That this is a land of cravens: like women they wail, these Huns,
They who should now be tending the battle-stricken ones!”
Then it seemed to a lord of the marches that he spake not in scoffing mood;
And that same lord had a kinsman there fallen in his blood;
And he thought from the carnage to bear him, and his arms around him he threw;
But the minstrel with a javelin hurled at him, and slew.
Then back from the stairway fled they who in hope had been drawing near,
Cursing the viol-minstrel in the impotent fury of fear.
Then caught up Volker a javelin, stubborn-shafted and keen:
Shot by one of the Hunfolk against himself had it been.