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All madly from the fountain in rage and anguish sprang,

Whilst from between his shoulders a long lance-shaft did hang.

The chieftain thought to find there his bow, or else his sword:

Then verily had Hagen not gone without reward.

But when the knight sore-wounded his sword had fail’d to find,

And saw that they had left him naught save his shield behind,

He gripp’d it from the well’s side, and after Hagen ran:

Then vainly to escape him essay’d King Gunther’s man.

Though he to death was wounded, so mightily smote he,

That from the hero’s buckler there fell abundantly

The precious stones that deck’d it; the shield itself did break;

The noble guest his vengeance was fain enow to wreak.

Yet by his hand must Hagen lie stretch’d upon the ground.

So hard, in sooth, his blows were, they made the glebe resound.

Had he his sword had handy, then Hagen had been slain.

The wound was burning sorely, and made him writhe with pain.

His cheeks had lost their colour; no longer stand could he,

And all his strength of body was failing utterly;

Death’s sign upon his forehead in pallid hue he bore:

Fair women soon were mourning for him with weeping sore.

Then fell Kriemhilda’s husband upon the flowery sward:

One saw from out the lance-wound, how fast his life-blood pour’d.

Upbraiding then began he,— forced by his mortal pain,—

Those who had thus betray’d him and treacherously slain.