The Nibelungenlied

ADVENTURE XXXIII How The Burgundians Fought The Huns.

When brave Dankwart was come with­in the door, he bade King Et­zel’s meiny step aside. His gar­ments dripped with blood and in his hand he bare un­sheathed a mighty sword. Full loud he called out to the knight: “Broth­er Ha­gen, ye sit all too long, for­sooth. To you and to God in heav­en do I make plaint of our woe. Our knights and squires all lie dead with­in their lodge­ments.”

He called in an­swer: “Who hath done this deed?”

“That Sir Bloedel hath done with his liege­men, but he hath paid for it dear­ly, as I can tell you, for with mine own hands I struck off his head.”

“It is but lit­tle scathe,” quoth Ha­gen, “if one can on­ly say of a knight that he hath lost his life at a war­rior’s hands. State­ly dames shall mourn him all the less. Now tell me, broth­er Dankwart, how comes it that ye be so red of hue? Ye suf­fer from wounds great dole, I ween. If there be any in the land that hath done you this, ’twill cost his life, and the foul fiend save him not.”

“Ye see me safe and sound; my weeds alone are wot with blood. This hath happed from wounds of oth­er men, of whom I have slain so many a one to-​day that, had I to swear it, I could not tell the tale.”

“Broth­er Dankwart,” he spake, “guard us the door and let not a sin­gle Hun go forth. I will hold speech with the war­riors, as our need con­straineth us, for our meiny li­eth dead be­fore them, un­de­served.”

“If I must be cham­ber­lain,” quoth the valiant man, “I well wet how to serve such mighty kings and will guard the stair­way, as doth be­come mine hon­ors.” Naught could have been more loth to Kriemhild’s knights.

“Much it won­dereth me,” spake Ha­gen, “what the Hun­nish knights be whis­per­ing in here. I ween, they’d glad­ly do with­out the one that standeth at the door, and who told the court­ly tale to us Bur­gun­di­ans. Long since I have heard it said of Kriemhild, that she would not leave un­avenged her dole of heart. Now let us drink to friend­ship (1) and pay for the roy­al wine. The young lord of the Huns shall be the first.”

Then the good knight Ha­gen smote the child Or­tlieb, so that the blood spurt­ed up the sword to­wards his hand and the head fell in­to the lap of the queen. At this there be­gan a mur­der­ing, grim and great, among the knights. Next he dealt the mas­ter who taught the child a fierce sword-​stroke with both his hands, so that his head fell quick­ly be­neath the ta­ble to the ground. A piteous meed it was, which he met­ed out to the mas­ter. Ha­gen then spied a glee­man sit­ting at King Et­zel’s board. In his wrath he hied him thith­er and struck off his right hand up­on the fid­dle. “Take this as mes­sage to the Bur­gun­di­an land.”

“Woe is me of my hand,” spake the min­strel Wer­bel. “Sir Ha­gen of Troneg, what had I done to you? I came in good faith to your mas­ters’ land. How can I now thrum the tunes, sith I have lost my hand?”

Lit­tle recked Ha­gen, played he nev­er­more. In the hall he dealt out fierce dead­ly wounds to Et­zel’s war­riors, pass­ing many of whom he slew. Enow of folk in the house he did to death. The doughty Folk­er now sprang up from the board; loud rang in his hands his fid­dle bow. Rude­ly did Gun­ther’s min­strel play. Ho, what foes he made him among the valiant Huns! The three no­ble kings, too, sprang up from the ta­ble. Glad­ly would they have part­ed the fray, or ev­er greater scathe was done. With all their wit they could not hin­der it, when Folk­er and Ha­gen gan rage so sore. When that the lord of the Rhine be­held the fray un­part­ed, the prince dealt his foes many gap­ing wounds him­self through the shin­ing ar­mor rings. That he was a hero of his hands, he gave great proof. Then the stur­dy Ger­not joined the strife. Certes, he did many a hero of the Huns to death with a sharp sword, the which Rudeger had giv­en him. Mighty wounds he dealt King Et­zel’s war­riors. Now the young son of La­dy Uta rushed to the fray. Glo­ri­ous­ly his sword rang on the hel­mets of Et­zel’s war­riors from the Hun­nish land. Full mick­le won­ders were wrought by bold Gisel­her’s hand. But how so doughty they all were, the kings and their liege­men, yet Folk­er was seen to stand be­fore them all against the foe; a good hero he. Many a one he made to fall in his blood through wounds. Et­zel’s men did fend them, too, full well, yet one saw the strangers go hew­ing with their gleam­ing swords through the roy­al hall and on ev­ery side was heard great sound of wail. Those with­out would now fain be with their friends with­in, but at the en­trance tow­ers they found small gain. Those with­in had glad­ly been with­out the hall, but Dankwart let none go ei­ther up or down the steps. There­fore there rose be­fore the tow­ers a mighty press, and hel­mets rang loud­ly from the sword-​blows. Bold Dankwart came in­to great stress there­by; this his broth­er feared, as his loy­al­ty did bid him.

