From the blood like a very madman upsprang to his feet the knight-- Well might he thank his fleetness for speeding thence his flight! As out through the door he darted, lo, there did Hagen stand, And the Dane hailed blows upon him with swift and sudden hand. Then Hagen thought: "Thou art surely now in the clutches of death! Except the Foul Fiend help thee, thou drawest thy latest breath!" Yet indeed had he wounded Hagen with a stroke through his helm that clave: That deed had he done with Waske, a mighty battle-glaive. When Hagen the grim-hearted of the wound so dealt was ware, In his grip with tenfold fury his war-glaive hissed through the air In such wise that Hawart's liegeman must needs give back from his face, And Hagen, as down the stairway he fled, still held him in chase. Over his head his buckler he swung up, Iring the strong, To screen him: yet had the stairway been even thrice so long, No time had Hagen left him to strike one stroke of sword. Ha, how the red sparks streaming from his ringing helmet poured! Yet back unto friends and kinsmen unwounded Iring returned; And so soon as the Lady Kriemhild the wondrous tidings learned How against Hagen of Troneg her champion had borne him in fight, For this that Daughter of Princes poured forth her thanks to the knight: "Now God reward thee, Iring, thou thane renowned and bold! To mine heart hast thou brought comfort, and made me joyful-souled. Lo, I see on the battle-harness of Hagen a bloody stain!" And for joy took Kriemhild the buckler herself from the hand of the thane. "Small cause wilt thou have to thank him," cried Hagen in fierce disdain: "Let but thy valorous champion essay the deed again; If alive he win back ever, a hero indeed shall he be; And as for the wound he hath dealt me, small joy shall it be unto thee! For the little scratch I have gotten that mine harness reddeneth, It hath but enkindled my fury unto many a warrior's death: Against the liegeman of Hawart mine anger it doth but whet. Small scathe thy champion Iring hath done unto Hagen yet!" {P. 282} For a space in the breeze fresh-blowing stood Iring of Danish land: He cooled his limbs in his harness, he loosed his helmet-band. All round him the folk stood praising his might and his chivalry, And the heart of the Lord of the Marches thereat beat proud and high. Then once again spake Iring: "Good friends, I pray you go And bring new arms: I am purposed again to essay yon foe, If I haply may still the boaster, and abase the arrogant head." Sore hacked was his shield, but a better they gave him in its stead.