The flaming brands fell thickly / upon them in the hall,
With upraised shields they kept them / yet scatheless from their fall,
Though smoke and heat together / wrought them anguish sore.
Beset were heroes never, / I ween, by so great woe before.
Then spake of Tronje Hagen: / "Stand nigh unto the wall,
Let not the brands all flaming / upon your helmets fall.
Into the blood beneath you / tread them with your feet.
In sooth in evil fashion / us doth our royal hostess greet."
In trials thus enduréd / ebbed the night away.
Still without the portal / did the keen Fiddler stay
And Hagen his good fellow, / o'er shield their bodies leant;
They deemed the men of Etzel / still on further mischief bent.
Then was heard the Fiddler: / "Pass we into the hall,
For so the Huns shall fondly / deem we are perished all
Amid the mickle torture / we suffer at their hand.
Natheless shall they behold us / boun for fight before them stand."
Spake then of Burgundy / the young Sir Giselher:
"I ween 'twill soon be dawning, / for blows a cooler air.
To live in fuller joyance / now grant us God in heaven.
To us dire entertainment / my sister Kriemhild here hath given."