Loud­ly then Ha­gen called to Folk­er: “See ye yon­der, com­rade, my broth­er stand be­fore the Hun­nish war­riors amid a rain of blows? Friend, save my broth­er, or ev­er we lose the knight.”

“That will I sure­ly,” quoth the min­strel, and through the palace he went a-​fid­dling, his stout sword ring­ing of­ten in his hand. Great thanks were ten­dered by the war­riors from the Rhine. Bold Folk­er spake to Dankwart: “Great dis­com­fi­ture have ye suf­fered to-​day, there­fore your broth­er bade me has­ten to your aid. Will ye stand with­out, so will I stand with­in.”

Stur­dy Dankwart stood with­out the door and guard­ed the stair­case against who­ev­er came, where­fore men heard the swords re­sound in the heroes’ hands. Folk­er of Bur­gundy land per­formed the same with­in. Across the press the bold fid­dler cried: “Friend Ha­gen, the hall is locked; for­sooth King Et­zel’s door is bolt­ed well. The hands of two heroes guard it, as with a thou­sand bars.” When Ha­gen of Troneg be­held the door so well de­fend­ed, the fa­mous hero and good slung his shield up­on his back and gan avenge the wrongs that had been done him there. His foes had now no sort of hope to live.

When now the lord of Berne, the king of the Amelungs, (2) be­held aright that the mighty Ha­gen broke so many a helm, up­on a bench he sprang and spake: “Ha­gen poureth out the very worst of drinks.”

The host, too, was sore adread, as be­hooved him now, for his life was hard­ly safe from these his foes. O how many dear friends were snatched away be­fore his eyes! He sate full anx­ious; what boot­ed it him that he was king? Haughty Kriemhild now cried aloud to Di­et­rich: “Pray help me hence alive, most no­ble knight, by the virtues of all the princes of the Amelung land. If Ha­gen reach me, I shall grasp death by the hand.”

“How shall I help you, no­ble queen?” spake Sir Di­et­rich. “I fear for my­self in sooth. These men of Gun­ther be so pass­ing wroth that at this hour I can­not guard a soul.”

“Nay, not so, Sir Di­et­rich, no­ble knight and good. Let thy chival­rous mood ap­pear to-​day and help me hence, or I shall die.” Pass­ing great cause had Kriemhild for this fear.

“I’ll try to see if I may help you, for it is long since that I have soon so many good knights so bit­ter­ly en­raged. Of a truth I see blood spurt­ing through the hel­mets from the swords.”

Loud­ly the cho­sen knight gan call, so that his voice rang forth as from a bi­son’s horn, un­til the broad cas­tle re­sound­ed with his force. Sir Di­et­rich’s strength was pass­ing great in truth.

When Gun­ther heard this man cry out in the heat­ed strife, he be­gan to heed. He spake: “Di­et­rich’s voice hath reached mine ears, I ween our cham­pi­ons have bereft him of some friend to-​day. I see him on the ta­ble, he doth beck­on with his hand. Ye friends and kins­men from Bur­gun­di­an land, give over the strife. Let’s hear and see what here hath for­tuned to the knight from my men-​at-​arms.”

When Gun­ther thus begged and bade in the stress of the fray, they sheathed their swords. Pass­ing great was his pow­er, so that none struck a blow. Soon enow he asked the tid­ings of the knight of Berne. He spake: “Most no­ble Di­et­rich, what hath happed to you through these my friends? I am mind­ed to do you rem­edy and to make amends. If any had done you aught, ‘twould grieve me sore,”

Then spake Sir Di­et­rich: “Naught hath happed to me, but I pray you, let me leave this hall and this fierce strife un­der your safe-​guard, with my men. For this fa­vor I will serve you ev­er.”

