XXIV

Then thought the Knight of Trony, "Thou'rt in the clutch of death; Sure, but the devil guard thee, thou canst not 'scape with breath."

Yet with a wound through th' head-piece he straight Sir Hagan paid; That did the knight with Wasky, his sharp and peerless blade.

XXV

Soon as fierce Sir Hagan felt the gash and pain, With his sword uplifted he rush'd upon the Dane.

No more against his fury could Hawart's man make head; Swift down the stairs Sir Hagan pursued him as he fled.

XXVI

Above his head bold Iring held up his buckler strong; Had that same scanty staircase been full trice as long, No time had Hagan left him to strike a single stroke.

Ah! what a shower of sparkles red from his morion broke!

XXVII

Yet safe and sound Sir Iring came to his friends again.

Soon then were told to Kriemhild th' achievements of the Dane, And what he unto Hagan had done with his good blade.

Thus unto the warrior her fervent thanks she paid.

XXVIII

"Now G.o.d reward thee, Iring! a n.o.ble knight thou art; Thou hast reviv'd my courage and comforted my heart.

On Hagan's blood-stain'd armor, through thy bold deed, I look."

With her own hand then from him his shield for joy she took.

XXIX

"Your thanks you'd better husband," said Hagan stern and high, "'Twould well befit a warrior his chance once more to try.

If then he came back scathless, he'd be indeed a knight.

This scratch will boot you little; so e'en a child could smite.

x.x.x

"The blood you see so gladly, which streaks my mail with red, It but the more provokes me to heap this land with dead.

My strength is undiminish'd, my wrath is now begun; You'll feel how little mischief to me has Iring done."

x.x.xI

Iring the Knight of Denmark there stood against the breeze, Cooling him in his mailcoat, with helm unlaced for ease.

Loud said those about him how bold he was and brave.

Their praise to the good champion the loftiest courage gave.

x.x.xII

Then thus outspoke Sir Iring, "Friends! this for certain know; Arm me, and delay not; once more I'll prove my foe.

His fierce and haughty bearing I can no longer brook."

His shield was hewn and shatter'd; a better straight he took.

x.x.xIII

Soon was arm'd the warrior, and better than before; He shook in wrath and fury the weighty spear he bore; With this against his foeman with st.u.r.dy strides he went.

Hate-sparkling eyes upon him the fierce Sir Hagan bent.

x.x.xIV

Th' attack of bold Sir Iring he would not there await; Down the stairs he bounded, and ran upon him straight, Now darting, and now smiting; his wrath was at the height; Little then his prowess avail'd the Danish knight.

x.x.xV

The champions smote so fiercely, that fire-red blasts began To burn from either buckler; then Hawart's luckless man So grievously was wounded by Hagan's monstrous main Through sever'd shield and morion, he ne'er was whole again.

x.x.xVI

That wound dash'd Iring's courage; he felt him ill bestead; He rais'd his shield yet higher to guard his bleeding head; He deem'd it grievous mischief, the wound it was so sore; Yet at the hand of Hagan had he to suffer more.

x.x.xVII

A spear the man of Gunther found lying at his feet; This at the head of Iring he darted sure and fleet, So that the shaft outjutted, quivering, from his brow.

A fatal end has Hagan made of his foeman now!

x.x.xVIII

Back to his Danes Sir Iring recoil'd with faltering pace; Ere from his head his comrades the helmet could unlace, They broke from it the javelin; then close was death at hand.

His kindred wept around him, a sorrow-laden band.

x.x.xIX

Anon the queen came thither; she o'er the dying bent, Bewailing dauntless Iring with ghastly dreariment, And for his wounds sore weeping, and mourning for his sake.

Then thus among his kinsmen the hero faintly spake.