Unto squires was the accolade given in honour of the King,
To six hundred, yea, more it may be, as the olden minstrels sing.
High swelled the tides of joyance through all Burgundia-land
As the lances crashed and splintered in the sworded warrior’s hand.
There sat on high at the casements the lovely maidens arow;
Lightened before them ever the shield-flash to and fro.
But the King the while had sundered himself from his vassal-train:
What sport they devised soever, it could not salve his pain.
Far other than Gunther’s anguish was Siegfried’s happy mood;
Well he divined what ailed him, that noble knight and good.