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Ere yet the king had heard it— urg’d by the hate they bore—

The Hunfolk donn’d their armour; two thousand men or more.

And march’d against the yeomen;— what else was to be done?

And out of all the people they left alive not one.

Before the house the traitors had led a mighty host;

On guard the foreign yeomen stood bravely at their post.

But what avail’d their valour? They all were doom’d to die;

And presently arose there a gruesome butchery.

And here ye must a marvel of monstrous import hear:

Nine thousand yeomen lying all done to death there were;

A dozen knights moreover of Dankwart’s own command.

One saw him all-forsaken amidst the foemen stand.

The uproar was abated, the clash of arms was o’er.

Then look’d athwart his shoulder Dankwart the warrior;

He spake: “Woe for the comrades who from my side are gone!

Alas, that ’midst the foemen I now must stand alone!”

Upon his body shower’d the sword-strokes keen and rife;—

Ere long to be bewailéd by many a hero’s wife—.

His shield aloft he lifted, and held the arm-brace low;

And drench’d full many a hauberk with life-blood’s crimson flow.

Then cried the son of Aldrian: “Woe for the ills I bear!

Make way, ye Hunnish warriors, and let me to the air,

That the wind’s breath may cool me, a battle-weary wight!”

Right royally he bore him in all the people’s sight.