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“For love of me, I pray thee, do it not,” Hagen spake:

“Lest otherwise these warriors perchance the deed mistake

And think that I had risen, through fear, upon my feet.

For such as her and her kind I’ll never leave my seat!

“For both of us ‘twere better, methinks, to let it be.

Why should I do her honour who bears such hate to me?

Nay, that will I do never as long as I have life;

Nor care I for the hatred of royal Etzel’s wife!”

The overweening Hagen across his knees laid down

A bare and shining weapon, upon whose pommel shone

A very brilliant jasper, greener than any sward.

Kriemhilda well remember’d that it was Siegfried’s sword.

When she that sword remember’d a grief it needs must be;

The hilt of it was golden,  its sheath red broidery.

It brought to mind her sorrow; her tears began to fall;;

I ween the hardy Hagen had therefor done it all.

Upon the bench towards him  the valiant Volker drew

A fiddle-bow, a strong one, and long and mighty, too,

Which to a sword had likeness, right keen and broad of blade

The pair of doughty heroes thus sat there undismay’d.

The valiant twain so lordly seem’d, in their own conceit,

They did not deem it fitting to stand up from their seat

For fear of man or woman. Whereon, with foe-like mien,

Nigh to their feet, to greet them, came up the noble queen.