"
* * * * *
Men say that a little after the evil of that night
All waste is the burg of Brynhild, and there springeth a marvellous light
On the desert hard by Lymdale, and few men know for why;
But there are, who say that a wildfire thence roareth up to the sky
Round a glorious golden dwelling, wherein there sitteth a Queen
In remembrance of the wakening, and the slumber that hath been;
Wherein a Maid there sitteth, who knows not hope nor rest
For remembrance of the Mighty, and the Best come forth from the Best.
Now after Sigurd took the witch-drink came a great hush upon the
feast-hall for a space. But Grimhild was fain of that hour and cried
to the scalds for music, and they hastened to strike the harp, but no
joy mingled with the sounds and no man was moved to singing.
No word spake Sigurd till the feast was over; then he strode out
alone from the hall and the folk fell back before him. So he took a
steed and all that night he rode alone in the deedless dark, and all
the morrow, very heavy at heart yet knowing no cause for grief, and
remembering all things save Brynhild.
At last he came again at sunset to the Niblung gates, and there came
forth Giuki and Grimhild and the Niblung brethren with fair words of
greeting, but in the doorway Gudrun stood and wept.
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