"Unscathed as yet it standeth; it bears the stormy drift, Nor bows to the lightening flashing adown from the cloudy lift. I see the hail of battle and the onslaught of the strong, And they go adown to the folk-mote that shall bide there over long. I see the slain-heaps rising and the alien folk prevail, And the Goths give back before them on the ridge o'er the treeless vale. I see the ancient fallen, and the young man smitten dead, And yet I see the War-duke shake Throng-plough o'er his head, And stand unhelmed, unbyrnied before the alien host, And the hurt men rise around him to win back battle lost; And the wood yield up her warriors, and the whole host rushing on, And the swaying lines of battle until the lost is won. Then forth goes the cry of triumph, as they ring the captives round And cheat the crow of her portion and heap the warriors' mound. There are faces gone from our feast-hall not the least beloved nor worst, But the wane of the House of the Wolfings not yet the world hath cursed. The sun shall rise to-morrow on our cold and dewy roof, For they that longed for slaughter were slaughtered far aloof." She ceased for a little, but her countenance, which had not changed during her song, changed not at all now: so they all kept silence although they were rejoicing in this new tale of victory; for they deemed that she was not yet at the end of her speaking. And in good sooth she spake again presently, and said: "I wot not what hath befallen nor where my soul may be, For confusion is within me and but dimly do I see, As if the thing that I look on had happed a while ago. They stand by the tofts of a war-garth, a captain of the foe, And a man that is of the Goth-folk, and as friend and friend they speak, But I hear no word they are saying, though for every word I seek. And now the mist flows round me and blind I come aback To the House-roof of the Wolfings and the hearth that hath no lack." Her voice grew weaker as she spake the last words, and she sank backward on to her chair: her clenched hands opened, the lids fell down over her bright eyes, her breast heaved no more as it had done, and presently she fell asleep. The folk were doubtful and somewhat heavy-hearted because of those last words of hers; but they would not ask her more, or rouse her from her sleep, lest they should grieve her; so they departed to their beds and slept for what was yet left of the night. CHAPTER XIV--THE HALL-SUN IS CAREFUL CONCERNING THE PASSES OF THE WOOD