For he felt beset of evil in a world of many foes.

  But the hilts of the Wrath he handled, and Regin’s heart he saw,

  And how that the Foe of the Gods the net of death would draw;

  And his bright eyes flashed and sparkled, and his mouth grew set and stern

  As he hearkened the voice of the eagles, and their song began to learn.

  And six of the eagles cried to Sigurd not to tarry before the feast, and

  they urged him to kill Regin, who had planned Fafnir’s death that he

  alone might live and fashion the world after his evil will.

  And the seventh: “Arise, O Sigurd, lest the hour be overlate!

  For the sun in the mid-noon shineth, and swift is the hand of Fate:

  Arise! lest the world run backward and the blind heart have its will,

  And once again be tangled the sundered good and ill;

  Lest love and hatred perish, lest the world forget its tale,

  And the Gods sit deedless, dreaming, in the high-walled heavenly vale.”

  Then swift ariseth Sigurd, and the Wrath in his hand is bare,

  And he looketh, and Regin sleepeth, and his eyes wide-open glare;

  But his lips smile false in his dreaming, and his hand is on the sword;

  For he dreams himself the Master and the new world’s fashioning-lord,

  And his dream hath forgotten Sigurd, and the King’s life lies in the pit;

  He is nought; Death gnaweth upon him, while the Dwarfs in mastery sit.

  But lo, how the eyes of Sigurd the heart of the guileful behold,

  And great is Allfather Odin, and upriseth the Curse of the Gold,

  And the Branstock bloometh to heaven from the ancient wondrous root;

  The summer hath shone on its blossoms, and Sigurd’s Wrath is the fruit.

  * * * * *

  Then his second stroke struck Sigurd, for the Wrath flashed thin and white,

  And ‘twixt head and trunk of Regin fierce ran the fateful light;

  And there lay brother by brother a faded thing and wan.

  But Sigurd cried in the desert: “So far have I wended on!

  Dead are the foes of God-home that would blend the good and the ill;

  And the World shall yet be famous, and the Gods shall have their will.

  Nor shall I be dead and forgotten, while the earth grows worse and worse,

  With the blind heart king o’er the people, and binding curse with curse.”

  How Sigurd took to him the Treasure of the Elf Andvari.

  So Sigurd ate of the heart of Fafnir, and as he ate the longing to be

  gone to mighty deeds grew great, and he leapt on Greyfell and sought the

  home of the Dweller amid the Gold on the edge of the heath. He strode

  through the doorway, and before him lay golden armour, golden coins,

  and golden sands from rivers that none but the Dwarfs could mine. But

  more wonderful than all other treasures were the Helm of Aweing, and the

  Hauberk all of gold, while on top of the midmost heap, gleaming like

  the brightest star in the sky, lay the ring of Andvari.

  Sigurd put on the helm and the hauberk, and dragged out gold wherewith he

  loaded Greyfell till the cloud-grey horse shone, while the eagles ever

  bade him bring forth the treasure, and let the gold shine in the open.

  And as the stars paled and the dawn grew clearer, Sigurd and Greyfell

  passed swiftly and lightly towards the west.

  How Sigurd awoke Brynhild upon Hindfell.

  By long roads rideth Sigurd amidst that world of stone,

  And somewhat south he turneth; for he would not be alone,

  But longs for the dwellings of man-folk, and the kingly people’s speech,

  And the days of the glee and the joyance, where men laugh each to each.

  But still the desert endureth, and afar must Greyfell fare

  From the wrack of the Glittering Heath, and Fafnir’s golden lair.

  Long Sigurd rideth the waste, when, lo, on a morning of day

  From out of the tangled crag-walls, amidst the cloud-land grey

  Comes up a mighty mountain, and it is as though there burns

  A torch amidst of its cloud-wreath; so thither Sigurd turns,

  For he deems indeed from its topmost to look on the best of the earth;

  And Greyfell neigheth beneath him, and his heart is full of mirth.

  * * * * *

  Night falls, but yet rides Sigurd, and hath no thought of rest,

  For he longs to climb that rock-world and behold the earth at its best;

  But now mid the maze of the foot-hills he seeth the light no more,

  And the stars are lovely and gleaming on the lightless heavenly floor.

  So up and up he wendeth till the night is wearing thin;

  And he rideth a rift of the mountain, and all is dark therein,

  Till the stars are dimmed by dawning and the wakening world is cold;

  Then afar in the upper rock-wall a breach doth he behold,

  And a flood of light poured inward the doubtful dawning blinds:

  So swift he rideth thither and the mouth of the breach he finds,

  And sitteth awhile on Greyfell on the marvellous thing to gaze:

  For lo, the side of Hindfell enwrapped by the fervent blaze,

  And nought ‘twixt earth and heaven save a world of flickering flame,

  And a hurrying shifting tangle, where the dark rents went and came.

  Great groweth the heart of Sigurd with uttermost desire,

  And he crieth kind to Greyfell, and they hasten up, and nigher,

  Till he draweth rein in the dawning on the face of Hindfell’s steep:

  But who shall heed the dawning where the tongues of that wildfire leap?

  For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the heaven

  The wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it driven

  By the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood amidst it is nought;

  And no wayfarer’s door and no window the hand of its builder hath wrought.

  But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath uplifteth his hair,

  And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail gleams white and

  fair,

  And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the waning stars behind:

  But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snuff at the flame-wall blind,

  And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the knitted mail,

  And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan and pale.

  Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts,

  And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts,

  And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire’s heart;

  But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart,

  And high o’er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roar

  As it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor:

  But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye,

  When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh.

  The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell’s mane,

  And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir’s bane,

  And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair,

  But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear;

  Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left behind,

  And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind.

