against its gleaming silence the eager Sigurd gleamed: 
    He draweth not sword from scabbard, as the wall he wendeth around,
    And it is but the wind and Sigurd that wakeneth any sound: 
    But, lo, to the gate he cometh, and the doors are open wide,
    And no warder the way withstandeth, and no earls by the threshold abide
    So he stands awhile and marvels; then the baleful light of the Wrath
    Gleams bare in his ready hand as he wendeth the inward path: 
    For he doubteth some guile of the Gods, or perchance some
      Dwarf-king’s snare,
    Or a mock of the Giant people that shall fade in the morning air: 
    But he getteth him in and gazeth; and a wall doth he behold,
    And the ruddy set by the white, and the silver by the gold;
    But within the garth that it girdeth no work of man is set,
    But the utmost head of Hindfell ariseth higher yet;
    And below in the very midmost is a Giant-fashioned mound,
    Piled high as the rims of the Shield-burg above the level ground;
    And there, on that mound of the Giants, o’er the wilderness forlorn,
    A pale grey image lieth, and gleameth in the morn.

    So there was Sigurd alone; and he went from the shielded door. 
    And aloft in the desert of wonder the Light of the Branstock he bore;
    And he set his face to the earth-mound, and beheld the image wan,
    And the dawn was growing about it; and, lo, the shape of a man
    Set forth to the eyeless desert on the tower-top of the world,
    High over the cloud-wrought castle whence the windy bolts are hurled.

    Now he comes to the mound and climbs it, and will see if the man be
      dead
    Some King of the days forgotten laid there with crowned head,
    Or the frame of a God, it may be, that in heaven hath changed his life,
    Or some glorious heart beloved, God-rapt from the earthly strife: 
    Now over the body he standeth, and seeth it shapen fair,
    And clad from head to foot-sole in pale grey-glittering gear,
    In a hauberk wrought as straitly as though to the flesh it were grown: 
    But a great helm hideth the head and is girt with a glittering crown.

    So thereby he stoopeth and kneeleth, for he deems it were good indeed
    If the breath of life abide there and the speech to help at need;
    And as sweet as the summer wind from a garden under the sun
    Cometh forth on the topmost Hindfell the breath of that sleeping-one. 
    Then he saith he will look on the face, if it bear him love or hate,
    Or the bonds for his life’s constraining, or the sundering doom of
      fate. 
    So he draweth the helm from