Full on the viol-minstrel did Irnfried the dauntless run, But bitter scathe his daring from the hand of Volker won; For he dealt, that noble minstrel, the landgrave such a blow That it cleft through the firm-knit helmet--in sooth was he grim enow! Wounded to death, yet Irnfried smote one mighty stroke, And the sword through the rings of the hauberk on the breast of the minstrel broke, And over his mail fell flashing the links in a fiery rain:-- But now was he sped, and the landgrave fell, by the minstrel slain. Man against man clashed Hagen and Hawart in grapple of fight; A tale might he tell of wonders who had looked upon that sight. {P. 284} Like lashing rain fell swordstrokes from either hero's hand, Till slain was the death-doomed Hawart by him of Burgundia-land. When Danefolk and Thuringians beheld how their lords were slain, Maddened afront of the palace yet grimmer battle-strain, As they struggled with mighty hand-strokes to win that portal through, And through many a shield and helmet did the flashing steel-edge hew. "Give back from the door," cried Volker, "and let these enter in! Ha, but the prize that they look for not a man of them all shall win! One and all shall they perish--ay, and that full soon. With death shall they earn their guerdon, Queen Kriemhild's golden boon!" Into the hall of slaughter those men high-hearted pressed, But soon did many a warrior stoop to the earth his crest. Fast, fast by the lightning sword-strokes of its warders were they slain. Well fought the dauntless Gernot, well Giselher the thane. Into the great hall thronged they, a thousand men and four; Then flashed and flickered above them the dancing glaives of war, Till at last by the grim guests slaughtered one and all they lay. Well may bards sing the wonders of Burgundia's vengeance-day! Then suddenly died the tumult, there was silence in that hall, Save the sound of the blood-streams pouring through the channels in the wall And rushing without down the rain-shutes, the blood of knightly foes Slain by the men of Rhineland with their swords' resistless blows. Then sat them down war-weary the sons of Burgundia-land: Dropped was the massy buckler and the sword from the red right hand. Yet standing before the doorway did the valiant minstrel stay, And watched, if haply a foeman would yet draw near for the fray. Sorely the King lamented, and the Queen, with bitter cry; Sisters and wives were wailing in bereavement's agony. Ah, death, I ween, full surely against them an oath had sworn, For many a warrior's life-thread by the guests was yet to be shorn. XXXVI. How the Queen bade set fire to the Hall {P. 285}