And the daughter of Kings of the world, and the sister of Queens is she,

  And wise, and Odin’s Chooser, and the Breath of Victory:

  But for this cause sitteth she thus in the ring of the Wavering Flame,

  That no son of the Kings will she wed save the mightiest master of fame,

  And the man who knoweth not fear, and the man foredoomed of fate

  To ride through her Wavering Fire to the door of her golden gate:

  And for him she sitteth and waiteth, and him shall she cherish and love,

  Though the Kings of the world should withstand it, and the Gods that sit

  above.

  Speak thou, O mighty Gunnar! — nay rather, Sigurd my son,

  Say who but the lord of the Niblungs should wed with this glorious one?”

  Long Sigurd gazeth upon her, and slow he sayeth again:

  “I know thy will, my mother; of all the sons of men,

  Of all the Kings unwedded, and the kindred of the great,

  It is meet that my brother Gunnar should ride to her golden gate.”

  * * * * *

  In the May-morn riseth Gunnar with fair face and gleaming eyes,

  And he calleth on Sigurd his brother, and he calleth on Hogni the wise:

  “Today shall we fare to the wooing, for so doth our mother bid;

  We shall go to gaze on marvels, and things from the King-folk hid.”

  So they do on the best of their war-gear, and their steeds are dight for the

  road,

  And forth to the sun neigheth Greyfell as he neighed ‘neath the Golden Load:

  But or ever they leap to the saddle, while yet in the door they stand,

  Thereto cometh Grimhild the wise-wife, and on each head layeth her hand,

  As she saith: “Be mighty and wise, as the kings that came before!

  For they knew of the ways of the Gods, and the craft of the Gods they bore:

  And they knew how the shapes of man-folk are the very images

  Of the hearts that abide within them, and they knew of the shaping of these.

  Be wise and mighty, O Kings, and look in mine heart and behold

  The craft that prevaileth o’er semblance, and the treasured wisdom of old!

  I hallow you thus for the day, and I hallow you thus for the night,

  And I hallow you thus for the dawning with my fathers’ hidden might.

  Go now, for ye bear my will while I sit in the hall and spin;

  And tonight shall be the weaving, and tomorn the web shall ye win.”

  So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word,

  But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathed sword:

  None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens gaze,

  And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways.

  So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun,

  And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun:

  And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn;

  But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn:

  And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o’er the earth,

  And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert’s dearth.

  None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red,

  And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd’s head,

  And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides,

  And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides.

  Then the heart of a king’s son failed not, but he tossed his sword on high

  And laughed as he spurred for the fire, and cried the Niblung cry;

  But the mare’s son saw and imagined, and the battle-eager steed,

  That so oft had pierced the spear-hedge and never failed at need,

  Shrank back, and shrieked in his terror, and spite of spur and rein

  Fled fast as the foals unbitted on Odin’s pasturing plain;

  Wide then he wheeled with Gunnar, but with hand and knee he dealt,

  And the voice of a lord beloved, till the steed his master felt,

  And bore him back to the brethren; by Greyfell Sigurd stood,

  And stared at the heart of the fire, and his helm was red as blood;

  But Hogni sat in his saddle, and watched the flames up-roll;

  And he said: “Thy steed has failed thee that was once the noblest foal

  In the pastures of King Giuki; but since thine heart fails not,

  And thou wouldst not get thee backward and say, The fire was hot,

  And the voices pent within it were singing nought but death,

  Let Sigurd lend thee his steed that wore the Glittering Heath,

  And carried the Bed of the Serpent, and the ancient ruddy rings.

  So perchance may the mocks be lesser when men tell of the Niblung Kings.”

  Then Sigurd looked on the twain, and he saw their swart hair wave

  In the wind of the waste and the flame-blast, and no answer awhile he gave.

  But at last he spake: “O brother, on Greyfell shalt thou ride,

  And do on the Helm of Aweing and gird the Wrath to thy side,

  And cover thy breast with the war-coat that is throughly woven of gold,

  That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told:

  For this is the raiment of Kings when they ride the Flickering Fire,

  And so sink the flames before them and the might of their desire.”

  Then Hogni laughed in his heart, and he said: “This changing were well

  If so might the deed be accomplished; but perchance there is more to tell:

  Thou shalt take the war-steed, Gunnar, and enough or nought it shall be:

  But the coal-blue gear of the Niblungs the golden hall shall see.”

  Then Sigurd looked on the speaker, as one who would answer again,

  But his words died out on the waste and the fire-blast made them vain.

