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“Now, do not so,” quoth Hagen, “for sorry is my mood,

But take from me in kindness this band of gold so good,

A thousand men and horses across the stream to row.”

The boatman grim gave answer: “That will I never do.”

A sturdy oar he lifted, mighty and broad of blade,

And struck a blow at Hagen; an erring stroke he made,

And in the boat he stagger’d and on his knee fell down.

A ferryman so gruesome Hagen had never known.

And when the haughty stranger still more he would provoke,

A steering board he wielded, and into splinters broke

About the head of Hagen. A stalwart man was he;

Whence came to Else’s boatman much sorrow presently.

In anger fiercely raging, Hagen reach’d out his hand

In haste to seize his scabbard, wherefrom he drew a brand,

And smote his head from off him, and dash’d it to the ground.

Among the proud Burgundians the news flew quickly round.

But at the self-same moment when he the boatman slew,

The skiff stream-downwards drifted, which gave him cause to rue;

For ere in hand he brought it to weary he began,

Then mighty was the rowing of royal Gunther’s man.

With sturdy strokes the stranger turn’d it about again,

Until within his hand-grasp the stout oar broke in twain.

He would, to reach the warriors, a sandy beach have found:

And having not another, how quickly now he bound