Never ere then so hotly did the wrath of Giselher flame.
“By the living God, Sir Iring,” the young prince Giselher cried,
“Unto me shalt thou make atonement for these that here have died
Even now by thy battle-brand stricken!” He leapt upon his foe,
And he lashed with a stroke so mighty that the Dane reeled back from the blow:
As hurled from the hands of the smiter, backward he fell in blood,
That it seemed unto all beholders that the warrior stalwart and good
Should never strike in battle another stroke of brand:
Yet Iring the while unwounded lay of Giselher’s hand.
In sooth, so rang his helmet, so clashed the sword on his head,