  Then he casteth the reins to his brother, and Gunnar praiseth his gift,

  And springeth aloft to the saddle as the fair sun fails from the lift;

  And Sigurd looks on the burden that Greyfell doth uprear,

  The huge king towering upward in the dusky Niblung gear:

  There sits the eager Gunnar, and his heart desires the deed,

  And of nought he recketh and thinketh, but a fame-stirred warrior’s need;

  But Greyfell trembleth nothing and nought of the fire doth reck:

  Then the spurs in his flank are smitten, and the reins lie loose on his

  neck,

  And the sharp cry springeth from Gunnar — no handbreadth stirred the beast;

  The dusk drew on and over and the light of the fire increased,

  And still as a shard on the mountain in the sandy dale alone

  Was the shape of the cloudy Greyfell, nor moved he more than the stone;

  But right through the heart of the fire for ever Sigurd stared,

  As he stood in the gold red-litten with the Wrath’s thin edges bared.

  No word for a while spake any, till Gunnar leaped to the earth,

  And the anger wrought within him, and the fierce words came to birth:

  “Who mocketh the King of the Niblungs in the desert land forlorn?

  Is it thou, O Sigurd the Stranger? is it thou, O younger-born?

  Dost thou laugh in the hall, O Mother? dost thou spin, and laugh at the tale

  That has drawn thy son and thine eldest to the sword and the blaze of the

  bale?

  Or thou, O God of the Goths, wilt thou hide and laugh thy fill,

  While the hands of the foster-brethren the blood of brothers spill?”

  But the awful voice of Sigurd across the wild went forth:

  “How changed are the words of Gunnar! where wend his ways of worth?

  I mock thee not in the desert, as I mocked thee not in the mead,

  When I swore beneath the turf-yoke to help thy fondest need:

  Nay, strengthen thine heart for the work, for the gift that thy manhood

  awaits;

  For I give thee a gift, O Niblung, that shall overload the Fates,

  And how may a King sustain it? but forbear with the dark to strive;

  For thy mother spinneth and worketh, and her craft is awake and alive.”

  Then Hogni spake from the saddle: “The time, and the time is come

  To gather the might of our mother, and of her that spinneth at home.

  Forbear all words, O Gunnar, and anigh to Sigurd stand,

  And face to face behold him, and take his hand in thine hand:

  Then be thy will as his will, that his heart may mingle with thine,

  And the love that he sware ‘neath the earth-yoke with thine hope may

  intertwine.”

  Then the wrath from the Niblung slippeth and the shame that anger hath bred,

  And the heavy wings of the dreamtide flit over Gunnar’s head:

  But he doth by his brother’s bidding, and Sigurd’s hand he takes,

  And he looks in the eyes of the Volsung, though scarce in the desert he

  wakes.

  There Hogni sits in the saddle aloof from the King’s desire,

  And little his lips are moving, as he stares on the rolling fire,

  And mutters the spells of his mother, and the words she bade him say:

  But the craft of the kings of aforetime on those Kings of the battle lay;

  Dark night was spread behind them, and the fire flared up before,

  And unheard was the wind of the wasteland mid the white flame’s wavering

  roar.

  Long Sigurd gazeth on Gunnar, till he sees, as through a cloud,

  The long black locks of the Niblung, and the King’s face set and proud:

  Then the face is alone on the dark, and the dusky Niblung mail

  Is nought but the night before him: then whiles will the visage fail,

  And grow again as he gazeth, black hair and gleaming eyes,

  And fade again into nothing, as for more of vision he tries:

  Then all is nought but the night, yea the waste of an emptier thing,

  And the fire-wall Sigurd forgetteth, nor feeleth the hand of the King:

  Nay, what is it now he remembereth? it is nought that aforetime he knew,

  And no world is there left him to live in, and no deed to rejoice in or rue;

  But frail and alone he fareth, and as one in the sphere-stream’s drift,

  By the starless empty places that lie beyond the lift:

  Then at last is he stayed in his drifting, and he saith, It is blind and

  dark;

  Yet he feeleth the earth at his feet, and there cometh a change and a spark,

  And away in an instant of time is the mirk of the dreamland rolled,

  And there is the fire-lit midnight, and before him an image of gold,

  A man in the raiment of Gods, nor fashioned worser than they:

  Full sad he gazeth on Sigurd from the great wide eyes and grey;

  And the Helm that Aweth the people is set on the golden hair,

  And the Mail of Gold enwraps him, and the Wrath in his hand is bare.

  Then Sigurd looks on his arm and his hand in his brother’s hand,

  And thereon is the dark grey mail-gear well forged in the southern land;

  Then he looks on the sword that he beareth, and, lo, the eager blade

  That leaps in the hand of Gunnar when the kings are waxen afraid;

  And he turns his face o’er his shoulder, and the raven-locks hang down

  From the dark-blue helm of the Dwarf-folk, and the rings of the Niblung

  crown.

  Then a red flush riseth against him in the face ne’er seen before,

  Save dimly in the mirror or the burnished targe of war,

  And the foster-brethren sunder, and the clasped hands fall apart;

  But a change cometh over Sigurd, and the fierce pride leaps in his heart;

  He knoweth the soul of Gunnar, and the shaping of his mind;

  He seeketh the words of Sigurd, and Gunnar’s voice doth he find,

  As he cries: “I know thy bidding; let the world be lief or loth,

  The child is unborn that shall hearken how Sigurd rued his oath!

