"Said she 'My husband's daring, and thereto stout of limb; Of old, when on the mountain he slew the dragon grim, In its blood he bathed him, and thence no more can feel In his charmed person the deadly dint of steel. Still am I ever anxious, whene'er in fight he stands, And keen-edged darts are hailing from strong heroic bands, Lest I by one should lose him, my own beloved mate-- Ah! how my heart is beating still for my Siegfried's fate. So now I'll tell the secret, dear friend, alone to thee-- For thou, I doubt not, cousin, will keep thy faith with me-- Where sword may pierce my darling, and death sit on the thrust: See, in thy truth and honour, how full, how firm my trust. As from the dragon's death-wounds gushed out the crimson gore, With the smoking torrent the warrior washed him o'er; A leaf then 'twixt his shoulders fell from the linden bough-- There only steel can harm him; for that I tremble now.'" Possessed of this secret, Hagan finds it easy to watch an opportunity for despatching him. A hunting party is proposed; and when the hunters are dispersed in the tangled wilds of the Wask (Vosges) forest, Hagan, with Gunther, who was accessory, secretly draws Siegfried aside to refresh himself, after hard sport, from the clear waters of a sylvan well; and, while he is kneeling down, transfixes him between the shoulders on the fatal spot with a spear. Then-- "His lively colour faded; a cloud came o'er his sight; He could stand no longer; melted all his might; In his paling visage the mark of death he bore: Soon many a lovely lady sorrowed for him sore. So the lord of Kriemhild among the flowerets fell; From the wound fresh gushing his life's blood fast did well. Then thus, amidst his tortures, even with his failing breath, The false friends he upbraided who had contrived his death. Thus spake the deadly wounded, 'Ay! cowards false as hell, To you I still was faithful; I served you long and well; But what boots all! for guerdon, treason and death I've won: By your friends, vile traitors! foully have you done. Whatever shall hereafter from your loins be born, Shall take from such vile fathers a heritage of scorn. On me you have wreaked malice where gratitude was due; With shame shall you be banished by all good knights and true.' With blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field, Some time with death he struggled, as though he scorned to yield, Even to the foe, whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head At last, firm in the meadow, lay mighty Siegfried dead."