XLII
His lively hue was faded; the stamp of death he bore;
For the redoubted Iring his comrades sorrow'd sore.
Never could recover stout Hawart's vassal true.
Perforce each man of Denmark took to his sword anew.
XLIII
Irnfried at once and Hawart both hurried toward the hall
With a thousand warriors; from amongst them all
Loud peal'd the shout of battle; fierce was their wrath and hot.
Ah! what a sleet of javelins at those of Rhine they shot!
XLIV
Upon the valiant gleeman bold Irnfried rush'd amain,
But at his hand destruction was all that he could gain.
A stern man was the minstrel as e'er in field met foe.
Through th' helm he smote the landgrave a deep and deadly blow.
XLV
Sir Irnfried on Sir Folker dealt too a sturdy stroke,
That of his temper'd hauberk the links asunder broke,
And with the dint his harness all sparkled fiery red.
Then straight before the minstrel down dropp'd the landgrave dead.
XLVI