  Well fare thou brother Gunnar! what deed shall I do this eve

  That I shall never repent of, that thine heart shall never grieve?

  What deed shall I do this even that none else may bring to the birth,

  Nay, not the King of the Niblungs, and the lord of the best of the earth?”

  The flames rolled up to the heavens, and the stars behind were bright,

  Dark Hogni sat on his war-steed, and stared out into the night,

  And there stood Gunnar the King in Sigurd’s semblance wrapped,

  — As Sigurd walking in slumber, for in Grimhild’s guile was he lapped,

  That his heart forgat his glory, and the ways of Odin’s lords,

  And the thought was frozen within him, and the might of spoken words.

  But Sigurd leapeth on Greyfell, and the sword in his hand is bare,

  And the gold spurs flame on his heels, and the fire-blast lifteth his hair;

  Forth Greyfell bounds rejoicing, and they see the grey wax red,

  As unheard the war-gear clasheth, and the flames meet over his head,

  Yet a while they see him riding, as through the rye men ride,

  When the word goes forth in the summer of the kings by the ocean-side;

  But the fires were slaked before him and the wild-fire burned no more

  Than the ford of the summer waters when the rainy time is o’er.

  Not once turned Sigurd aback, nor looked o’er the ashy ring,

  To the midnight wilderness drear and the spell-drenched Niblung King:

  But he stayed and looked before him, and lo, a house high-built

  With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:

  So he leapt adown from Greyfell, and came to that fair abode,

  And dark in the gear of the Niblungs through the gleaming door he strode:

  All light within was that dwelling, and a marvellous hall it was,

  But of gold were its hangings woven, and its pillars gleaming as glass,

  And Sigurd said in his heart, it was wrought erewhile for a God:

  But he looked athwart and endlong as alone its floor he trod,

  And lo, on the height of the dais is upreared a graven throne,

  And thereon a woman sitting in the golden place alone;

  Her face is fair and awful, and a gold crown girdeth her head;

  And a sword of the kings she beareth, and her sun-bright hair is shed

  O’er the laps of the snow-white linen that ripples adown to her feet:

  As a swan on the billow unbroken ere the firth and the ocean meet,

  On the dark-blue cloths she sitteth, in the height of the golden place,

  Nor breaketh the hush of the hall, though her eyes be set on his face.

  Now he sees this is even the woman of whom the tale hath been told,

  E’en she that was wrought for the Niblungs, the bride ordained from of old,

  And hushed in the hall he standeth, and a long while looks in her eyes,

  And the word he hath shapen for Gunnar to his lips may never arise.

  The man in Gunnar’s semblance looked long and knew no deed;

  And she looked, and her eyes were dreadful, and none would help her need.

  Then the image of Gunnar trembled, and the flesh of the War-King shrank;

  For he heard her voice on the silence, and his heart of her anguish drank:

  “King, King, who art thou that comest, thou lord of the cloudy gear?

  What deed for the weary-hearted shall thy strange hands fashion here?”

  The speech of her lips pierced through him like the point of the bitter

  sword,

  And he deemed that death were better than another spoken word;

  But he clencheth his hand on the war-blade, and setteth his face as the

  brass,

  And the voice of his brother Gunnar from out his lips doth pass:

  “When thou lookest on me, O Goddess, thou seest Gunnar the King,

  The King and the lord of the Niblungs, and the chief of their warfaring.

  But art thou indeed that Brynhild of whom is the rumour and fame,

  That she bideth the coming of kings to ride her Wavering Flame,

  Lest she wed the little-hearted, and the world grow evil and vile?

  For if thou be none other I will speak again in a while.”

  She said: “Art thou Gunnar the Stranger! O art thou the man that I see?

  Yea, verily I am Brynhild; what other is like unto me?

  O men of the Earth behold me! hast thou seen, O labouring Earth,

  Such sorrow as my sorrow, or such evil as my birth?”

  Then spake the Wildfire’s Trampler that Gunnar’s image bore:

  “O Brynhild, mighty of women, be thou glorious evermore!

  Thou seest Gunnar the Niblung, as he sits mid the Niblung lords,

  And rides with the gods of battle in the fore-front of the swords.”

  * * * * *

  Hard rang his voice in the hall, and a while she spake no word,

  And there stood the Image of Gunnar, and leaned on his bright blue sword:

  But at last she cried from the high-seat: “If I yet am alive and awake,

  I know no words for the speaking, nor what answer I may make.”

  She ceased and he answered nothing; and a hush on the hall there lay

  And the moon slipped over the windows as he clomb the heavenly way;

  And no whit stirred the raiment of Brynhild: till she hearkened the Wooer’s

  voice,

  As he said: “Thou art none of the women that swear and forswear and rejoice,

  Forgetting the sorrow of kings and the Gods and the labouring earth.

  Thou shall wed with King Gunnar the Niblung and increase his worth with thy

 

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