Answered the viol-minstrel: “An thou mar one faintest tone
Of the strings of my good viol, the sheen of thy morion
Shall be grievously dimmed and sullied with thy blood by my right hand,
Howsoever it fall with my riding back to Burgundia-land.”
Then Wolfhart had leapt on the minstrel, but in mid rush was he held,
By the giant strength of his uncle, old Hildebrand, compelled.
“I see thou wouldst play the madman in thy foolish wrath!” did he cry.
“The favour of our Lord Dietrich thou wilt forfeit utterly!”
“Let loose thy lion, O keeper, so fiercely he chafes at the chain!
But and if to mine hands he cometh,” cried Volker the mighty thane,