“Words, words!—how long must we pray you?” cried Wolfhart with passionate breath.
“There lieth our chiefest comfort, by your hands done to death!
And we to our sorrow no longer may have our friend in our sight.
Let us bear him hence from his slayers, and lay in the grave forthright!”
Volker flung back his answer: “None giveth him up at thine hest!
He is here—e’en take him from us! The noblest knight and the best
Lieth amidst of a blood-pool with death-wounds stricken down.
Unto Rüdiger do this service: it shall be your friendship’s crown!”
Made answer Wolfhart the dreadless: “God knows, thou master of song,
Thou hast little to do to provoke us! Ye have done us enow of wrong!