But on the morrow noontide when the sun was high and bare, More glorious was the banquet, and now was Signy there, And she sat beside King Siggeir, a glorious bride forsooth; Ruddy and white was she wrought as the fair-stained sea-beast's tooth, But she neither laughed nor spake, and her eyes were hard and cold, And with wandering side-long looks her lord would she behold. That saw Sigmund her brother, the eldest Volsung son, And oft he looked upon her, and their eyes met now and anon, And ruth arose in his heart, and hate of Siggeir the Goth, And there had he broken the wedding, but for plighted promise and troth. But those twain were beheld of Siggeir, and he deemed of the Volsung kin, That amid their might and their malice small honour should he win; Yet thereof made he no semblance, but abided times to be, And laughed out with the loudest, amid the hope and the glee. And nought of all saw Volsung, as he dreamed of the coming glory, And how the Kings of his kindred should fashion the round world's story. So round about the Branstock they feast in the gleam of the gold; And though the deeds of man-folk were not yet waxen old, Yet had they tales for songcraft, and the blossomed garth of rhyme; Tales of the framing of all things and the entering in of time From the halls of the outer heaven; so near they knew the door. Wherefore uprose a sea-king, and his hands that loved the oar Now dealt with the rippling harp-gold, and he sang of the shaping of earth, And how the stars were lighted, and where the winds had birth, And the gleam of the first of summers on the yet untrodden grass. But e'en as men's hearts were hearkening some heard the thunder pass O'er the cloudless noontide heaven; and some men turned about And deemed that in the doorway they heard a man laugh out. Then into the Volsung dwelling a mighty man there strode, One-eyed and seeming ancient, yet bright his visage glowed: Cloud-blue was the hood upon him, and his kirtle gleaming-grey As the latter morning sundog when the storm is on the way: A bill he bore on his shoulder, whose mighty ashen beam Burnt bright with the flame of the sea and the blended silver's gleam. And such was the guise of his raiment as the Volsung elders had told Was borne by their fathers' fathers, and the first that warred in the wold. So strode he to the Branstock nor greeted any lord, But forth from his cloudy raiment he drew a gleaming sword, And smote it deep in the tree-hole, and the wild hawks overhead Laughed 'neath the naked heaven as at last he spake and said: