And he slew on a day mid the mountains the Dragon of the Fen;
Then bathed the hero his body in the blood of the monster worm,
Wherefore availeth to wound him no weapon that man may form.
Yet ever mine heart is fearful when in forefront of battle he stands,
And many a flying javelin is sped from warriors’ hands,
Lest I peradventure may lose him, mine hero of all loved best:—
Ah me, with what fears for Siegfried tosses mine heart in unrest!
O friend, dear friend and kinsman, on thy faithful love I lean
That thou wilt guard thy troth-plight given herein to a queen,
When I tell to thee where my belovèd may be wounded of the steel.