"Hear then the tale of the Hauberk and the truth there is to tell: There was a maid of the God-kin, and she loved a man right well, Who unto the battle was wending; and she of her wisdom knew That thence to the folk-hall threshold should come back but a very few; And she feared for her love, for she doubted that of these he should not be; So she wended the wilds lamenting, as I have lamented for thee; And many wise she pondered, how to bring her will to pass (E'en as I for thee have pondered), as her feet led over the grass, Till she lifted her eyes in the wild-wood, and lo! she stood before The Hall of the Hollow-places; and the Dwarf-lord stood in the door And held in his hand the Hauberk, whereon the hammer's blow The last of all had been smitten, and the sword should be hammer now. Then the Dwarf beheld her fairness, and the wild-wood many-leaved Before his eyes was reeling at the hope his heart conceived; So sorely he longed for her body; and he laughed before her and cried, 'O Lady of the Disir, thou farest wandering wide Lamenting thy beloved and the folk-mote of the spear, But if amidst of the battle this child of the hammer he bear He shall laugh at the foemen's edges and come back to thy lily breast And of all the days of his life-time shall his coming years be best.' Then she bowed adown her godhead and sore for the Hauberk she prayed; But his greedy eyes devoured her as he stood in the door and said; 'Come lie in mine arms! Come hither, and we twain the night to wake! And then as a gift of the morning the Hauberk shall ye take.' So she humbled herself before him, and entered into the cave, The dusky, the deep-gleaming, the gem-strewn golden grave. But he saw not her girdle loosened, or her bosom gleam on his love, For she set the sleep-thorn in him, that he saw, but might not move, Though the bitter salt tears burned him for the anguish of his greed; And she took the hammer's offspring, her unearned morning meed, And went her ways from the rock-hall and was glad for her warrior's sake. But behind her dull speech followed, and the voice of the hollow spake: 'Thou hast left me bound in anguish, and hast gained thine heart's desire; Now I would that the dewy night-grass might be to thy feet as the fire, And shrivel thy raiment about thee, and leave thee bare to the flame, And no way but a fiery furnace for the road whereby ye came! But since the folk of God-home we may not slay nor smite, And that fool of the folk that thou lovest, thou hast saved in my despite, Take with thee, thief of God-home, this other word I say: Since the safeguard wrought in the ring-mail I may not do away I lay this curse upon it, that whoso weareth the same, Shall save his life in the battle, and have the battle's shame; He shall live through wrack and ruin, and ever have the worse,