“For thy good spear-cast I thank thee, O Gunther, noble knight!”
She cried; for she weened that the hero by his own strength this had done,
Nor dreamed she how that behind him had stolen a mightier one.
Sped she from that place swiftly, for her fury stung her as flame:
She grasped the stone, she upheaved it, that royal Amazon dame.
Far thence from her hand that boulder with her uttermost might she swung,
Then after the cast far leapt she, that her mail-rings clashed and rung.
Twelve fathoms away from the caster crashed that stone to the ground;
But farther yet than the quoit-flight did the high-born maiden bound.
Then strode that swift war-helper, Siegfried, where lay the stone:—