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And straightly thence
The bit-shaking steeds
Drew the hoard-warden,
The war-god to his death.

Atli the great king,
Rode upon Glaum,
With shields set round about,
And sharp thorns of battle:
Gudrun, bound by wedlock
To these, victory made gods of,
Held back her tears
As the hall she ran into.

“Let it fare with thee, Atli,
E’en after thine oaths sworn
To Gunnar full often;
Yea, oaths sworn of old time,
By the sun sloping southward,
By the high burg of Sigty,
By the fair bed of rest,
By the red ring of Ull!”

Now a host of men
Cast the high king alive
Into a close
Crept o’er within
With most foul worms,
Fulfilled of all venom,
Ready grave to dig
In his doughty heart.