A spear the man of Gunther found lying at his feet;
This at the head of Iring he darted sure and fleet,
So that the shaft outjutted, quivering, from his brow.
A fatal end has Hagan made of his foeman now!
XXXVIII
Back to his Danes Sir Iring recoil'd with faltering pace;
Ere from his head his comrades the helmet could unlace,
They broke from it the javelin; then close was death at hand.
His kindred wept around him, a sorrow-laden band.
XXXIX
Anon the queen came thither; she o'er the dying bent,
Bewailing dauntless Iring with ghastly dreariment,
And for his wounds sore weeping, and mourning for his sake.
Then thus among his kinsmen the hero faintly spake.
XL
"Fair and noble lady! cease for me to grieve.
What avails your weeping? my life I needs must leave;
Yes! the wounds are mortal that thus have pierc'd me through.
Death will not leave me longer to Etzel and to you."
XLI
Then thus to each Thüringian he spake, and every Dane,
"Hope not for gifts from Kriemhild, nor count her gold for gain,
For here, my friends! I warn you, e'en with my latest breath,
If once you fight with Hagan, you needs must look on death."