“How en­treat ye now so soon,” quoth Wolfhart (3) then. “For­sooth the fid­dler hath not barred the door so strong, but what we may open it enow to let us pass.”

“Hold your tongue,” spake Sir Di­et­rich; “the dev­il a whit have ye ev­er done.”

Then: spake King Gun­ther: “I will grant your boon. Lead from the hall as few or as many as ye will, save my foes alone; they must re­main with­in. Right ill have they treat­ed me in the Hun­nish land.”

When Di­et­rich heard these words, he placed his arm around the high-​born queen, whose fear was pass­ing great. On his oth­er side he led King Et­zel with him hence; with Di­et­rich there al­so went six hun­dred state­ly men.

Then spake the no­ble Mar­grave Rudeger: “Shall any oth­er who would glad­ly serve you come from this hall, let us hear the tale, and last­ing peace shall well be­fit good friends.”

To this Gisel­her of the Bur­gun­di­an land replied: “Peace and friend­ship be grant­ed you by us, sith ye are con­stant in your feal­ty. Ye and all your men, ye may go hence fear­less­ly with these your friends.”

When Sir Rudeger void­ed the hall, there fol­lowed him, all told, five hun­dred men or more, kins­men and vas­sals of the lord of Bechelaren, from whom King Gun­ther lat­er gained great scathe. Then a Hun­nish cham­pi­on spied Et­zel walk­ing close by Di­et­rich. He, too, would take this chance, but the fid­dler dealt him such a blow that his head fell soon be­fore King Et­zel’s feet. When the lord of the land was come out­side the house, he turned him about and gazed on Folk­er. “Woe is me of these guests. This is a dire­ful need, that all my war­riors should lie low in death be­fore them. Alas for the feast­ing,” quoth the no­ble king. “Like a sav­age boar there fight­eth one with­in, hight Folk­er, who is a glee­man. I thank my stars that I es­caped this fiend. His glees have an evil sound, the strokes of his how draw blood; for­sooth his mea­sures fell many a hero dead. I wot not, with what this min­strel twit­teth us, for I have nev­er had such bale­ful guest.”

They had per­mit­ted whom they would to leave the hall. Then there arose with­in a mighty up­roar; sore­ly the guests avenged what there had happed them. Ho, what hel­mets bold Folk­er broke! The no­ble King Gun­ther turned him to­ward the sound. “Hear ye the mea­sures, Ha­gen, which Folk­er yon­der fid­dleth with the Huns, when any draweth near the tow­ers? ‘Tis a blood-​red stroke he useth with the bow.”

“It rueth me be­yond all mea­sure,” quoth Ha­gen, “that in this hall I sate me down to rest be­fore the hero did. I was his com­rade and he was mine; and come we ev­er home again, we shall still be so, in loy­al wise. Now be­hold, most no­ble king, Folk­er is thy friend, he ear­neth glad­ly thy sil­ver and thy gold. His fid­dle bow doth cut through the hard­est steel, on the hel­mets he breaketh the bright and shin­ing gauds! (4) Nev­er have I seen fid­dler stand in such lord­ly wise as the good knight Folk­er hath stood to-​day. His glees re­sound through shield and hel­met. Certes he shall ride good steeds and wear lord­ly rai­ment.”

Of all the kins­men of the Huns with­in the hall, not one of these re­mained alive. Thus the clash of arms died out, since none strove with them longer. The lusty knights and bold now laid aside their swords.

END­NOTES: (1) “Friend­ship” trans­lates the M.H.G. “minne trinken” ‘to drink to the mem­ory of a per­son’, an old cus­tom orig­inat­ing with the idea of pour­ing out a li­ba­tion to the gods. Lat­er it as­sumed the form of drink­ing to the hon­or of God, of a saint, or of an ab­sent friend. See Grimm, “Mytholo­gie”, p. 48. (2) “Amelungs”, see Ad­ven­ture XXVI­II, note 3. (3) “Wolfhart”, see Ad­ven­ture XXVI­II, note 2. (4) “Gauds”, or­na­ments.