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Iring, the thane of Denmark, aloft his javelin bare

And held his shield before him, that noble knight and rare;

Then up the steps to Hagen before the hall he ran:

Amongst the thanes assembled a fearful din began.

Then from their hands the lances they forward hurl’d with might,

Right through the strong-bound bucklers upon the harness bright,

So that the broken spear-shafts were whirl’d high in the air.

Then clutch’d they at their broadswords that grim and gallant pair.

The strength of doughty Hagen it was a mighty thing,

Yet Iring’s blows upon him made all the house to ring;

From palace and from turret echo’d their strokes again:

Yet naught avail’d the warrior his will on him to gain.

So Iring turn’d from Hagen and left him scatheless yet;

Against the fiddle-player forthwith himself he set.

Him, with his sturdy sword-strokes he thought he might compel;

But these the well-skill’d chieftain knew how to parry well.

Then smote the fiddler sorely, till o’er the buckler’s side

By Volker’s hand the plating was scatter’d far and wide;

So was he fain to leave him, a grewsome man was he;

Then Iring rush’d on Gunther, the lord of Burgundy.

And stout enough for combat was either of them made.

Howe’er on one another Gunther and Iring laid,

Neither could wound the other to draw a drop of blood;

From that their armour saved them, so strong it was and good.