In this, the first onset of the Morning Battle, some of the Markmen had fallen, but not many, since but a few had entered outright into the Roman ranks; and when they first rushed on from the wood but three of them were slain, and the slaughter was all of the dastards and the Romans; and afterwards not a few of the Romans were slain, what by Arinbiorn, what by the others; for they were fighting fleeing, and before their eyes was the image of the garth-gate which was behind them; and they stumbled against each other as they were driven sideways against the onrush of the Goths, nor were they now standing fair and square to them, and they were hurried and confused with the dread of the onset of them of the two Marks. As yet Thiodolf had gotten no great hurt, so that when he heard that Arinbiorn's soul had passed away he smiled and said: "Yea, yea, Arinbiorn might have abided the end, for ere then shall the battle be hard." So now the Wolfings and the Bearings met joyously the kindreds of the Nether Mark and the others of the second battle, and they sang the song of victory arrayed in good order hard by the Roman rampart, while bowstrings twanged and arrows whistled, and sling-stones hummed from this side and from that. And of their song of victory thus much the tale telleth: "Now hearken and hear Of the day-dawn of fear, And how up rose the sun On the battle begun. All night lay a-hiding, Our anger abiding, Dark down in the wood The sharp seekers of blood; But ere red grew the heaven we bore them all bare, For against us undriven the foemen must fare; They sought and they found us, and sorrowed to find, For the tree-boles around us the story shall mind, How fast from the glooming they fled to the light, Yeasaying the dooming of Tyr of the fight. "Hearken yet and again How the night gan to wane, And the twilight stole on Till the world was well won! E'en in such wise was wending A great host for our ending; On our life-days e'en so Stole the host of the foe; Till the heavens grew lighter, and light grew the world, And the storm of the fighter upon them was hurled, Then some fled the stroke, and some died and some stood, Till the worst of the storm broke right out from the wood, And the war-shafts were singing the carol of fear, The tale of the bringing the sharp swords anear.