It hath but enkindled my fury unto many a warrior’s death:
Against the liegeman of Hawart mine anger it doth but whet.
Small scathe thy champion Iring hath done unto Hagen yet!”
For a space in the breeze fresh-blowing stood Iring of Danish land:
He cooled his limbs in his harness, he loosed his helmet-band.
All round him the folk stood praising his might and his chivalry,
And the heart of the Lord of the Marches thereat beat proud and high.
Then once again spake Iring: “Good friends, I pray you go
And bring new arms: I am purposed again to essay yon foe,
If I haply may still the boaster, and abase the arrogant head.”