And with these lay the knights of Dankwart, twelve battle-helpers good;
And alone at last and unholpen in the midst of his foes he stood.
The uproar fell to silence, the tumult was stilled for a space;
Then Dankwart glanced around him o’er the slaughter-reeking place:
“Alas for the dear friends,” cried he, “that here in death lie low!
And I—woe’s me!—I am standing alone in the midst of the foe!”
Upon that one man in fury did countless sword-strokes leap:
But the wife of many a hero for this had cause to weep.
Higher he lifted his buckler; the arm-brace lower he drew.
Then many a rifted harness was drenched with crimson dew.