Chapter XII: Book III: Brynhild (3)

Lo, Sigurd lifteth his eyes, and he sees her silent and pale,
But fair as Odin's Choosers in the slain kings' wakening dale,
But sweet as the mid-fell's dawning ere the grass beginneth to move;
And he knows in an instant of time that she stands 'twixt death and
love,
And that no man, none of the Gods can help her, none of the days,
If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways.
But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred,
And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word,
And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in
his heart
To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart.
And he saith:
"O Maid of the Niblungs, thou art weary-faced this eve:
Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve!
Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne,
That here mid the warriors' joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn?
For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would,
As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!"

He seeth the love in her eyen, and the life that is tangled in his,
And the heart cries out within him, and man's hope of earthly bliss;
And again would he spare her the speech, as she strives with her
longing sore.

"Here are glad men about us, and a joyous folk of war.
And they that have loved thee for long, and they that have cherished
mine heart;
But we twain alone are woeful, as sad folk sitting apart.
Ah, if I thy soul might gladden! if thy lips might give me peace!
Then belike were we gladdest of all; for I love thee more than these.
The cup of goodwill that thou bearest, and the greeting thou wouldst
say,
Turn these to the cup of thy love, and the words of the
troth-plighting day;
The love that endureth for ever, and the never-dying troth,
To face the Norns' undoing, and the Gods amid their wrath."

Then he taketh the cup and her hands, and she boweth meekly adown,
Till she feels the arms of Sigurd round her trembling body thrown:
A little while she doubteth in the mighty slayer's arms
As Sigurd's love unhoped-for her barren bosom warms;
A little while she struggleth with the fear of his mighty fame,
That grows with her hope's fulfilment; ruth rises with wonder and
shame;
For the kindness grows in her soul, as forgotten anguish dies,
And her heart feels Sigurd's sorrow in the breast whereon she lies;
Then the fierce love overwhelms her, and as wax in the fervent fire
All dies and is forgotten in the sweetness of desire;
And close she clingeth to Sigurd, as one that hath gotten the best
And fair things of the world she deemeth, as a place of infinite rest.

_Of the Wedding of Sigurd the Volsung._

That night sleeps Sigurd the Volsung, and awakes on the morrow-morn,
And wots at the first but dimly what thing in his life hath been born:
But the sun cometh up in the autumn, and the eve he remembered,
And the word he hath given to Gudrun to love her to the death;
And he longs for the Niblung maiden, that her love may cherish his
heart,
Lest e'en as a Godhead banished he dwell in the world apart:
The new sun smiteth his body as he leaps from the golden bed,
And doeth on his raiment and is fair apparelled;
Then he goes his ways through the chambers, and greeteth none at all
Till he comes to the garth and the garden in the nook of the Niblung
wall.

Now therein, mid the yellowing leafage, and the golden blossoms spent,
Alone and lovely and eager the white-armed Gudrun went;
Swift then he hasteneth toward her, and she bideth his drawing near,
And now in the morn she trembleth; for her love is blent with fear;
And wonder is all around her, for she deemed till yestereve,
When she saw the earls astonied, and the golden Sigurd grieve,
That on some most mighty woman his joyful love was set;
And love hath made her humble, and her race doth she forget,
And her noble and mighty heart from the best of the Niblungs sprung,
The sons of the earthly War-Gods of the days when the world was young.
Yea she feareth her love and his fame, but she feareth his sorrow most,
Lest he spake from a heart o'erladen and counted not the cost.
But lo, the love of his eyen, and the kindness of his face!
And joy her body burdens, and she trembleth in her place,
And sinks in the arms that cherish with a faint and eager cry,
And again on the bosom of Sigurd doth the head of Gudrun lie.

Fairer than yestereven doth Sigurd deem his love,
And more her tender wooing and her shame his soul doth move;
And his words of peace and comfort come easier forth from him,
And woman's love seems wondrous amidst his trouble dim;
Strange, sweet, to cling together! as oft and o'er again
They crave and kiss rejoicing, and their hearts are full and fain.

Then a little while they sunder, and apart and anigh they stand,
And Sigurd's eyes grow awful as he stretcheth forth his hand,
And his clear voice saith:
"O Gudrun, now hearken while I swear
That the sun shall die for ever and the day no more be fair.
Ere I forget thy pity and thine inmost heart of love!
Yea, though the Kings be mighty, and the Gods be great above,
I will wade the flood and the fire, and the waste of war forlorn,
To look on the Niblung dwelling, and the house where thou wert born."

Strange seemed the words to Sigurd that his gathering love compelled,
And sweet and strange desire o'er his tangled trouble welled.

But bright flashed the eyes of Gudrun, and she said: "King, as for me,
If thou sawest the heart in my bosom, what oath might better thee?
Yet my words thy words shall cherish, as thy lips my lips have done.
--Herewith I swear, O Sigurd, that the earth shall hate the sun,
And the year desire but darkness, and the blossoms shrink from day,
Ere my love shall fail, beloved, or my longing pass away!"

Now they go from the garth and the garden, and hand in hand they come
To the hall of the kings of aforetime, and the heart of the Niblung
home.
There they go 'neath the cloudy roof-tree, and on to the high-seat
fair,
And there sitteth Giuki the ancient, and the guileful Grimhild is
there,
With the swart-haired Niblung brethren; and all these are exceeding
fain,
When they look on Sigurd and Gudrun, and the peace that enwrappeth
the twain,
For in her is all woe forgotten, sick longing little seen,
And the shame that slayeth pity, and the self-scorn of a Queen;
And all doubt in love is swallowed, and lovelier now is she
Than a picture deftly painted by the craftsmen over sea;
And her face is a rose of the morning by the night-tide framed about,
And the long-stored love of her bosom from her eyes is leaping out.
But how fair is Sigurd the King that beside her beauty goes!
How lovely is he shapen, how great his stature shows!
How kind is the clasping right-hand, that hath smitten the battle
acold!
How kind are the awful eyen that no foeman durst behold!
How sweet are the lips unsmiling, and the brow as the open day!
What man can behold and believe it, that his life shall pass away?
So he standeth proud by the high-seat, and the sun through the vast
hall pours
And the Gods on the hangings waver as the wind goes by the doors,
And abroad are the sounds of man-folk, and the eagles cry from the
roof,
And the ancient deeds of Sigmund seem fallen far aloof;
And dead are the fierce days fallen, and the world is soft and sweet,
As the Son of the Volsungs speaketh in noble words and meet:

"O hearken, King of the Niblungs, O ancient of the days!
Time was, when alone I wandered, and went on the wasteland ways,
And sore my soul desired the harvest of the sword:
Then I slew the great Gold-wallower, and won the ancient Hoard,
And I turned to the dwellings of men; for I longed for measureless
fame,
And to do and undo with the Kings, and the pride of the Kings to tame;
And I longed for the love of the King-folk; but who desired my soul,
Who stayed my feet in his dwelling, who showed the weary the goal,
Who drew me forth from the wastes, and the bitter kinless dearth,
Till I came to the house of Giuki and the hallowed Niblung hearth?
Count up the deeds and forbearings, count up the words of the days
That show forth the love of the Niblungs and the ancient people's
praise.
Nay, number the waves of the sea, and the grains of the yellow sand,
And the drops of the rain in the April, and the blades of the grassy
land!
And what if one heart of the Niblungs had stored and treasured it all,
And hushed, and moved but softly, lest one grain thereof should fall?
If she feared the barren garden, and the sunless fallow field?
How then should the spring-tide labour, and the summer toil to yield!
And so may the high Gods help me, as I from this day forth
Shall toil for her exalting to the height of worldly worth,
If thou stretch thine hands forth, Giuki, and hail me for thy son:
Then there as thou sitt'st in thy grave-mound when thine earthly day
is done,
Thou shalt hear of our children's children, and the crownèd kin of
kings,
And the peace of the Niblung people in the day of better things;
And then mayst thou be merry of the eve when Sigurd came,
In the day of the deeds of the Niblungs and the blossom of their fame,
Stretch forth thine hands to thy son: for I bid thy daughter to wife,
And her life shall withhold my death-day, and her death shall stay my
life."

