So measureless-wide the wailing swelled in that dolorous hour, That with cries of lamentation re-echoed palace and tower;
And the tumult was heard by a warrior of Bern, who was Dietrich’s man,
And bearing the heavy tidings to his lord in haste he ran.
He spake to the princely hero: “Lord Dietrich, hearken my tale:
Through all the years of my life-tide such agony of wail
Never I heard upshrieking, as that I have hearkened but now.
The King himself, even Etzel, hath come unto scathe, I trow.
For what cause else should the people with one voice all make dole?
Of the twain one, Etzel or Kriemhild, is no more a living soul.
By the wrath of the dauntless strangers have they slept the iron sleep,
And countless knightly heroes in measureless anguish weep.”
But the Lord of Bern made answer: “True liegemen mine, beware
Lest in judging ye be o’er-hasty: what desperate deed soe’er
Hath been done by the homeless heroes, sore need constraineth their will.
My peace with them I plighted—let this advantage them still.”
Then out spake Wolfhart the dreadless: “Lo, I will hence to the hall:
I will ask of sorrow her story, what woe hath chanced to befall,
And to thee will I bring the tidings, O well-belovèd chief,
So soon as I learn what meaneth that voice of a people’s grief,”
Spake Dietrich the noble: “When heroes in each face look for a foe,
And one cometh with rough sharp questions, where a word is like a blow,
Then all too quickly enkindled their smouldering anger is:
Therefore I will not, Wolfhart, that thou question touching this.”
Then he commanded Helfric to go swift-hastening,
And he bade him ask of the matter from the folk of Etzel the King,
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Or, as it might be, from the strangers, what hap had befallen there;
For never had such lamentation of a multitude thrilled the air.
So the messenger came, and he questioned: “What thing hath chanced this day?”
And a woeful voice made answer: “All joy hath fled away,
Yea, the last that was yet remaining to the Hunfolk’s stricken land!
Here lieth Rüdiger, slaughtered by some Burgundian hand;
Not one of his liegemen liveth, that with him went into the fight.”
Never could woefuller tidings on the ears of Helfrich smite;
Never so loth in spirit a tale to his lord he bore;
And he came back unto Dietrich weeping and mourning sore.
“What hast thou learnt?—thy tidings?” Dietrich spake forthright.
“Why weepest thou so sorely, O Helfrich, my good knight?”
“Good cause have I for lamenting,” answered the noble thane:
“The good Lord Rüdiger lieth by hands Burgundian slain!”
Cried the Hero of Bern: “Forbid it, God, that this should be!
This were a ghastly vengeance, ’twere the Fiend’s arch-mockery!
Rüdiger?—how should he ever such evil requital have earned?
True friend to the homeless strangers was he, long since I learned.”
Cried Wolfhart the lion-hearted: “If the righteous blood they have shed,
All these shall dearly abye it! Their lives be forfeited!
If we should endure such outrage, our shame and reproach it were!
How oft hath it rendered us service, the hand of Rüdiger!”
The Prince of the Amal people bade them inquire yet more.
He sat him down at a casement: heavy his heart was and sore.
Old Hildebrand he commanded to the warrior guests to speed,
And to hear from their lips the story of this most evil deed.
The good knight battle-fearless, old Master Hildebrand,
Took neither sword nor buckler; all weaponless was his hand:
He purposed to go to the strangers in knightly courtesy;
Thereat the son of his sister chode with him angerly.
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Spake the grim warrior Wolfhart: “And goest thou fenceless there?
Then flout and scoff for answer, be sure, they will not spare;
And so, like a hound well beaten, with shame wilt thou turn again!
But go, like a man, war-harnessed, and their malapert tongues will they rein.”
Thereat did the old knight arm him, after the young man’s rede;
And, or ever Hildebrand knew it, stood all in battle-weed
The eager warriors of Dietrich: sword in hand stood they.
And the hero was grieved, and had turned them, an he might, from their purposed way.
“Whither away?” he asked them. “Thither will we with thee;
And haply Hagen of Troneg less eager then shall be
With jeering speech to mock thee, as his cruel wont is still.”
And the hero hearkened and answered, “Be it then as ye will.”
Then looked forth Volker the valiant, and the knights of Bern he saw,
The liegemen of Lord Dietrich, full-harnessed thitherward draw,
Girded about with war-glaives, with bucklers gripped in hand;
And he told it unto his masters, the Lords of Burgundia-land;
And spake the viol-minstrel: “Yonder I see draw near
The vassal-throng of Dietrich, like foes in battle-gear
Harnessed, and under helmet, as who would beset us in fight.
I ween we homeless heroes shall now be in evil plight.”
Even as he spake his warning, thither came Hildebrand;
And there, with his great shield planted on the earth at his feet, did he stand;
And cried to the men of Gunther that sorrow-stricken one:
“Ah, noble knights, what evil unto you had Rüdiger done?
Me hath my good lord Dietrich unto you sent hitherward
To wot if a hand Burgundian it was that slew with the sword
The noble Lord of the Marches, as the tale unto us was told;
For then should our weeping be endless, our grief aye unconsoled.”
Made answer Hagen of Troneg: “That tale is all too true.
Right glad were I had the teller thereof but lied unto you
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For Rüdiger’s sake, that the hero might live to gladden our eyes—
He for whom wailing of women and men evermore shall rise.”
