So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word, But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathed sword: None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens gaze, And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways. So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun, And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun: And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn; But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn: And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o'er the earth, And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert's dearth. None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red, And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd's head, And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides, And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides. Then the heart of a king's son failed not, but he tossed his sword on high And laughed as he spurred for the fire, and cried the Niblung cry; But the mare's son saw and imagined, and the battle-eager steed, That so oft had pierced the spear-hedge and never failed at need, Shrank back, and shrieked in his terror, and spite of spur and rein Fled fast as the foals unbitted on Odin's pasturing plain; Wide then he wheeled with Gunnar, but with hand and knee he dealt, And the voice of a lord beloved, till the steed his master felt, And bore him back to the brethren; by Greyfell Sigurd stood, And stared at the heart of the fire, and his helm was red as blood; But Hogni sat in his saddle, and watched the flames up-roll; And he said: "Thy steed has failed thee that was once the noblest foal In the pastures of King Giuki; but since thine heart fails not, And thou wouldst not get thee backward and say, The fire was hot, And the voices pent within it were singing nought but death, Let Sigurd lend thee his steed that wore the Glittering Heath, And carried the Bed of the Serpent, and the ancient ruddy rings. So perchance may the mocks be lesser when men tell of the Niblung Kings." Then Sigurd looked on the twain, and he saw their swart hair wave In the wind of the waste and the flame-blast, and no answer awhile he gave. But at last he spake: "O brother, on Greyfell shalt thou ride, And do on the Helm of Aweing and gird the Wrath to thy side, And cover thy breast with the war-coat that is throughly woven of gold, That hath not its like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told: For this is the raiment of Kings when they ride the Flickering Fire, And so sink the flames before them and the might of their desire."