"The night waned into the morning, and still above the Hoard Sat Reidmar clad in purple; but Fafnir took his sword, And I took my smithying-hammer, and apart in the world we went; But I came aback in the even, and my heart was heavy and spent; And I longed, but fear was upon me and I durst not go to the Gold; So I lay in the house of my toil mid the things I had fashioned of old; And methought as I lay in my bed 'twixt waking and slumber of night That I heard the tinkling metal and beheld the hall alight, But I slept and dreamed of the Gods, and the things that never have slept, Till I woke to a cry and a clashing and forth from the bed I leapt, And there by the heaped-up Elf-gold my brother Fafnir stood, And there at his feet lay Reidmar and reddened the Treasure with blood; And e'en as I looked on his eyen they glazed and whitened with death, And forth on the torch-litten hall he shed his latest breath. "But I looked on Fafnir and trembled for he wore the Helm of Dread, And his sword was bare in his hand, and the sword and the hand were red With the blood of our father Reidmar, and his body was wrapped in gold, With the ruddy-gleaming mailcoat of whose fellow hath nought been told, And it seemed as I looked upon him that he grew beneath mine eyes: And then in the mid-hall's silence did his dreadful voice arise: "'I have slain my father Reidmar, that I alone might keep The Gold of the darksome places, the Candle of the Deep. I am such as the Gods have made me, lest the Dwarf-kind people the earth, Or mingle their ancient wisdom with its short-lived latest birth. I shall dwell alone henceforward, and the Gold and its waxing curse, I shall brood on them both together, let my life grow better or worse. And I am a King henceforward and long shall be my life, And the Gold shall grow with my longing, for I shall hide it from strife, And hoard up the Ring of Andvari in the house thine hand hath built. O thou, wilt thou tarry and tarry, till I cast thy blood on the guilt? Lo, I am a King for ever, and alone on the Gold shall I dwell And do no deed to repent of and leave no tale to tell.' "More awful grew his visage as he spake the word of dread And no more durst I behold him, but with heart a-cold I fled; I fled from the glorious house my hands had made so fair, As poor as the new-born baby with nought of raiment or gear: I fled from the heaps of gold, and my goods were the eager will, And the heart that remembereth all, and the hand that may never be still.