Or ever the King might hear it, a host of the Hunfolk stood,
Two thousand—yea, more, it may be—mail-clad, in furious mood.
They fell on the squires—one ending alone could there be to the strife;—
And they left of all that concourse no single soul in life.
For a mighty host did the traitors lead to that hostelry,
And the homeless men unarmoured withstood them valiantly.
What profited strength and valour? One doom of death did they find.
—But the feet of a terrible vengeance were treading close behind.
Now must ye hear a marvel and a horror hard to be said:
Burgundian squires nine thousand in the hall of blood lay dead,