[[294]]
[9]. Mighty he grew | in the midst of his friends,
The fair-born elm, | in fortune’s glow;
To his comrades gold | he gladly gave,
The hero spared not | the blood-flecked hoard.
[10]. Short time for war | the chieftain waited,
When fifteen winters | old he was;
Hunding he slew, | the hardy wight
Who long had ruled | o’er lands and men.
[a]11]. Of Sigmund’s son | then next they sought