Then spoke the ancient Giuki: "Hail, Sigurd, son of mine eld!
And I bless the Gods for the day that mine ancient eyes have beheld:
Now let me depart in peace, since I know for very sooth
That waxen e'en as the God-folk shall the Niblungs blossom in youth.
Come, take thy mother's greeting, and let thy brethren say
How well they love thee, Sigurd, and how fair they deem the day."

Then lowly bendeth Sigurd 'neath the guileful Grimhild's hand,
And he kisseth the Kings of the Niblungs, and about him there they
stand,
The war-fain, darkling kindred; and all their words are praise,
And the love of the tide triumphant, and the hope of the latter days.

Hark now, on the morrow morning how the blast of the mighty horn
From the builded Burg of the Niblungs goes over the acres shorn,
And the roads are gay with the riders, and the bull in the stall is
left,
And the plough is alone in the furrow, and the wedge in the hole
half-cleft;
And late shall the ewes be folded, and the kine come home to the pail,
And late shall the fires be litten in the outmost treeless dale:
For men fare to the gate of Giuki and the ancient cloudy hall,
And therein are the earls assembled and the kings wear purple and pall,
And the flowers are spread beneath them, and the bench-cloths beaten
with gold;
And the walls are strange and wondrous with the noble stories told:
For new-hung is the ancient dwelling with the golden spoils of the
south,
And men seem merry for ever, and the praise is in each man's mouth,
And the name of Sigurd the Volsung, the King and the Serpent's Bane,
Who exalteth the high this morning and blesseth the masters of gain:
For men drink the bridal of Sigurd and the white-armed Niblung maid,
And the best with the best shall be mingled, and the gold with the
gold o'erlaid.

So, fair in the hall is the feasting and men's hearts are uplifted
on high,
And they deem that the best of their life-days are surely drawing
anigh,
As now, one after other, uprise the scalds renowned,
And their well-belovèd voices awake the hoped-for sound,
In the midmost of the high-tide, and the joy of feasting lords.
Then cometh a hush and a waiting, and the light of many swords
Flows into the hall of Giuki by the doorway of the King,
And amid those flames of battle the war-clad warriors bring
The Cup of daring Promise and the hallowed Boar of Sôn,
And men's hearts grow big with longing and great is the hope-tide
grown;
For bright the Son of Sigmund ariseth by the board,
And unwinds the knitted peace-strings that hamper Regin's Sword:
Then fierce is the light on the high-seat as men set down the Cup
Anigh the hand of Sigurd, and the edges blue rise up,
And fall on the hallowed Wood-beast: as a trump of the woeful war
Rings the voice of the mighty Volsung as he speaks the words of yore:

"By the Earth that groweth and giveth, and by all the Earth's increase
That is spent for Gods and man-folk; by the sun that shines on these;
By the Salt-Sea-Flood that beareth the life and death of men;
By the Heavens and Stars that change not, though earth die out again;
By the wild things of the mountain, and the houseless waste and lone;
By the prey of the Goths in the thicket and the holy Beast of Sôn,
I hallow me to Odin for a leader of his host,
To do the deeds of the highest, and never count the cost:
And I swear, that whatso great-one shall show the day and the deed,
I shall ask not why nor wherefore, but the sword's desire shall speed:
And I swear to seek no quarrel, nor to swerve aside for aught,
Though the right and the left be blooming, and the straight way wend
to nought:
And I swear to abide and hearken the prayer of any thrall,
Though the war-torch be on the threshold and the foemen's feet in the
hall:
And I swear to sit on my throne in the guise of the kings of the earth,
Though the anguish past amending, and the unheard woe have birth:
And I swear to wend in my sorrow that none shall curse mine eyes
For the scowl that quelleth beseeching, and the hate that scorneth
the wise.
So help me Earth and Heavens, and the Under-sky and Seas,
And the Stars in their ordered houses, and the Norns that order these!"

And he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and fair as a star he shone,
And all men rejoiced and wondered, and deemed Earth's glory won.

