"Death robbeth us right sorely," / spake young Sir Giselher:
"Yet now give o'er your weeping / and let us seek the air,
That the ringed mail grow cooler / on us storm-weary men.
God in sooth will grant us / not longer here to live, I ween."
Here sitting, and there leaning / was seen full many a thane,
Resting once more from combat, / the while that all lay slain
The followers of Ruediger. / Hushed was the battle's din.
At length grew angry Etzel, / that stillness was so long within.
"Alack for such a service!" / spake the monarch's wife;
"For never 'tis so faithful / that our foes with life
Must to us make payment / at Ruediger's hand.
He thinks in sooth to lead them / again unto Burgundian land.
"What boots it, royal Etzel, / that we did ever share
With him what he desired? / The knight doth evil there.
He that should avenge us, / the same a truce doth make."
Thereto the stately warrior / Volker in answer spake:
"Alas 'tis no such case here, / O high and royal dame.
Dared I but give the lie to / one of thy lofty name,
Thou hast in fiendish manner / Ruediger belied.
He and all his warriors / have laid all thoughts of truce aside.