When they heard those heavy tidings that their friend was dead in truth,
Loud mourned the loyal-hearted, the good knights wept for ruth;
The tears ran down the faces of Dietrich’s valiant men,
And the drops on the beards of them glistened: sore grief was their portion then.
Siegstab the Bernese war-duke lamented over his friend:
“Woe’s me for the lovingkindness that here hath found an end,
The kindness that Rüdiger showed us in the days of our exile-pain!
The comfort of all the homeless lieth by you knights slain!”
Then did a man of the Amals, the war-thane Wolfwein, cry:
“Though I saw my very father here dead before me lie,
I were not more sorrow-stricken than for Rüdiger laid low.
Alas! who now shall comfort the Margravine in her woe?”
In wrathful indignation Wolfhart the dauntless cried:
“Who now shall lead the heroes, on the war-path when they ride,
As our knights have been led of the Margrave many a time ere now?
Woe, Rüdiger most noble, lost unto us art thou!”
Wolfbrand the strong and Helfrich, and Helmnot the thane withal,
With all their friends and kinsmen, wept for Rüdiger’s fall.
No further could Hildebrand question for sighing, but spake one word:
“Now grant to us that, O heroes, for the which we were sent of our lord.
Give forth of the hall the body unto us of the noble dead,
In whom is our sunny joyance into night of mourning fled.
Let our last sad service requite him for all that to us he hath done
In kindness passing loyal, and to many a homeless one.
We be here in a strange land strangers like Rüdiger the knight...
Why keep ye us here waiting? Let us bear him hence forthright,
And render the perished hero such honour as we may,
Such as we gladly had rendered, were he alive this day.”
Answered and spake King Gunther: “No service is worthier praise
Than that to a dead friend rendered by his friends of the olden days;
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Yea, when in your power it lieth, that call I friendship true.
It is meet ye should do him service for the love he hath shown unto you.”
“Words, words!—how long must we pray you?” cried Wolfhart with passionate breath.
“There lieth our chiefest comfort, by your hands done to death!
And we to our sorrow no longer may have our friend in our sight.
Let us bear him hence from his slayers, and lay in the grave forthright!”
Volker flung back his answer: “None giveth him up at thine hest!
He is here—e’en take him from us! The noblest knight and the best
Lieth amidst of a blood-pool with death-wounds stricken down.
Unto Rüdiger do this service: it shall be your friendship’s crown!”
Made answer Wolfhart the dreadless: “God knows, thou master of song,
Thou hast little to do to provoke us! Ye have done us enow of wrong!
But that awe of my lord constrains me, thou wert in sorry plight!
But now must we brook thine insults, since he hath forbidden the fight.”
Then sneered the viol-minstrel: “Who goeth in timorous doubt
Lest he haply transgress a commandment, shall brook full many a flout.
Small share of the spirit of heroes I find in a mood so mild!”
At the biting speech of his comrade Hagen grimly smiled.
“Thou shalt lack not proof of my spirit!” hotly Wolfhart cried.
“I will jangle thy viol-music so, that if ever thou ride
Homeward hence to the Rhineland, thou shalt croak a new song there!
Thy malapert tongue, thou scorner, with honour I may not bear!”
Answered the viol-minstrel: “An thou mar one faintest tone
Of the strings of my good viol, the sheen of thy morion
Shall be grievously dimmed and sullied with thy blood by my right hand,
Howsoever it fall with my riding back to Burgundia-land.”
Then Wolfhart had leapt on the minstrel, but in mid rush was he held,
By the giant strength of his uncle, old Hildebrand, compelled.
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“I see thou wouldst play the madman in thy foolish wrath!” did he cry.
“The favour of our Lord Dietrich thou wilt forfeit utterly!”
“Let loose thy lion, O keeper, so fiercely he chafes at the chain!
But and if to mine hands he cometh,” cried Volker the mighty thane,
“Although his wondrous prowess had smitten the whole world dead,
I will slay him: no more hot answers from that mad tongue shall be sped!”
In the eyes of the Bernese warriors blazed the onset’s light:
Upswung his buckler Wolfhart, that battle-eager knight:
With the leap of a desert lion against that taunter he leapt:
Like a torrent up to the stairway his friends behind him swept.
But with what great leaps soever to the door of the hall he sped,
Old Hildebrand before him sprang to the stairway-head:
He would suffer none to outpace him, nor to plunge mid the war-surge first
Ready the stern guests waited to quench their battle-thirst.
Full upon Hagen rushed he, old Master Hildebrand,
Loud rang the swords fierce-smiting in either hero’s hand.
The crash of their mighty meeting spake out their fury afar.
Flashed from their clashing war-glaives a fire-red wind of war.
Then suddenly were they sundered by the sweep of the tide of fight,
By the inrushing charge of the Bern-folk afire with fury and might.
And as Hildebrand from Hagen on the tempest of battle was whirled,
Wolfhart the strong in that moment against bold Volker hurled.
On the helm of the viol-minstrel so mightily clashed his glaive,
That the steel’s resistless keenness through the bands of the morion clave:
That stroke did the aweless minstrel so fiercely, so swiftly repay,
That the sword-smitten harness of Wolfhart was a fountain of fiery spray.
From the hauberks, as they hewed them, did the lightning-flashes flare:
Grim was the hate these foemen each unto other bare!
Yet these twain Wolfwein parted, and he fronted Volker alone:
Had he not been a very hero, such deed he had never done!
Gunther the valiant war-king, with never-resting hand
Faced the far-famous heroes, the knights of Amelung-land;
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