Then came the girded maidens, and the slim earls' daughters poured,
And uprose the dark-haired Gunnar and bare was the Niblung sword;
Blue it gleamed in the hand of the folk-king as he laid it low on
the Beast,
And took oath as the Goths of aforetime in the hush of the people's
feast:
"I will work for the craving of Kings, and accomplish the will of the
great,
Nor ask what God withstandeth, nor hearken the tales of fate;
When a King my life hath exalted, and wrought for my hope and my gain,
For every deed he hath done me, thereto shall I fashion twain.
I shall bear forth the fame of the Niblungs through all that hindereth;
In my life shall I win great glory, and be merry in my death."

So sweareth the lovely war-king and drinketh of the Cup,
And the joy of the people waxeth and their glad cry goeth up.
But again came the girded maidens: earls' daughters pour the wine,
And bare is the blade of Hogni in the feast-hall over the Swine;
Then he cries o'er the hallowed Wood-beast: "Earth, hearken, how I
swear
To beseech no man for his helping, and to vex no God with prayer;
And to seek out the will of the Norns, and look in the eyes of the
curse;
And to laugh while the love aboundeth, lest the glad world grow into
worse;
Then if in the murder I laugh not, O Earth, remember my name,
And oft tell it aloud to the people for the Niblungs' fated shame!"

Then he drank of the Cup of the Promise, and all men hearkened and
deemed
That his speech was great and valiant, and as one of the wise he
seemed.

Then the linen-folded maidens of the earl-folk lift the gold
But the earls look each on the other, and Guttorm's place behold,
And empty it lieth before them; for the child hath wearied of peace,
And he sits by the oars in the East-seas, and winneth fame's increase.
Nor then, nor ever after, o'er the Holy Beast he spake,
When mighty hearts were exalted for the golden Sigurd's sake.

But now crieth Giuki the Ancient: "O fair sons, well have ye sworn,
And gladdened my latter-ending, and my kingly hours outworn;
Full fain from the halls of Odin on the world's folk shall I gaze
And behold all hearts rejoicing in the Niblungs' glorious days."

Glad cries of earls rose upward and beat on the cloudy roof,
And went forth on the drift of the autumn to the mountains far aloof:
Speech stirred in the hearts of the singers, and the harps might not
refrain,
And they called on the folk of aforetime of the Niblung joy to be fain.

But Sigurd sitteth by Gudrun, and his heart is soft and kind,
And the pity swelleth within it for the days when he was blind;
And with yet another pity, lest his sorrow seen o'erweigh
Her fond desire's fulfilment, and her fair soul's blooming-day:
And many a word he frameth his kingly fear to hide,
And the tangle of his trouble, that her joy may well abide.
But the joy so filleth Gudrun and the triumph of her bliss,
That oft she sayeth within her: How durst I dream of this?
How durst I hope for the days wherein I now shall dwell,
And that assurèd joyance whereof no tongue may tell?

So fares the feast in glory till thin the night doth grow,
And joy hath wearied the people, and to rest and sleep they go:
Then dight is the fateful bride-bed, and the Norns will hinder nought
That the feet of the Niblung Maiden to the chamber of Kings be brought,
And the troth is pledged and wedded, and the Norns cast nought before
The feet of Sigurd the Volsung and the bridal chamber-door.
All hushed was the house of the Niblungs, and they two were left alone,
And kind as a man made happy was the golden Sigurd grown,
As there in the arms of the mighty he clasped the Niblung Maid;
But her spirit fainted within her, and her very soul was afraid,
And her mouth was empty of words when their lips were sundered a space,
And in awe and utter wonder she gazed upon his face;
As one who hath prayed for a God in the dwelling of man to abide,
And he comes, and the face unfashioned his ruth and his mercy must
hide.
She trembled and wept before him, till at last amidst her tears
The joy and the hope of women fell on her unawares,
And she sought the hands that had held her, and the face that her face
had blessed,
And the bosom of Sigurd the Mighty, the hope of her earthly rest.

