Sent one to ask of the Marshal: “Where shall we halt to-morn,
Where the steeds and our well-loved masters may rest with toil outworn?”
But answered Dankwart the fearless: “I may not certainly say.
But we cannot and may not rest us till dawn in the sky is grey:
Then, wheresoever we find us, on the grass must we lay us to rest.”
Heavily weighed the tidings on many a warrior’s breast.
Unbewrayed by the blood red-reeking through those dark hours they rode,
Till the sun shot forth, for a greeting to Morning’s feet, as they trode
The crests of the hills, his flame-shafts. Then straightway the King espied
The tokens of that grim conflict, and in indignation he cried: