They, whom they pleas'd, permitted to leave that hall of ill;
Then rose within, redoubled, the death-cry wild and shrill.
The guests 'gainst their wrong-doers for deadly vengeance strove;
Folker the valiant minstrel, ah! how the helms he clove!
LVII
At the clash King Gunther turn'd, and to Hagan cried,
"Hear you what a measure Folker, the door beside,
Plays with each poor Hungarian who down the stairs would go;
See! what a deep vermilion has dyed his fiddle-bow!"
"I own, it much repents me," Hagan straight replied,
"That I sat here at table from the good knight so wide.
We still were constant comrades, not wont before to sever.
If we again see Rhineland, no chance shall part us ever.
LIX
"Now see, great king! right loyal to thee is Folker bold;
Well deserves the warrior thy silver and thy gold.
His fiddlestick, sharp-cutting, can hardest steel divide,
And at a stroke can shiver the morion's beamy pride.
LX
"Never yet saw I minstrel so high and lordly stand,
As did to-day Sir Folker among the hostile band.
On helms and clattering bucklers his lays make music rare.
Ride should he good war-horses, and gorgeous raiment wear."