  But forth a little further and a little further on

  And all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wan

  Beneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes,

  And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies;

  And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey,

  And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day.

  Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw,

  A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw,

  The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white;

  And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright.

  As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin’s hall.

  Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall,

  And far o’er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hung

  A glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rung

  As the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell’s face

  And the light from the yellow east beamed soft on the shielded place.

  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 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 the head, and, lo, the brow snow-white,

  And the smooth unfurrowed cheeks, and the wise lips breathing light;

  And the face of a woman it is, and the fairest that ever was born,

  Shown forth to the empty heavens and the desert world forlorn:

  But he looketh, and loveth her sore, and he longeth her spirit to move,

  And awaken her heart to the world, that she may behold him and love.

  And he toucheth her breast and her hands, and he loveth her passing sore.

  And he saith: “Awake! I am Sigurd;” but she moveth never the more.

  Then he looked on his bare bright blade, and he said: “Thou — what wilt thou

  do?

  For indeed as I came by the war-garth thy voice of desire I knew.”

  Bright burnt the pale blue edges for the sunrise drew anear,

  And the rims of the Shield-burg glittered, and the east was exceeding clear:

  So the eager edges he setteth to the Dwarf-wrought battle-coat

  Where the hammered ring-knit collar constraineth the woman’s throat;

  But the sharp Wrath biteth and rendeth, and before it fail the rings,

  And, lo, the gleam of the linen, and the light of golden things:

  Then he driveth the blue steel onward, and through the skirt, and out,

  Till nought but the rippling linen is wrapping her about;

  Then he deems her breath comes quicker and her breast begins to heave,

  So he turns about the War-Flame and rends down either sleeve,

  Till her arms lie white in her raiment, and a river of sun-bright hair

  Flows free o’er bosom and shoulder and floods the desert bare.

  Then a flush cometh over her visage and a sigh up-heaveth her breast,

  And her eyelids quiver and open, and she wakeneth into rest;

  Wide-eyed on the dawning she gazeth, too glad to change or smile,

  And but little moveth her body, nor speaketh she yet for a while;

  And yet kneels Sigurd moveless her wakening speech to heed,

  While soft the waves of the daylight o’er the starless heavens speed,

  And the gleaming rims of the Shield-burg yet bright and brighter grow,

  And the thin moon hangeth her horns dead-white in the golden glow.

  Then she turned and gazed on Sigurd, and her eyes met the Volsung’s eyes.

  And mighty and measureless now did the tide of his love arise,

  For their longing had met and mingled, and he knew of her heart that she

  loved,

  As she spake unto nothing but him and her lips with the speech-flood moved:

  “O, what is the thing so mighty that my weary sleep hath torn,

  And rent the fallow bondage, and the wan woe over-worn?”

  He said: “The hand of Sigurd and the Sword of Sigmund’s son,

  And the heart that the Volsungs fashioned this deed for thee have done.”

  But she said: “Where then is Odin that laid me here alow?

  Long lasteth the grief of the world, and manfolk’s tangled woe!”

  “He dwelleth above,” said Sigurd, “but I on the earth abide,

  And I came from the Glittering Heath the waves of thy fire to ride.”

  * * * * *

  Then Sigurd looketh upon her, and the words from his heart arise:

  “Thou art the fairest of earth, and the wisest of the wise;

  O who art thou that lovest? I am Sigurd, e’en as I told;

  I have slain the Foe of the Gods, and gotten the Ancient Gold;

  And great were the gain of thy love, and the gift of mine earthly days,

  If we twain should never sunder as we wend on the changing ways.

  O who art thou that lovest, thou fairest of all things born?

  And what meaneth thy sleep and thy slumber in the wilderness forlorn?”

  Then the maiden told him that she had been the handmaid of the

  All-father, but that she grew too proud, and Odin had sent her to

  Hindfell, where the sleep thorn pierced her that she might sleep till

  she found the fearless heart she would wed. Such a one had she found

  now, and many were the words of prophetic wisdom and warning that

  fell from her lips on the ears of Sigurd.

  But many though they were they were not enough for him, who prayed

  her to speak with him more of Wisdom.

  So together they sat on the side of Hindfell and talked of all that is

  and can be, and then together they climbed the mountain, till beneath

  them they saw the kingdoms of the earth stretching far away, and

  Brynhild bade him look down on her home, saying:

  “Yet I bid thee look on the land ‘twixt the wood and the silver sea

  In the bight of the swirling river, and the house that cherished me!

  There dwelleth mine earthly sister and the king that she hath wed;

  There morn by morn aforetime I woke on the golden bed;

  There eve by eve I tarried mid the speech and the lays of kings;

  There noon by noon I wandered and plucked the blossoming things;

  The little land of Lymdale by the swirling river’s side,

  Where Brynhild once was I called in the days ere my father died;

  The little land of Lymdale ‘twixt the woodland and the sea,

  Where on thee mine eyes shall brighten and thine eyes shall beam on me.”

  “I shall seek thee there,” said Sigurd, “when the day-spring is begun,

  Ere we wend the world together in the season of the sun.”

  “I shall bide thee there,” said Brynhild, “till the fulness of the days,

  And the time for the glory appointed, and the springing-tide of praise.”

  From his hand then draweth Sigurd Andvari’s ancient Gold;

  There is nought but the sky above them as the ring together they hold,

  The shapen ancient token, that hath no change nor end,

  No change, and no beginning, no flaw for God to mend:

  Then Sigurd cries: “O Brynhild, now hearken while I swear,

  That the sun shall die in the heavens and the day no more be fair,

  If I seek not love in Lymdale and the house that fostered thee,

  And the land where thou awakedst ‘twixt the woodland and the sea!”

  And she cried: “O Sigurd, Sigurd, now hearken while I swear

  That the day shall die for ever and the sun to blackness wear,

 

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