XVII
Upon the stone he sat him beneath the palace door;
Minstrel more undaunted viol ne'er struck before;
He struck the strings so sweetly ever as he play'd,
That the meed of thanks to Folker each haughty stranger paid.
The house it all re-echoed, he struck so loud and shrill;
The minstrel's strength was matchless, nor less the minstrel's skill.
Sweeter anon and softer when he to play began,
On the beds he steep'd in slumber many a care-harrow'd man.
When they in sleep were buried, and this by proof he knew,
Once more in hand his buckler grasp'd the champion true,
And, from the room forth stalking, before the tower he stepp'd,
And so the slumbering strangers from the men of Kriemhild kept.
XX
'Twas of the night the middle, or something earlier yet,
When the bright gleam of helmets the glance of Folker met
At distance through the darkness; 'twas Kriemhild's street-clad train,
To do the guests a mischief all hastening on amain.