Then he spake as she hearkened and wondered: "With the Kings of men I
rode,
And none but the men of the war-fain our coming swords abode:
O, dear was the day of the riding, and the hope of the clashing swords!
O, dear were the deeds of battle, and the fall of Odin's lords,
When I met the overcomers, and beheld them overcome,
When we rent the spoil from the spoilers, and led the chasers home!
O, sweet was the day of the summer when we won the ancient towns,
And we stood in the golden bowers and took and gave the crowns!
And sweet were the suppliant faces, and the gifts and the grace we
gave,
And the life and the wealth unhoped for, and the hope to heal and save:
And sweet was the praise of the Niblungs, and dear was the song that
arose
O'er the deed assured, accomplished, and the death of the people's
foes!
O joyful deeds of the mighty! O wondrous life of a King!
Unto thee alone will I tell it, and his fond imagining,
That but few of the people wot of, as he sits with face unmoved
In the place where kings have perished, in the seat of kings beloved!"

His kind arms clung about her, and her face to his face he drew;
"The life of the kings have I conquered, but this is strange and new;
And from out the heart of the striving a lovelier thing is born,
And the love of my love is sweeter and these hours before the morn."

Again she trembled before him and knew not what she feared,
And her heart alone, unhidden, deemed her love too greatly dared;
But the very body of Sigurd, the wonder of all men,
Cast cherishing arms about her, and kissed her mouth again,
And in love her whole heart melted, and all thought passed away,
Save the thought of joy's fulfilment and the hours before the day;
She murmured words of loving as his kind lips cherished her breast,
And the world waxed nought but lovely and a place of infinite rest.

But it was long thereafter ere the sun rose o'er their love,
And lit the world of autumn and the pale sky hung above;
And it stirred the Gods in the heavens, and the Kings of the Goths it
stirred,
Till the sound of the world awakening in their latter dreams they
heard;
And over the Burg of the Niblungs the day spread fair and fresh
O'er the hopes of the ancient people and those twain become one flesh.

_Sigurd rideth with the Niblungs, and wooeth Brynhild for King
Gunnar._

Now it fell on a day of the spring-tide that followed on these things,
That Sigurd fares to the meadows with Gunnar and Hogni the Kings;
For afar is Guttorm the youngest, and he sails the Eastern Seas,
And fares with war-shield hoisted to win him fame's increase.
So come the Kings to the Doom-ring, and the people's Hallowed Field,
And no dwelling of man is anigh it, and no acre forced to yield;
There stay those Kings of the people alone in weed of war,
And they cut a strip of the greensward on the meadow's daisied floor,
And loosen it clean in the midst, while its ends in the earth abide;
Then they heave its midmost aloft, and set on either side
An ancient spear of battle writ round with words of worth;
And these are the posts of the door, whose threshold is of the earth
And the skin of the earth is its lintel: but with war-glaives gleaming
bare
The Niblung Kings and Sigurd beneath the earth-yoke fare;
Then each an arm-vein openeth, and their blended blood falls down
On Earth the fruitful Mother where they rent her turfy gown:
And then, when the blood of the Volsungs hath run with the Niblung
blood,
They kneel with their hands upon it and swear the brotherhood:
Each man at his brother's bidding to come with the blade in his hand,
Though the fire and the flood should sunder, and the very Gods
withstand:
Each man to love and cherish his brother's hope and will;
Each man to avenge his brother when the Norns his fate fulfill:
And now are they foster-brethren, and in such wise have they sworn
As the God-born Goths of aforetime, when the world was newly born.
But among the folk of the Niblungs goes forth the tale of the same,
And men deem the tidings a glory and the garland of their fame.

So is Sigurd yet with the Niblungs, and he loveth Gudrun his wife,
And wendeth afield with the brethren to the days of the dooming of
life;
And nought his glory waneth, nor falleth the flood of praise:
To every man he hearkeneth, nor gainsayeth any grace,
And glad is the poor in the Doom-ring when he seeth his face mid the
Kings,
For the tangle straighteneth before him, and the maze of crookèd
things.
But the smile is departed from him, and the laugh of Sigurd the young,
And of few words now is he waxen, and his songs are seldom sung.
Howbeit of all the sad-faced was Sigurd loved the best;
And men say: Is the king's heart mighty beyond all hope of rest?
Lo, how he beareth the people! how heavy their woes are grown!
So oft were a God mid the Goth-folk, if he dwelt in the world alone.

