Had false hearts not thereunder been contriving treachery,
Those royal banquet-givers from reproach had been wholly free.
(C) By the wings of death overshadowed, nought knew he, the hero betrayed,
Neither dreamed of the snares of treason that round his feet were laid.
Yea, he was the flower of knighthood, deceit in him there was none.
—Ah, many that gat no profit thereof for his death must atone!
Then out spake Siegfried the noble: “In sooth, I marvel sore
That, seeing they bring from the camp-fires of meat such plenteous store,
The cupbearers bring not also therewithal the wine!
If this be your wont, ye are henceforth no hunting-fellows of mine.