Then, as to drink Sir Siegfried down kneeling there he found, He pierc'd him through the crosslet, that sudden from the wound Forth the life-blood spouted e'en o'er his murderer's weed. Never more will warrior dare so foul a deed. LXVIII Between his shoulders sticking he left the deadly spear. Never before Sir Hagan so fled for ghastly fear, As from the matchless champion whom he had butcher'd there. Soon as was Sir Siegfried of the mortal wound aware, LXIX Up he from the runnel started as he were wood. Out from betwixt his shoulders his own huge boar-spear stood. He thought to find his quiver or his broadsword true. The traitor for his treason had then receiv'd his due. LXX But, ah! the deadly wounded nor sword nor quiver found; His shield alone beside him lay there upon the ground. This from the bank he lifted and straight at Hagan ran; Him could not then by fleetness escape King Gunther's man. LXXI E'en to the death though wounded, he hurl'd it with such power, That the whirling buckler scatter'd wide a shower Of the most precious jewels, then straight in shivers broke. Full gladly had the warrior ta'en vengeance with that stroke. LXXII E'en as it was, his manhood fierce Hagan level'd low. Loud, all around, the meadow rang with the wondrous blow. Had he in hand good Balmung, the murderer he had slain. His wound was sore upon him; he writh'd in mortal pain. LXXIII His lively color faded; a cloud came o'er his sight; He could stand no longer; melted all his might; In his paling visage the mark of death he bore. Soon many a lovely lady sorrow'd for him sore. LXXIV So the lord of Kriemhild among the flowerets fell. From the wound fresh gushing his heart's blood fast did well. Then thus amidst his tortures, e'en with his failing breath, The false friends he upbraided who had contriv'd his death. LXXV Thus spake the deadly wounded, "Ay! cowards false as hell! To you I still was faithful; I serv'd you long and well;-- But what boots all?--for guerdon treason and death I've won, By your friends vile traitors! foully have you done. LXXVI "Whoever shall hereafter from your loins be born, Shall take from such vile fathers a heritage of scorn. On me you have wreak'd malice where gratitude was due. With shame shall you be banish'd by all good knights and true." LXXVII Thither ran all the warriors where in his blood he lay. To many of that party sure 'twas a joyless day. Whoe'er were true and faithful, they sorrow'd for his fall. So much the peerless champion had merited of all. LXXVIII With them the false King Gunther bewept his timeless end. Then spake the deadly wounded, "Little it boots your friend Yourself to plot his murder, and then the deed deplore. Such is a shameful sorrow; better at once 'twere o'er." LXXIX