Now Giuki the King of the Niblungs must change his life at the last,
And they lay him down in the mountains and a great mound over him cast:
For thus had he said in his life-days: "When my hand from the people
shall fade,
Up there on the side of the mountains shall the King of the Niblungs
be laid,
Whence one seeth the plain of the tillage and the fields where
man-folk go;
Then whiles in the dawn's awakening, when the day-wind riseth to blow,
Shall I see the war-gates opening, and the joy of my shielded men
As they look to the field of the dooming: and whiles in the even again
Shall I see the spoil come homeward, and the host of the Niblungs pour
Through the gates that the Dwarf-folk builded and the well-belovèd
door."

So there lieth Giuki the King, mid steel and the glimmer of gold,
As the sound of the feastful Niblungs round his misty house is rolled:
But Gunnar is King of the people, and the chief of the Niblung land;
A man beloved for his mercy, and his might and his open hand;
A glorious king in the battle, a hearkener at the doom,
A singer to sing the sun up from the heart of the midnight gloom.

On a day sit the Kings in the high-seat when Grimhild saith to her son:
"O Gunnar, King belovèd, a fair life hast thou won;
On the flood, in the field hast thou wrought, and hung the chambers
with gold;
Far abroad mid many a people are the tidings of thee told:
Now do a deed for thy mother and the hallowed Niblung hearth,
Lest the house of the mighty perish, and our tale grow wan with dearth.
If thou do the deed that I bid thee, and wed a wife of the Kings,
No less shalt thou cleave the war-helms and scatter the ruddy rings."

He said: "Meseemeth, mother, thou speaketh not in haste,
But hast sought and found beforehand, lest thy fair words fall to
waste."

She said: "Thou sayest the sooth; I have found the thing I sought:
A Maid for thee is shapen, and a Queen for thee is wrought:
In the waste land hard by Lymdale a marvellous hall is built,
With its roof of the red gold beaten, and its wall-stones over-gilt:
Afar o'er the heath men see it, but no man draweth nigher,
For the garth that goeth about it is nought but the roaring fire,
A white wall waving aloft; and no window nor wicket is there,
Whereby the shielded earl-folk or the sons of the merchants may fare:
But few things from me are hidden, and I know in that hall of gold
Sits Brynhild, white as a wild-swan where the foamless seas are rolled;
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."

Then laughed Gunnar and answered: "May a king of the people fear?
May a king of the harp and the hall-glee hold such a maid but dear?
Yet nought have I and my kindred to do with fateful deeds;
Lo, how the fair earth bloometh, and the field fulfilleth our needs,
And our swords rust not in our scabbards, and our steeds bide not in
the stall,
And oft are the shields of the Niblungs drawn clanking down from the
wall;
And I sit by my brother Sigurd, and no ill there is in our life,
And the harp and the sword is beside me, and I joy in the peace and
the strife.
So I live, till at last in the sword-play midst the uttermost longing
of fame
I shall change my life and be merry, and leave no hated name.
Yet nevertheless, my mother, since the word has thus gone forth,
And I wot of thy great desire, I will reach at this garland of worth;
And I bid you, Kings and Brethren, with the wooer of Queens to ride,
That ye tell of the thing hereafter, and the deeds that shall betide."

"It were well, O Son," said Grimhild, "in such fellowship to fare;
But not today nor tomorrow; the hearts of the Gods would I wear,
And know of the will of the Norns; for a mighty matter is this,
And a deed all lands shall tell of, and the hope of the Niblung bliss."

