"Ah, naught are ye grown As that Gunnar of old days; Naught are your hearts As the heart of Hogni! Well would ye seek Vengeance to win If your hearts were in aught As the hearts of my brethren!" Then spake Hamdir The high-hearted: "Nought hadst thou to praise The doings of Hogni, When they woke up Sigurd From out of slumber, And in bed thou sat'st up 'Mid the banes-men's laughter. "Then when thy bed=gear, Blue-white, well woven By art of craftsmen All swam with thy king's blood; The Sigurd died, O'er his dead corpse thou sattest, Not heeding aught gladsome, Since Gunnar so willed it. "Great grief for Atli Gatst thou by Erp's murder, And the end of thine Eitil, But worse grief for thyself. Good to use sword For the slaying of others In such wise that its edge Shall not turn on ourselves!" Then well spake Sorli From a heart full of wisdom: "No words will I Make with my mother, Though both ye twain Need words belike-- What askest thou, Gudrun, To let thee go greeting? "Weep for thy brethren, Weep for thy sweet sons, And thy nighest kinsfolk Laid by the fight-side! Yea, and thou Gudrun, May'st greet for us twain Sitting fey on our steeds Doomed in far lands to die." From the garth forth they went With hearts full of fury, Sorli and Hamdir, The sons of Gudrun, And they met on the way The wise in all wiles: "And thou little Erp, What helping from thee?" He of alien womb Spake out in such wise: "Good help for my kin, Such as foot gives to foot, Or flesh-covered hand Gives unto hand!" "What helping for foot That help that foot giveth, Or for flesh-covered hand The helping of hand?" Then spake Erp Yet once again Mock spake the prince As he sat on his steed: "Fool's deed to show The way to a dastard!" "Bold beyond measure," Quoth they, "is the base-born!" Out from the sheath Drew they the sheath-steel, And the glaives' edges played For the pleasure of hell; By the third part they minished The might that they had, Their young kin they let lie A-cold on the earth. Then their fur-cloaks they shook And bound fast their swords, In webs goodly woven Those great ones were clad; Young they went o'er the fells Where the dew was new-fallen Swift, on steeds of the Huns, Heavy vengeance to wreak. Forth stretched the ways, And an ill way they found, Yea, their sister's son (1) Hanging slain upon tree-- Wolf-trees by the wind made cold At the town's westward Loud with cranes' clatter-- Ill abiding there long!