The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs. William Morris

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СКАЧАТЬ Borghild's brother won.

       Clean-limbed and stark were the horses, and the neat were fat and sleek,

       And the men-thralls young and stalwart, and the women young and meek;

       Fair-gilt was the harness of battle, and the raiment fresh and bright,

       And the household stuff new-fashioned for lords' and earls' delight.

       On his own then looked Sinfiotli, and great it was forsooth,

       But half-foundered were the horses, and a sight for all men's ruth

       Were the thin-ribbed hungry cow-kind; and the thralls both carle and quean

       Were the wilful, the weak, and the witless, and the old and the ill-beseen;

       Spoilt was the harness and house-gear, and the raiment rags of cloth.

      Now Sinfiotli's men beheld it and grew exceeding wroth,

       But Sinfiotli laughed and answered: "The day's work hath been meet:

       Thou hast done well, war-brother, to sift the chaff from the wheat

       Nought have kings' sons to meddle with the refuse of the earth,

       Nor shall warriors burden their long-ships with things of nothing worth."

      Then he cried across the sea-strand in a voice exceeding great:

       "Depart, ye thralls of the battle; ye have nought to do to wait!

       Old, young, and good, and evil, depart and share the spoil,

       That burden of the battle, that spring and seed of toil.

       —But thou king of the greedy heart, thou king of the thievish grip,

       What now wilt thou bear to the sea-strand and set within my ship

       To buy thy life from the slaying? Unmeet for kings to hear

       Of a king the breaker of troth, of a king the stealer of gear."

      Then mad-wroth waxed King Gudrod, and he cried: "Stand up, my men!

       And slay this wood-abider lest he slay his brothers again!"

      But no sword leapt from its sheath, and his men shrank back in dread;

       Then Sinfiotli's brow grew smoother, and at last he spake and said:

       "Indeed thou art very brother of my father Sigmund's wife:

       Wilt thou do so much for thine honour, wilt thou do so much for thy life,

       As to bide my sword on the island in the pale of the hazel wands?

       For I know thee no battle-blencher, but a valiant man of thine hands."

      Now nought King Gudrod gainsayeth, and men dight the hazelled field,

       And there on the morrow morning they clash the sword and shield,

       And the fallow blades are leaping: short is the tale to tell,

       For with the third stroke stricken to field King Gudrod fell.

       So there in the holm they lay him; and plenteous store of gold

       Sinfiotli lays beside him amid that hall of mould;

       "For he gripped," saith the son of Sigmund, "and gathered for such a day."

      Then Sinfiotli and his fellows o'er the sea-flood sail away,

       And come to the land of the Volsungs: but Borghild heareth the tale,

       And into the hall she cometh with eager face and pale

       As the kings were feasting together, and glad was Sigmund grown

       Of the words of Sinfiotli's battle, and the tale of his great renown:

       And there sat the sons of Borghild, and they hearkened and were glad

       Of their brother born in the wild-wood, and the crown of fame he had.

      So she stood before King Sigmund, and spread her hands abroad:

       "I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the Volsungs' lord,

       To tell me of my brother, why cometh he not from the sea?"

      Quoth Sinfiotli: "Well thou wottest and the tale hath come to thee:

       The white swords met in the island; bright there did the war-shields shine,

       And there thy brother abideth, for his hand was worser than mine."

      But she heeded him never a whit, but cried on Sigmund and said:

       "I charge thee now, King Sigmund, as thou art the lord of my bed,

       To drive this wolf of the King-folk from out thy guarded land;

       Lest all we of thine house and kindred should fall beneath his hand."

      Then spake King Sigmund the Volsung: "When thou hast heard the tale,

       Thou shalt know that somewhat thy brother of his oath to my son did fail;

       Nor fell the man all sackless: nor yet need Sigmund's son

       For any slain in sword-field to any soul atone.

       Yet for the love I bear thee, and because thy love I know,

       And because the man was mighty, and far afield would go,

       I will lay down a mighty weregild, a heap of the ruddy gold."

      But no word answered Borghild, for her heart was grim and cold;

       And she went from the hall of the feasting, and lay in her bower a while;

       Nor speech she took, nor gave it, but brooded deadly guile.

       And now again on the morrow to Sigmund the king she went,

       And she saith that her wrath hath failed her, and that well is she content

       To take the king's atonement; and she kissed him soft and sweet,

       And she kissed Sinfiotli his son, and sat down in the golden seat

       All merry and glad by seeming, and blithe to most and least.

       And again she biddeth King Sigmund that he hold a funeral feast

       For her brother slain on the island; and nought he gainsayeth her will.

      And so on an eve of the autumn do men the beakers fill,

       And the earls are gathered together 'neath the boughs of the Branstock green;

       There gold-clad mid the feasting went Borghild, Sigmund's Queen,

       And she poured the wine СКАЧАТЬ