So apart for long dwelt Grimhild, and mingled the might of the earth
With the deeds of the chilly sea, and the heart of the cloudland's
dearth;
And all these with the wine she mingled, and sore guile was set
therein,
Blindness, and strong compelling for such as dared to win:
And she gave the drink to her sons; and withal unto Gunnar she spake,
And told him tales of the King-folk, and smote desire awake;
Till many a time he bethinks him of the Maiden sitting alone,
And the Queen that was shapen for him; till a dream of the night is
she grown,
And a tale of the day's desire, and the crown of all his praise:
And the net of the Norns was about him, and the snare was spread in
his ways,
And his mother's will was spurring adown the way they would;
For she was the wise of women and the framer of evil and good.

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 sheathèd
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 belovèd, 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 fosterbrethren 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 daïs 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.
Now therefore awaken to life! for this eve have I ridden thy Fire,
When but few of the kings would outface it, to fulfil thine heart's
desire.
And such love is the love of the kings, and such token have women to
know
That they wed with God's belovèd, and that fair from their bed shall
outgrow
The stem of the world's desire, and the tree that shall not be abased,
Till the day of the uttermost trial when the war-shield of Odin is
raised.
So my word is the word of wooing, and I bid thee remember thine oath,
That here in this hall fair-builded we twain may plight the troth;
That here in the hall of thy waiting thou be made a wedded wife,
And be called the Queen of the Niblungs, and awaken unto life."

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 shalt wed with King Gunnar the Niblung and increase his worth
with thy worth."

And again was there silence a while, and the War-King leaned on his
sword
In the shape of his foster-brother; then Brynhild took up the word:
"Hail Gunnar, King of the Niblungs! tonight shalt thou lie by my side,
For thou art the Gods' belovèd, and for thee was I shapen a bride:
For thee, for the King, have I waited, and the waiting now is done;
I shall bear Earth's kings on my bosom and nourish the Niblung's son.
Though women swear and forswear, and are glad no less in their life,
Tonight shall I wed with the King-folk and be called King Gunnar's
wife.
Come Gunnar, Lord of the Niblungs, and sit in my fathers' seat!
For for thee alone was it shapen, and the deed is due and meet."

Up she rose exceeding glorious, and it was as when in May
The blossomed hawthorn stirreth with the dawning-wind of day;
But the Wooer moved to meet her, and amid the golden place
They met, and their garments mingled and face was close to face;
And they turned again to the high-seat, and their very right hands met,
And King Gunnar's bodily semblance beside her Brynhild set.

But over his knees and the mail-rings the high King laid his sword,
And looked in the face of Brynhild and swore King Gunnar's word:
He swore on the hand of Brynhild to be true to his wedded wife,
And before all things to love her till all folk should praise her life.
Unmoved did Brynhild hearken, and in steady voice she swore
To be true to Gunnar the Niblung while her life-days should endure;
So she swore on the hand of the Wooer: and they two were all alone,
And they sat a while in the high-seat when the wedding-troth was done,
But no while looked each on the other, and hand fell down from hand,
And no speech there was betwixt them that their hearts might
understand.

At last spake the all-wise Brynhild: "Now night is beginning to fade,
Fair-hung is the chamber of Kings, and the bridal bed is arrayed."

He rose and looked upon her: as the moon at her utmost height,
So pale was the visage of Brynhild, and her eyes as cold and bright:
Yet he stayed, nor stirred from the high-seat, but strove with the
words for a space,
Till she took the hand of the King and led him down from his place,
And forth from the hall she led him to the chamber wrought for her
love;
The fairest chamber of earth, gold-wrought below and above,
And hung were the walls fair-builded with the Gods and the kings of
the earth
And the deeds that were done aforetime, and the coming deeds of worth.
There they went in one bed together; but the foster-brother laid
'Twixt him and the body of Brynhild his bright blue battle-blade,
And she looked and heeded it nothing; but e'en as the dead folk lie,
With folded hands she lay there, and let the night go by:
And as still lay that Image of Gunnar as the dead of life forlorn,
And hand on hand he folded as he waited for the morn.
So oft in the moonlit minster your fathers may ye see
By the side of the ancient mothers await the day to be.
Thus they lay as brother by sister--and e'en such had they been to
behold,
Had he borne the Volsung's semblance and the shape she knew of old.