To the Margrave crying: “So many of my people before thee fall,
Thou wilt leave, O Rüdiger, living no man of my vassal-train!
I am stung into wrath above measure; from vengeance no more I refrain!
Now shall the gift thou gavest be turned into scathe for thee,
Since thou of my nearest and dearest hast reft so many from me.
Hitherward turn thee, face me, thou noble and dreadless man!
For thy gift will I give full payment, the uttermost that I can.”
Ere, cleaving the war-waves, the Margrave might win unto where he stood,
Bright rings of many a hauberk were crimson-sullied with blood;
But at last those glory-cravers in the deadly grapple clashed;